call back. Thank you.”
DR. TIBBETS SAW PATIENTS ON Tuesdays through Thursdays. When I suggested today, a Thursday, she countersuggested next Tuesday. Six days of liquids; I might starve. Sensing my anguish, she asked if I was in danger. I might be, I said, by next Tuesday. If I could come right away, she said, we could meet during her lunch hour.
I drove to the same building and took the same elevator to the same floor. Dr. Broyard’s name on the door had been replaced by DR. RUTH-ANNE TIBBETS, LCSW —a plastic placard that slid into an aluminum strip. I looked down the hall and wondered how many other offices were shared. Most patients would never know; it had to be unusual for a person to need the services of two different unaffiliated specialists. The receptionist’s area was empty. I read a magazine about golf for fifteen seconds until the door swung open.
Dr. Tibbets was tall with flat gray hair and an androgynous horsey face; she reminded me of someone but I wasn’t sure who. This was probably the sign of a good therapist, seeming familiar to everyone. She asked if the room was warm enough—there was a small space heater she could turn on. I said I was fine.
“What brought you in today?”
A bento box sat on top of her day planner. Had she stuffed herself as quickly as possible after the previous patient? Or was she waiting, faint with hunger? “You can eat your lunch if you want, I don’t mind.” She smiled patiently. “Begin when you feel ready.” I turned sideways on the leather couch but quickly discovered there wasn’t enough length for my legs, so I swung myself upright again; she wasn’t that kind of therapist.
I told her about my globus hystericus and how my sternothyroid had locked. She asked me if I could recall any triggering incidents. I didn’t feel ready to tell her about Phillip so I described my houseguest, the way she moved around the living room, swinging her giant, heavy-lidded head like a cow, a dense, stenchy bull.
“Bulls are male,” said Dr. Tibbets.
But that was just it. A woman talks, too much—and worries, too much—and gives and gives in. A woman bathes.
“She doesn’t bathe?”
“Almost never.”
I described her total disregard for my home and acted out the different things she had done to me, pressing on my own chest and squeezing my own wrist. It was hard to yank my own head back.
“This might not look painful because I’m doing it to myself.”
“I don’t doubt that it’s painful,” she said. “What have you done to resist?”
I released my arm and sat back down.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you fight back?”
“You mean self-defense?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, that’s not what this is. It’s really more a case of very bad manners.” I smiled to myself because it sounded like I was in denial. “Have you heard of Open Palm? Self-defense that helps you burn fat and build muscle? I pretty much invented that.”
“Have you yelled?”
“No.”
“Or said no to her?”
“No.”
Dr. Tibbets was quiet now, like a lawyer who had no further questions. My face crumpled, and my globus swelled painfully; she held out a box of Kleenex.
I suddenly realized why she looked so familiar.
She was Dr. Broyard’s receptionist. It was outrageous. Was she even Ruth-Anne Tibbets or was she Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s receptionist too? What had she done with Dr. Tibbets? This needed to be reported. Who could I call? Not Dr. Broyard or Dr. Tibbets, since this usurping, masquerading woman would undoubtedly answer the phone. I slowly gathered my purse and sweater. It was best not to agitate her or let on.
“This has been a great help, thank you.”
“You have thirty more minutes.”
“I don’t feel that I need it. It was a twenty-minute problem and you addressed it.”
She hesitated, looking up at me.
“I’m going to have to charge you for the whole session.”
I had already prewritten the check. I took it out of my purse.
“If possible, please donate
DR. TIBBETS SAW PATIENTS ON Tuesdays through Thursdays. When I suggested today, a Thursday, she countersuggested next Tuesday. Six days of liquids; I might starve. Sensing my anguish, she asked if I was in danger. I might be, I said, by next Tuesday. If I could come right away, she said, we could meet during her lunch hour.
I drove to the same building and took the same elevator to the same floor. Dr. Broyard’s name on the door had been replaced by DR. RUTH-ANNE TIBBETS, LCSW —a plastic placard that slid into an aluminum strip. I looked down the hall and wondered how many other offices were shared. Most patients would never know; it had to be unusual for a person to need the services of two different unaffiliated specialists. The receptionist’s area was empty. I read a magazine about golf for fifteen seconds until the door swung open.
Dr. Tibbets was tall with flat gray hair and an androgynous horsey face; she reminded me of someone but I wasn’t sure who. This was probably the sign of a good therapist, seeming familiar to everyone. She asked if the room was warm enough—there was a small space heater she could turn on. I said I was fine.
“What brought you in today?”
A bento box sat on top of her day planner. Had she stuffed herself as quickly as possible after the previous patient? Or was she waiting, faint with hunger? “You can eat your lunch if you want, I don’t mind.” She smiled patiently. “Begin when you feel ready.” I turned sideways on the leather couch but quickly discovered there wasn’t enough length for my legs, so I swung myself upright again; she wasn’t that kind of therapist.
I told her about my globus hystericus and how my sternothyroid had locked. She asked me if I could recall any triggering incidents. I didn’t feel ready to tell her about Phillip so I described my houseguest, the way she moved around the living room, swinging her giant, heavy-lidded head like a cow, a dense, stenchy bull.
“Bulls are male,” said Dr. Tibbets.
But that was just it. A woman talks, too much—and worries, too much—and gives and gives in. A woman bathes.
“She doesn’t bathe?”
“Almost never.”
I described her total disregard for my home and acted out the different things she had done to me, pressing on my own chest and squeezing my own wrist. It was hard to yank my own head back.
“This might not look painful because I’m doing it to myself.”
“I don’t doubt that it’s painful,” she said. “What have you done to resist?”
I released my arm and sat back down.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you fight back?”
“You mean self-defense?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, that’s not what this is. It’s really more a case of very bad manners.” I smiled to myself because it sounded like I was in denial. “Have you heard of Open Palm? Self-defense that helps you burn fat and build muscle? I pretty much invented that.”
“Have you yelled?”
“No.”
“Or said no to her?”
“No.”
Dr. Tibbets was quiet now, like a lawyer who had no further questions. My face crumpled, and my globus swelled painfully; she held out a box of Kleenex.
I suddenly realized why she looked so familiar.
She was Dr. Broyard’s receptionist. It was outrageous. Was she even Ruth-Anne Tibbets or was she Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s receptionist too? What had she done with Dr. Tibbets? This needed to be reported. Who could I call? Not Dr. Broyard or Dr. Tibbets, since this usurping, masquerading woman would undoubtedly answer the phone. I slowly gathered my purse and sweater. It was best not to agitate her or let on.
“This has been a great help, thank you.”
“You have thirty more minutes.”
“I don’t feel that I need it. It was a twenty-minute problem and you addressed it.”
She hesitated, looking up at me.
“I’m going to have to charge you for the whole session.”
I had already prewritten the check. I took it out of my purse.
“If possible, please donate
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