Colonel's wife, thank God for small favors—and Dr. Hedeger, Hal, Alan, and more people poking and prodding her body and her psyche.
The third day she'd been transferred to the psych ward. The psychiatrist who met with her seemed too young to know anything about the secrets of the human soul. He sat back, fingers absently stroking his fashionably narrow stripe of hair on his chin, and smiled at her.
"You won't be here long," he said with confidence, before she said a word to him. "I've read your file. This wasn't really a suicide attempt at all, was it Sarah? It was what we call a gesture. A symbolic cry for help. For attention."
She curled herself up tighter in her chair, her knees drawn up under her chin, and stared at him. He was in his late twenties, only a few years younger than her, yet she felt ancient in comparison. He must have been fresh out of residency, still full of book learning and the unique form of paternalism fostered by the medical training system.
The room was small, silent, all noise deadened by the soundproofing tile that covered the walls and ceiling. He sat in a tweed chair meant to be comfortable yet too heavy to use as a weapon—a twin to the one she was curled up in, her hand stroking the scratchy upholstery as she tried to remember why she was still alive and why it mattered at all.
She breathed in re-conditioned air scrubbed clean of anything living and artificially flavored with vanilla and stared at the man who was so eager to heal her, to send her back out into the world. He knew nothing of her, nothing of the real world.
"After all," he continued when she didn't respond. "A smart young lady such as yourself would have researched the drugs she was taking—if she really wanted to kill herself. She would have known that drinking that much alcohol on an empty stomach would induce emesis before any of the medication could take effect. And she would realize that the clearing where her husband and son died would be the first place any would-be rescuers would look for her."
He smiled at her, smug and superior and satisfied he knew everything there was to know. That he had all the answers.
"Tell me what's really bothering you, what you want," he said, flipping a small notepad open and resting it expectantly on his knee. He seemed satisfied that he could already count her as a success, as if some unseen force was keeping score. "We'll work it through, get you out of here and back to your life."
Realizing it was her key to freedom, Sarah had answered his questions, fabricating and agreeing with his self-important theories when need be. Anything to get out of there.
But she learned three important lessons from the young Dr. Freud wannabe.
First: research, research, research.
Second: drugs first, alcohol last.
Finally: go deeper into the woods. Go where no one will find you until it's too late.
CHAPTER 10
Wednesday June 19, 2007: Manassas, Virginia
Even though it was almost dark by the time Caitlyn drove home to her apartment in Manassas, she kept her sunglasses on. The migraine pounded furiously, snarling like a beast that refused to be kept from its prey any longer.
She wrenched the steering wheel of her Subaru, parking it haphazardly in her space, grabbed her bag, and almost passed out at the noise of the car door slamming. Breathe, just breathe, she told herself as she doubled over, braced against the still warm and ticking engine compartment.
She pushed away from the car, refusing to fall apart out here where her landlady could see her, and stumbled to the steps leading up to her apartment on the second floor of the lovingly restored Victorian. Hauling herself up the twelve steps, her bag banging against her hip because she needed both hands on the railing, chips of paint splintering away in her grip, she finally made it to her door.
The key trembled in her hand. Her vision had almost completely gone black. The pounding in her head drove out any other sound, if she had
The third day she'd been transferred to the psych ward. The psychiatrist who met with her seemed too young to know anything about the secrets of the human soul. He sat back, fingers absently stroking his fashionably narrow stripe of hair on his chin, and smiled at her.
"You won't be here long," he said with confidence, before she said a word to him. "I've read your file. This wasn't really a suicide attempt at all, was it Sarah? It was what we call a gesture. A symbolic cry for help. For attention."
She curled herself up tighter in her chair, her knees drawn up under her chin, and stared at him. He was in his late twenties, only a few years younger than her, yet she felt ancient in comparison. He must have been fresh out of residency, still full of book learning and the unique form of paternalism fostered by the medical training system.
The room was small, silent, all noise deadened by the soundproofing tile that covered the walls and ceiling. He sat in a tweed chair meant to be comfortable yet too heavy to use as a weapon—a twin to the one she was curled up in, her hand stroking the scratchy upholstery as she tried to remember why she was still alive and why it mattered at all.
She breathed in re-conditioned air scrubbed clean of anything living and artificially flavored with vanilla and stared at the man who was so eager to heal her, to send her back out into the world. He knew nothing of her, nothing of the real world.
"After all," he continued when she didn't respond. "A smart young lady such as yourself would have researched the drugs she was taking—if she really wanted to kill herself. She would have known that drinking that much alcohol on an empty stomach would induce emesis before any of the medication could take effect. And she would realize that the clearing where her husband and son died would be the first place any would-be rescuers would look for her."
He smiled at her, smug and superior and satisfied he knew everything there was to know. That he had all the answers.
"Tell me what's really bothering you, what you want," he said, flipping a small notepad open and resting it expectantly on his knee. He seemed satisfied that he could already count her as a success, as if some unseen force was keeping score. "We'll work it through, get you out of here and back to your life."
Realizing it was her key to freedom, Sarah had answered his questions, fabricating and agreeing with his self-important theories when need be. Anything to get out of there.
But she learned three important lessons from the young Dr. Freud wannabe.
First: research, research, research.
Second: drugs first, alcohol last.
Finally: go deeper into the woods. Go where no one will find you until it's too late.
CHAPTER 10
Wednesday June 19, 2007: Manassas, Virginia
Even though it was almost dark by the time Caitlyn drove home to her apartment in Manassas, she kept her sunglasses on. The migraine pounded furiously, snarling like a beast that refused to be kept from its prey any longer.
She wrenched the steering wheel of her Subaru, parking it haphazardly in her space, grabbed her bag, and almost passed out at the noise of the car door slamming. Breathe, just breathe, she told herself as she doubled over, braced against the still warm and ticking engine compartment.
She pushed away from the car, refusing to fall apart out here where her landlady could see her, and stumbled to the steps leading up to her apartment on the second floor of the lovingly restored Victorian. Hauling herself up the twelve steps, her bag banging against her hip because she needed both hands on the railing, chips of paint splintering away in her grip, she finally made it to her door.
The key trembled in her hand. Her vision had almost completely gone black. The pounding in her head drove out any other sound, if she had
Similar Books
