After getting over the initial shock of being manhandled in such a way, I find, to my surprise, that I don’t much care. I mean, it’s weird to be sitting in my dad’s limo in my Hello Kitty pajamas, with my sheet and duvet wrapped around me.
But at the same time, I can’t summon up any real indignation about it.
I think that might actually be the problem. That I just don’t care aboutanything anymore.
Except I can’t even be bothered to care aboutthat very much, either.
Thursday, September 16, noon, Dr. Knutz’s office
We’re sitting in apsychologist’s office.
I’m not even kidding. My dad didn’t take me to the royal jet to go back to Genovia. He brought me to the Upper East Side to see apsychologist.
And not just any psychologist, either. But one of the nation’s preeminent experts on adolescent and child psychology. At least if all the many degrees and awards framed on the wall of his outer office is any indication.
I guess this is supposed to impress me. Or at least comfort me.
Although I can’t say I feel too comforted by the fact that his name is Dr. Arthur T.Knutz.
Yes, that’s right. My dad has brought me to see Dr. Knutz. Because he—and Mom and Mr. G—apparently thinkI’m nuts.
I know I probablylook nuts, sitting here in my pajamas, with my duvet still clutched around me. But whose fault is that? They could have let me get dressed.
Not that Iwould have, of course. But if they’d told me they were taking me out of the apartment, I might have at least put on a bra.
Dr. Knutz’s receptionist—or nurse, or whatever she is—doesn’t seem too bothered by my mode of dress, however. She just went, “Good morning, Prince Phillipe,” to my dad when he brought me in. Well, I mean, when Lars carried me in. Because when the limo pulled up in front of the brownstone Dr. Knutz’s office is in, I wouldn’t get out of the car. I wasn’t going to walk across East Seventy-eighth Street in my Hello Kitty pajamas! I may be crazy, but I’m not THAT crazy.
So Lars carried me.
The receptionist didn’t seem to think it was at all weird that her boss’s newest patient had to be carried into his office. She just went, “Dr. Knutz will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, will you please fill this out, dear?”
I don’t know why I got so panicky all of a sudden. But I was like, “No. What is it? A test? I don’t want to take a test.” It’s weird, but my heart started beating all crazy at the idea of having to take a test.
The receptionist just looked at me funny and went, “It’s just an assessment of how you’re feeling. There are no right or wrong answers. It will only take a minute to fill out.”
But I didn’t want to take an assessment, even if there were no right or wrong answers.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Here,” Dad said, and held out his hand to the receptionist. “I’ll take one, too. Will that make you feel better, Mia?”
For some reason, it did. Because, to be honest, if I’m crazy, so is my dad. I mean, you should see how many shoes he owns. And he’s aman.
So the receptionist handed my dad the same form to fill out. When I looked down, I saw that it was a list of statements that you were supposed to rate by checking off the most appropriate answer. Statements such as,I feel like there’s no point in living . To which you could check off one of the following replies:
All of the time
Most of the time
Some of the time
A little of the time
None of the time
Since there was nothing else to do and I had a pen in my hand anyway, I filled out the form. I noticed when I was done that I had checked off mostlyAll of the time s andMost of the time s. Such as,I feel like everyone hates me…Most of the time andI feel that I am worthless…Most of the time .
But my dad had filled out mostlyA little of the time s andNone of the time s.
Even for his answers to statements like,I feel as if true romantic love has passed me by .
Which I happen to know is a total lie. Dad told me he has had only one true love in his entire life, and that was Mom, and that he let her go, and totally regretted it. That’s why he urged me not to be stupid and let Michael go. Because he knew I might never find a love like that again.
Too bad I didn’t figure out he was right until it was too late.
Still, it’s easy for him to feel like everyone hates him none of the time. There’s no ihateprincephillipeofgenovia.com.
The receptionist—Mrs. Hopkins—took our forms back and brought them through a door to the right of her desk. I couldn’t see what was behind the door. Meanwhile, Lars picked up the latest copy ofSports Illustrated off Dr. Knutz’s waiting room coffee table and started reading it all casually, like he carries princesses in their pajamas into psychologist’s offices every day of the week.
I bet he never thought that was going to be part of his job description when he graduated from bodyguard school.
“I think you’re going to like Dr. Knutz, Mia,” my dad is saying. “I met him at a fund-raising event last year. He’s one of the nation’s preeminent experts in adolescent and child psychology.”
I point at the awards on the wall. “Yeah. I got that part.”
“Well,” Dad says. “It’s true. He comes very highly recommended. Don’t let his name—or his demeanor—fool you.”
His demeanor? What doesthat mean?
Mrs. Hopkins is back. She says the doctor will see us now.
Great.
Thursday, September 16, 2 p.m., Dad’s limo
Well. That was the weirdest thing. Ever.
Dr. Knutz was…not what I was expecting.
I don’t know what I was expecting, really, but not Dr. Knutz. I know Dad said not to let his name or his demeanor fool me, but I mean, from his name and his profession, I expected him to be a little old bald dude with a goatee and glasses and maybe a German accent.
And hewas old. Like Grandmère’s age.
But he wasn’t little. And he wasn’t bald. And he didn’t have a goatee. And he had sort of a Western accent. That’s because, he explained, when he isn’t at his practice in New York City, he’s at his ranch in Montana.
Yes. That’s right. Dr. Knutz is a cowboy. Acowboy psychologist.
It so figures that out of all the psychologists in New York, I would end up with a cowboy one.
His office is furnished like the inside of a ranch house. On the wood paneling along his office walls there are pictures of wild mustangs running free. And every one of the books on the shelves behind him are by the famous Western authors Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey. His office furniture is dark leather and trimmed with brass studs. There’s even a cowboy hat hanging on the peg on the back of the door. And the carpet is a Navajo rug.
I could tell right away from all this that Dr. Knutz certainly lived up to his name. Also, that he was way crazier than me.
This had to be a joke. My dad had to be kidding that Dr. Knutz is one of the nation’s preeminent experts on adolescent and child psychology. Maybe I was being punk’d. Maybe Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out any minute and be all, “D’oh! Princess Mia! You’ve just been punk’d! This guy isn’t a psychologist at all! He’s my uncle Joe!”
“So,” Dr. Knutz said, in this big booming cowboy voice after I’d sat down next to Dad on the couch across from Dr. Knutz’s big leather armchair. “You’re Princess Mia. Nice to meetcha. Heard you were uncharacteristically nice to your grandma yesterday.”
I was completely shocked by this. Unlike Dr. Knutz’s other patients, who, presumably, are children, I happen to be acquainted with a pair of Jungian psychologists—Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz—so I am not unfamiliar with how doctor-patient relationships are supposed to go.
And they are not supposed to begin with completely false accusations on the part of the doctor.
“That is total and utter slander,” I said. “I wasn’t nice to her. I just said what she wanted to hear so she would go away.”