“I will.” She started unzipping the knee-high boots, which were pulled over skintight jeans.
He pulled down on the sleeves of his blazer—his idea of making himself comfortable—and took the patient chair over to the couch. Sitting down across from her with his right ankle propped across his left knee, he opened the file up on his legs. He scrutinized her clothing—a fur vest over a cashmere sweater—and shot a look at her boots and Coach purse. “Did you go on another spending spree?” he asked in that judgmental tone of his. That assistant principal’s voice.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not off my meds. My brother sent me a pile of money for my birthday.”
“Happy birthday.”
“It was last month, but thanks.”
“How are you doing, Miss Klein?”
Now she was bent over her boots, pulling them off. “I’m as fat as a cow.”
“Weight gain is a common side effect with lithium. So are tremors, diarrhea, nausea …”
“We discussed switching meds.” She dropped her boots on the floor with a thud. “What about that?”
“Valproic acid has side effects as well.”
“Such as?”
“Tremors, diarrhea, nausea, weight gain, hair loss.”
“Dandy. I can be fat and bald. Let me think about it.”
“How are you doing otherwise?”
“What do you think?”
He glanced down at her file. “Well, I can tell you that your blood tests—”
“Can we talk?” she asked.
Pulling his eyes off the file, he looked at her. “What’s the problem?”
“This is hard for me.” She folded her arms in front of her, crossed one leg over the other, and nervously jiggled her elevated stocking foot. “I don’t know how to put this exactly.”
“Let’s hear it, Miss Klein.”
“Kyra. The last time I was here, and the time before that, I asked you to call me—”
“Kyra. Yes. I remember now. What’s wrong, Kyra?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “This isn’t working out for me.”
“What isn’t working out?” He glanced down at the folder. “If you really want to switch medications, I’m sure we can find a more agreeable—”
“I want to find me. I want to talk about me.”
“This is about you.”
“It’s the same thing every time I come in here. I get fifteen minutes with you. Twenty tops. You ask me how I’m doing, but you don’t really listen to me. Half the time you’re not even looking at me.” She pointed to the folder. “Your face is buried in that crap.”
“I apologize if you feel I’ve been—”
“You write me a new refill. I disappear for another month or two. I come back. Same thing. ‘How’re you doing? Your lab work looks good.’ We never talk, and I need to talk. Really talk.” Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere. Psychiatrists hated when patients expected them to act like therapists. She could have predicted his response.
“You have someone for that aspect of your—”
“He’s a royal dick.” She raked the top of her spiky head with her fingers and waited for him to do his pencil drum.
Instead, he surprised her with a grin. “Well, yes, you’ve made your dissatisfaction known. We can provide a list of other capable—”
“I am so sick of getting shuffled around, shopping for doctors.” She curled her legs up on his couch, sat back, and sighed. “I wish you could do it all.”
He checked his watch. “Tell you what.”
“My fifteen minutes can’t be up already. You kept me waiting forever.”
“I apologize for that,” he said, drumming the pencil on her folder. “If you can come back later this afternoon …”
“I have class.”
“What about the end of the business day? You can be my last patient. We can take a little longer.”
“Will my insurance pay for two visits in one day?”
“I’ll make it a freebie,” he said.
She fingered her purse strap. “By the time we get through, it’ll be dark out.”
“I can give you a ride home, or Charles. Someone around here will be going your way.”
“That sounds good.” She pulled her legs down from the couch and put on her boots, suddenly energized by his offer. She was more than a file tab to him.
The door popped open, but this time it wasn’t Charles. Another male head poked into the room. “You’ll never guess who called me just now, out of the blue.”
“It’ll have to wait.” The doctor closed her file and got up off the chair. “I’m busy with a patient.”
The man in the doorway looked at Klein. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you there.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m on my way out.” Klein sat up, stared at the man in the doorway, and looked back at her doctor. “This has got to be a relative of yours. You could pass for twins.”
“He’s my younger brother,” her doctor said shortly. He went back to his desk and sat down.
“I wish my brother lived in town.” Klein got up from the couch, plucked her purse off the cushions, and hiked the strap over her shoulder. She gathered her books in her arms and started for the door. “It’s nice that you get to see each other.”
The two men locked eyes, and the brother in the doorway laughed dryly. “Sometimes it’s nice, Miss—”
She held out her hand and he took it. “Klein,” she said.
He released her hand and opened the door wider so she could go through. “Have a good day, Miss Klein.”
“Kyra,” she said, smiling up at him as she stepped over the threshold. “Call me Kyra. I’ve been trying to get your brother to remember that.”
He put his hand over his heart. “Kyra. I shall not forget.”
Charles brushed past Klein and the brother.
“I’m sorry, Chaz,” said the brother. “Didn’t hear you coming.”
Charles handed the doctor a file. “If you’re finished with Miss Klein, we’ve got two other patients waiting.”
Klein leaned back into the room and addressed the man behind the desk. “Almost forgot. What time exactly?”
He checked his wristwatch. “Is six o’clock too late?”
“Six o’clock is perfect.” Charles gave her a curious look as he stood at the doctor’s elbow with a file. She didn’t want the golf pro to get the wrong idea about this after-hours session. She added: “Not too much later, though. I have a date tonight.”
“Six sharp.”
“See you at six.” She gave a smile to the brother and the golf pro, turned back around, and went down the hall.
THE YOUNGER BROTHER turned to watch her go, a crooked smile lifting the right side of his mouth. “Kyra Klein,” he repeated under his breath.
As he exited the doctor’s office, Charles navigated around the grinning man and arched his eyebrows.
“What?” snapped the brother.
“I didn’t say a word,” Charles said.
“You were thinking it.”
“How long have we known each other?” the receptionist asked over his shoulder, and headed back to the waiting room.
“I can look,” the brother said defensively.
“Listen to Charles,” the doctor yelled from the other side of the doorway, his head down while he flipped through another patient chart. “Leave her alone.”
The brother shoved his hands into his pants pockets and groused, “I’m always being misjudged.”
Chapter 8
MENTAL ILLNESS. EATING disorders. alcohol and drug addictions. Childhood rapes. Physically abusive boyfriends. Emotionally abusive parents.
Armed with a pen and a legal pad, Bernadette spent Wednesday in the cellar continuing the chore she’d started the night before at her kitchen table: immersing herself in the tumultuous lives of seven troubled women. As she plowed through the files taking more notes, the victims’ stories started blending together, becoming indistinguishable from one another. It was as if she’d spent too long in a massive art gallery: her head hurt, her eyes felt dry, and everything looked the same.