As far as I knew, Dr. Daniels would always think of me in that white room, wearing scrubs, taking pills to numb the pain and help me rest. I couldn’t have Duckie thinking about me that way. I just . . . couldn’t. “Just wait here, okay? I’ll be out soon.”
He nodded as I exited the Beast. I knew he was hurt, but I didn’t know what to do about it.
Minutes later, I was seated across from Dr. Daniels in a cozy floral chair. He handed me a bottle of water and smiled. “How are you today, Brooke?”
“I’m okay.”
The look in his eyes said that he knew I was lying. I didn’t really give two shits. “You started back in school again recently, right? How’s that been?”
“It’s been fine.” We could go back and forth all day, doc. I really didn’t care. I was only at the appointment because the psychiatric team at Kingsdale Hospital had insisted on weekly therapy for at least six months, and my parents agreed. I wasn’t planning on being around that long.
Dr. Daniels shifted in his chair a bit, as if getting comfortable. He knew he was in for a tough time convincing me to open up. I could see it in his eyes. “Tell me about it.”
I shrugged his question off. “What’s to tell? It’s school. I get up, go to class, go home.”
“High school can be pretty rough, even in the kindest of circumstances.”
Truth, doc. Truth.
“What was your first day like? Walk me through it.”
“It was short and obnoxious. So I left early.” I was trying to annoy him, but it didn’t seem to be working. If he were my mother, the conversation would have ended two questions ago. But the doc was cool as a cucumber. He must do this for a living or something.
“Why? Did something happen?”
I debated not telling him about the graffiti on my locker, or the scribblings on my notebook, or the stupid funeral invitation. After all, he was just going to ask me how I felt about those things, and I’d had about enough of that stupid question. Every day, a couple times a day, while I was serving my time inpatient, someone would ask me how something made me feel. The biggest feeling I could recall having was inspired by them asking how I felt—pure, unadulterated anger. Frankly, it pissed me off that they wouldn’t let it go.
Thinking about the inpatient facility brought the acrid smell of antiseptics to mind. I could almost smell it—just a wisp—and then it was gone.
He looked at me expectantly, awaiting a response to his question. When I didn’t give one, he said, “Okay, then. You don’t seem to feel up to talking much. So why don’t we do something else?”
As calmly as ever, Dr. Daniels grabbed a game of Monopoly from a shelf in the corner and began setting up the board between us. As he passed out the money and set the cards in their respective places, two things happened: A. I seriously began to question his approach to therapy. And 2. I found myself feeling a little more like answering some of his questions. Not a lot of them. Just the facts, ma’am.
After a moment in which I debated what he was up to with this whole Monopoly thing, I scooted forward in my seat and reached into the box. I picked up the little metal thimble and placed the top hat on its dimpled end, making it look like a tiny, faceless gentleman. I don’t know why. I’d always used that as my play piece, for as long as I could remember. Then I set my little dude on Go and bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. “Someone wrote something on my locker my first day back. And then someone else—or maybe the same person, I don’t know—wrote it on my notebook later that day.”
I didn’t bring up the funeral invitation. It felt like too much, for some reason.
The doc chose the race car. I instantly wondered what kind of vehicle he really drove. I was guessing it was either a sedan or an SUV. The man was wearing khakis, for goodness’ sake. Race car? Puh-lease.
When he spoke, his tone sounded so casual, but I could hear the hint of interest in between his words. “What did they write?”
“RIP.” What was I doing? Hadn’t I sworn to myself that I wasn’t going to give any information to this shrink? Before I knew it, my mouth decided to keep talking. “Y’know, like on gravestones. Rest in peace.”
“Wow. You go to school with some real winners, eh?” He looked at me, and I could tell that he could relate. What did the kids in school pick on you for, doc? Why don’t we talk about your issues for a while?
I shrugged and rolled the dice. “If by winners you mean assholes, then yeah.”
As I moved my piece, the doc said, “Do you think people know about your suicide attempt?”
“It feels like everybody knows.” I sank into the seat cushion some, wishing I were anywhere but in this room. I didn’t want to play Monopoly with some sedan-driving, khakis-wearing loser, let alone tell him my deepest, darkest feelings.
The doc rolled the dice and moved his piece forward, claiming a railroad. He looked a little triumphant as he picked up the card. Way to go, doc. You may have lost at high school, but you win at Monopoly. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I can see it in their eyes and hear them whisper every time I’m around.” My words came out sharper than I intended. So I took a breath and tried to keep my cool. No need to let the doc see how much something bothered me. “Besides . . . small town. Y’know? Gossip travels at lightning speed.”
The doc was quiet for a moment. He was looking at me as if weighing how to get inside my head. Best of luck, doc. “Is it possible that you’re so concerned that they might find out about your attempt that you’re sensing something that isn’t there?”
“Isn’t it also possible that therapists are full of crap and just guessing at the problems and potential solutions of strangers?” I said it to hurt him, and I hoped it did.
But to my great shock, a smirk appeared on his face. “I suppose anything is possible.”
Maybe the doc knew that therapists were generally full of crap and khakis were a poor fashion choice. Maybe he knew, but didn’t care. That was actually pretty cool. “I suppose it is.”
I rolled the dice again and moved four spaces. My faceless thimble gentleman was just visiting the jail. But at least he wasn’t locked up inside. At least he was free.
My mind turned back to the inpatient facility again. It had been a lot like how I imagined prison must be. Someone was always around. Someone was always watching. But even though people constantly surrounded you, it was so damn lonely.
The doc picked up the dice and held on to them for a moment. When he spoke, his words were hushed, as if I was a nervous woodland creature and he didn’t want to startle me. “Do you ever think about attempting suicide again, Brooke?”
It was ballsy of him to ask, but I wasn’t surprised that he had. That was why I was here, wasn’t it? To keep answering that question until someone in the psychiatric community believed me and gave me a pass back into the real world, where no one had to tell anyone how they felt? I took a breath before I responded. The lie was so easy, so familiar to me now that it was like a second skin on my tongue. I tried to make it sound natural, but both in my head and out, my words sounded practiced. Almost robotic. “No. I just want to get better.”
Dr. Daniels paused, eyeing me for a moment before speaking. He knew I was full of shit. He rolled the dice and got a six. As he moved his piece slowly from square to square, he said, “Are you certain? This is a safe space, Brooke. You can say anything to me, and it’s just between us. And I assure you, there’s nothing you can say to me that would shock me or surprise me. You shouldn’t say you’re not feeling suicidal if you don’t mean it.”