entirely responsible for Gitana's happiness and well-being. She desperately wanted to come up with some magical elixir to make her beloved dogs live longer than ten years. Goats, after all, live for twenty-five years. No one loves a goat like they love a dog or a cat. Yes, these were grandiose ideas.
"Excessive drug or alcohol use?" She looked up from her pad and stared at Chase.
"Only on bad days and in moderation."
The doctor frowned.
"Basically, no." She figured that was what the doctor wanted. She must curb her smartass tendencies before she ended up in the psych ward or rehab.
"Have you ever thought you were God?"
"No, well, there was that one time in grade school..." She stopped herself. The doctor didn't have a sense of humor.
"Thoughts of suicide?"
"No." That one she was sure of. She had too much to do—besides it was messy and her mother would bury her in a dress. She just knew it. Her aim was to outlive her mother and bury her in something hideously unfashionable.
The doctor pursed her lips and seemed satisfied. Chase was glad. She hated yes or no answers. Nothing was black and white—except maybe piano keys.
"How'd I do?"
"You have a mild case—most fixable."
"No straightjacket then?"
"That was never a possibility. You're a little crazy. So are a lot of other people. You shouldn't worry. Two pills a day and you'll be normal." She glanced at Chase and amended her statement. "As normal as you can be." She got out her script pad.
Chase kept quiet and busied herself with studying the office decor. You could tell a lot about a person by their surroundings. Being a writer had taught her to look for useful details in the every day. The entire office was a variety of browns—the carpet, the vinyl chairs and table, the print of the copse of trees and, of course, the doctor's outfit. Now, she recalled that Lacey had said brown was the new black. In the doctor's case this propensity toward brown was not about being hip. Chase thought green was supposed to be a soothing color. Maybe brown was the new green. Anyway, she felt she was sitting inside a walnut shell and she couldn't wait to get out. She hoped her dislike of brown, except maybe in potting soil, would not affect the doctor patient relationship. She had a feeling it would.
"You can pick up the sample pack at the Parker Clinic." Dr. Robicheck turned around in her chair. Her Doris Day cut neatly to the chin went with her. Her round spectacles caught the light from the window. "Don't worry about this. This drug will help you and you should not be embarrassed to tell your people."
It was like she knew that Chase was keeping it a secret. Only Gitana and Lacey knew about it. She'd never tell her mother. "Sure, why?"
"It's hard to see change in oneself and sometimes outside intervention is necessary." She handed Chase the script.
Chase disliked the word "intervention." It sounded a lot like incarceration. She wasn't that crazy. Intervention for what? Okay, so she'd been in self-denial about her condition, the mood swings, the ups and downs. But self-denial was in her genes. Admitting one was crazy was like crossing the Kalahari—full of sand with thorn brush and queer creatures and it frightened her.
"So there are no worries. We'll take care of this. You'll be much better." Dr. Robicheck got up indicating the session was over.
Chase got up as well glad to be out of the uncomfortable chair and away from her new psychiatrist. They shook hands.
"Make an appointment for three weeks from now. We'll reevaluate."
"Sure thing," Chase said, hoping she didn't appear absolutely ecstatic for being dismissed. Three weeks was like spring break for a kid.
She went out to the receptionist to make an appointment. A twenty-something scrub-clad woman with a blond pixie-cut studied the computer screen trying to find Chase an appointment. "Got it," she said. She didn't bother to
"Excessive drug or alcohol use?" She looked up from her pad and stared at Chase.
"Only on bad days and in moderation."
The doctor frowned.
"Basically, no." She figured that was what the doctor wanted. She must curb her smartass tendencies before she ended up in the psych ward or rehab.
"Have you ever thought you were God?"
"No, well, there was that one time in grade school..." She stopped herself. The doctor didn't have a sense of humor.
"Thoughts of suicide?"
"No." That one she was sure of. She had too much to do—besides it was messy and her mother would bury her in a dress. She just knew it. Her aim was to outlive her mother and bury her in something hideously unfashionable.
The doctor pursed her lips and seemed satisfied. Chase was glad. She hated yes or no answers. Nothing was black and white—except maybe piano keys.
"How'd I do?"
"You have a mild case—most fixable."
"No straightjacket then?"
"That was never a possibility. You're a little crazy. So are a lot of other people. You shouldn't worry. Two pills a day and you'll be normal." She glanced at Chase and amended her statement. "As normal as you can be." She got out her script pad.
Chase kept quiet and busied herself with studying the office decor. You could tell a lot about a person by their surroundings. Being a writer had taught her to look for useful details in the every day. The entire office was a variety of browns—the carpet, the vinyl chairs and table, the print of the copse of trees and, of course, the doctor's outfit. Now, she recalled that Lacey had said brown was the new black. In the doctor's case this propensity toward brown was not about being hip. Chase thought green was supposed to be a soothing color. Maybe brown was the new green. Anyway, she felt she was sitting inside a walnut shell and she couldn't wait to get out. She hoped her dislike of brown, except maybe in potting soil, would not affect the doctor patient relationship. She had a feeling it would.
"You can pick up the sample pack at the Parker Clinic." Dr. Robicheck turned around in her chair. Her Doris Day cut neatly to the chin went with her. Her round spectacles caught the light from the window. "Don't worry about this. This drug will help you and you should not be embarrassed to tell your people."
It was like she knew that Chase was keeping it a secret. Only Gitana and Lacey knew about it. She'd never tell her mother. "Sure, why?"
"It's hard to see change in oneself and sometimes outside intervention is necessary." She handed Chase the script.
Chase disliked the word "intervention." It sounded a lot like incarceration. She wasn't that crazy. Intervention for what? Okay, so she'd been in self-denial about her condition, the mood swings, the ups and downs. But self-denial was in her genes. Admitting one was crazy was like crossing the Kalahari—full of sand with thorn brush and queer creatures and it frightened her.
"So there are no worries. We'll take care of this. You'll be much better." Dr. Robicheck got up indicating the session was over.
Chase got up as well glad to be out of the uncomfortable chair and away from her new psychiatrist. They shook hands.
"Make an appointment for three weeks from now. We'll reevaluate."
"Sure thing," Chase said, hoping she didn't appear absolutely ecstatic for being dismissed. Three weeks was like spring break for a kid.
She went out to the receptionist to make an appointment. A twenty-something scrub-clad woman with a blond pixie-cut studied the computer screen trying to find Chase an appointment. "Got it," she said. She didn't bother to
Similar Books
Avalyne Series 01: The Queen of Carleon
Linda Thackeray
Blue Eyes
Jerome Charyn
The Playdate
Louise Millar
Gwynneth Ever After
Linda Poitevin
The Case of the Jumping Frogs
Donald J. Sobol
My Soul to Lose
Rachel Vincent
Hot & Cold
Susannah McFarlane
Executive Orders: Part 2 of the Homeland Series
R.A. Mathis
Broken Silence
Natasha Preston