don’t have to say anything. I don’t have to do anything. He will ask questions and I can answer as vaguely as possible and maybe soon, my parents will stop making me come to this place that belongs on a Hollywood horror set.
Dr. Roth reads from a manila file, pushes up his glasses, and looks at me like one might examine an extremely interesting specimen beneath a microscope. I wipe my palms against my knees and scratch my earlobe. “Aren’t we supposed to talk?”
“What would you like to talk about?” he asks.
“I don’t know. You’re the doctor. I’m the patient.”
“I prefer client.”
“Why?”
“Less of a stigma.” He pulls at the whiskers of his goatee. “Don’t you think?”
I nod at the file resting on his knee. Hasn’t he heard of a thing called technology? “Your filing system seems a little outdated.”
“Pen and paper doesn’t crash. It’s not nearly as accessible, either.”
I eye the folder with a healthy dose of skepticism. “What does that say about me?”
“That you had a bit of a breakdown in Jude and the ambulance was called.”
And I have hallucinations, but no need to admit to that. “Did you get that information from the hospital in Florida?”
Dr. Roth holds up the file. “This is all from your parents.”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you tell me about the séance?”
His question takes me back to the hospital, only instead of Dr. Roth, I am talking to a short-legged man in a white coat who doesn’t smile, my parents’ warning all too fresh in my mind. Don’t tell him anything, Tess. I shift in the chair. “I have an overactive imagination.”
Dr. Roth quirks one of his eyebrows.
“And I think I fell asleep.”
His other eyebrow joins the first one. “Fell asleep?”
“The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that what I … saw … was a nightmare.”
“Do you have very many nightmares?”
I plead the fifth.
“I’d like to know more about them—these nightmares.”
I scratch my kneecap. I can’t decide if I like Dr. Roth. He’s warmer than the white-coated doctor in Jude, but there’s a fascination in his eye that makes me uncomfortable. It’s almost as though I’m a test subject instead of his patient, or client, or whatever he wants to call me. “They’re just your standard nightmares.”
“And that’s what you think happened the night you were hospitalized? You think you had a nightmare?”
No. “Yes.”
“Do you mind sharing with me exactly what you saw?”
I close my eyes, as if doing so might shut the images away, but they are seared into my memory—the dead bodies in ditches, the people in straitjackets. I give an involuntary shudder. “I saw a lot of death.”
“Is this what you see in all of your nightmares?”
I think about Pete and the white-eyed man and the swirling mass trying to consume him. I think about the way my scream made the man stop and notice me. “Yes.”
Dr. Roth purses his lips and jots something in my file.
“I haven’t had one in a while.” Two days to be exact.
He continues writing.
I shift in my seat. “Are you going to prescribe me medicine?”
“I’m hoping to avoid medicine.”
“Why?”
He gives me a long, steady stare, then clasps his hands beneath his chin. “In many cases, medicine is extremely helpful. I’m not sure you’re one of them. I think there are other treatment options we should try first.”
I look around his office—at the cat clock on his wall and the framed degrees. I wonder if Dr. Roth has a wife or kids. I wonder what made him want to work here, in this facility, talking to people like me. I wonder if that file in his hand says anything at all about my grandmother.
He sets the folder aside. “You can be honest with me, Tess. This is a safe place.”
They are my mother’s words, but I have doubts. Something inside me warns against full disclosure. Something inside me is not sure Dr. Roth can be trusted.
Chapter Nine
Routines
L uka is at
Dr. Roth reads from a manila file, pushes up his glasses, and looks at me like one might examine an extremely interesting specimen beneath a microscope. I wipe my palms against my knees and scratch my earlobe. “Aren’t we supposed to talk?”
“What would you like to talk about?” he asks.
“I don’t know. You’re the doctor. I’m the patient.”
“I prefer client.”
“Why?”
“Less of a stigma.” He pulls at the whiskers of his goatee. “Don’t you think?”
I nod at the file resting on his knee. Hasn’t he heard of a thing called technology? “Your filing system seems a little outdated.”
“Pen and paper doesn’t crash. It’s not nearly as accessible, either.”
I eye the folder with a healthy dose of skepticism. “What does that say about me?”
“That you had a bit of a breakdown in Jude and the ambulance was called.”
And I have hallucinations, but no need to admit to that. “Did you get that information from the hospital in Florida?”
Dr. Roth holds up the file. “This is all from your parents.”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you tell me about the séance?”
His question takes me back to the hospital, only instead of Dr. Roth, I am talking to a short-legged man in a white coat who doesn’t smile, my parents’ warning all too fresh in my mind. Don’t tell him anything, Tess. I shift in the chair. “I have an overactive imagination.”
Dr. Roth quirks one of his eyebrows.
“And I think I fell asleep.”
His other eyebrow joins the first one. “Fell asleep?”
“The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that what I … saw … was a nightmare.”
“Do you have very many nightmares?”
I plead the fifth.
“I’d like to know more about them—these nightmares.”
I scratch my kneecap. I can’t decide if I like Dr. Roth. He’s warmer than the white-coated doctor in Jude, but there’s a fascination in his eye that makes me uncomfortable. It’s almost as though I’m a test subject instead of his patient, or client, or whatever he wants to call me. “They’re just your standard nightmares.”
“And that’s what you think happened the night you were hospitalized? You think you had a nightmare?”
No. “Yes.”
“Do you mind sharing with me exactly what you saw?”
I close my eyes, as if doing so might shut the images away, but they are seared into my memory—the dead bodies in ditches, the people in straitjackets. I give an involuntary shudder. “I saw a lot of death.”
“Is this what you see in all of your nightmares?”
I think about Pete and the white-eyed man and the swirling mass trying to consume him. I think about the way my scream made the man stop and notice me. “Yes.”
Dr. Roth purses his lips and jots something in my file.
“I haven’t had one in a while.” Two days to be exact.
He continues writing.
I shift in my seat. “Are you going to prescribe me medicine?”
“I’m hoping to avoid medicine.”
“Why?”
He gives me a long, steady stare, then clasps his hands beneath his chin. “In many cases, medicine is extremely helpful. I’m not sure you’re one of them. I think there are other treatment options we should try first.”
I look around his office—at the cat clock on his wall and the framed degrees. I wonder if Dr. Roth has a wife or kids. I wonder what made him want to work here, in this facility, talking to people like me. I wonder if that file in his hand says anything at all about my grandmother.
He sets the folder aside. “You can be honest with me, Tess. This is a safe place.”
They are my mother’s words, but I have doubts. Something inside me warns against full disclosure. Something inside me is not sure Dr. Roth can be trusted.
Chapter Nine
Routines
L uka is at
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