confidence.
Grace said, “Well, I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this and I wish you the best. I also want you to know that I’m always here for you.”
Trust me, guys, I’ll see both of you eventually. Separate sessions.
Papers would be filed, property divided, but these two would never lead totally separate lives.
Ian had seen to that.
—
By the time Grace had completed her sketchy case notes and the light went on announcing the last patient of the day, she was already planning her evening.
Quick stop at the casual fish place near Dog Beach for halibut and chips and a Sidecar, enjoyed in a vinyl booth well away from the bar. Concentrating on her food and flashing stay-away signals at any man who had designs.
Oh, yeah, a salad to start. And maybe not halibut, possibly Dover sole if they had it fresh. Or that scallops/soft-shell crab combo. Then zip home, change into shorts and a tee, take a run on the dark beach. After that, a long shower, masturbating under the spray. Followed by a quick review of the pile of psych journals that had climbed way too high and when her eyelids lost the battle with gravity, a nightcap of junk TV.
Maybe she’d think of the red room, maybe not.
Yawning, she checked the mirror in the closet, touched up her makeup, tugged her white blouse tight into black slacks, and reminded herself she was an authority figure and ready for Mr. Andrew Toner from San Antonio, who’d found her through an esoteric article in an obscure journal.
Written without Malcolm but aping Malcolm’s style because Grace, though adroit at psych-prose, hated it and refused to develop a style of her own. In the beginning, she’d looked forward to seeing her name in print, read every pub word for word, only to find them arid.
Malcolm, for all his virtues, was the typical professorial scribe, unable to scare excitement out of an asteroid strike.
For a layman to find Grace’s solo venture, he had to be motivated.
Of course Andrew Toner was, he’d come to see her all the way from the Great State of Texas.
When patients from out of town sought her help—not as rare as you might think—they were often perfectionistic, compulsive types. The kind of folk who’d google
psychological treatment aftermath violence
or something similar and scroll for hours.
Let’s see if she was right about Mr. Andrew Toner.
She walked down the bare hall that served as a decompression tunnel for her patients, smiled, and opened the door to the waiting room.
Found herself staring at the face of Roger, the man she’d fucked mindlessly last night and dismissed the moment it was over.
No way to dismiss him, now. Ever.
He laid eyes on her and seemed to shrink. Then he loomed in Grace’s visual field.
Him.
Oh God. Neurons popped as Grace’s brain worked to make sense of what was happening. All that mental activity produced…nothing.
Roger/Andrew was doing no better. Still seated, a magazine in his lap, his jaw had dropped and he’d turned ghostly pallid and Grace felt her own mandible sag uncontrollably.
Aping a patient? She’d never been suggestible. What was
happening
?
The authoritative smile she’d entered with lingered, unwanted, idiotic. Grace forced her lips shut, wasn’t sure what expression was squatting on her face.
She felt stiff, inanimate, a waxwork dummy. Had no idea what to say. Even if she’d managed to come up with words, they’d have remained trapped by her strangulated larynx.
Roger/Andrew kept staring at her, finally moved
his
lips. Out came a mouse-squeak of humiliation.
Grace turned hot. Cold. Frozen.
Andrew and Grace.
Roger and Helen.
He’d lied about his name, too.
No comfort, there. Grace’s limbs were permafrost.
Sound filtered through a window. A car with a faulty muffler rumbling by.
Thankful for the distraction, Grace prayed for more noise. None followed. She remained rooted. Paralyzed.
This was new, different, this was
dreadfully
different.
Sweat pooled in Grace’s
Grace said, “Well, I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this and I wish you the best. I also want you to know that I’m always here for you.”
Trust me, guys, I’ll see both of you eventually. Separate sessions.
Papers would be filed, property divided, but these two would never lead totally separate lives.
Ian had seen to that.
—
By the time Grace had completed her sketchy case notes and the light went on announcing the last patient of the day, she was already planning her evening.
Quick stop at the casual fish place near Dog Beach for halibut and chips and a Sidecar, enjoyed in a vinyl booth well away from the bar. Concentrating on her food and flashing stay-away signals at any man who had designs.
Oh, yeah, a salad to start. And maybe not halibut, possibly Dover sole if they had it fresh. Or that scallops/soft-shell crab combo. Then zip home, change into shorts and a tee, take a run on the dark beach. After that, a long shower, masturbating under the spray. Followed by a quick review of the pile of psych journals that had climbed way too high and when her eyelids lost the battle with gravity, a nightcap of junk TV.
Maybe she’d think of the red room, maybe not.
Yawning, she checked the mirror in the closet, touched up her makeup, tugged her white blouse tight into black slacks, and reminded herself she was an authority figure and ready for Mr. Andrew Toner from San Antonio, who’d found her through an esoteric article in an obscure journal.
Written without Malcolm but aping Malcolm’s style because Grace, though adroit at psych-prose, hated it and refused to develop a style of her own. In the beginning, she’d looked forward to seeing her name in print, read every pub word for word, only to find them arid.
Malcolm, for all his virtues, was the typical professorial scribe, unable to scare excitement out of an asteroid strike.
For a layman to find Grace’s solo venture, he had to be motivated.
Of course Andrew Toner was, he’d come to see her all the way from the Great State of Texas.
When patients from out of town sought her help—not as rare as you might think—they were often perfectionistic, compulsive types. The kind of folk who’d google
psychological treatment aftermath violence
or something similar and scroll for hours.
Let’s see if she was right about Mr. Andrew Toner.
She walked down the bare hall that served as a decompression tunnel for her patients, smiled, and opened the door to the waiting room.
Found herself staring at the face of Roger, the man she’d fucked mindlessly last night and dismissed the moment it was over.
No way to dismiss him, now. Ever.
He laid eyes on her and seemed to shrink. Then he loomed in Grace’s visual field.
Him.
Oh God. Neurons popped as Grace’s brain worked to make sense of what was happening. All that mental activity produced…nothing.
Roger/Andrew was doing no better. Still seated, a magazine in his lap, his jaw had dropped and he’d turned ghostly pallid and Grace felt her own mandible sag uncontrollably.
Aping a patient? She’d never been suggestible. What was
happening
?
The authoritative smile she’d entered with lingered, unwanted, idiotic. Grace forced her lips shut, wasn’t sure what expression was squatting on her face.
She felt stiff, inanimate, a waxwork dummy. Had no idea what to say. Even if she’d managed to come up with words, they’d have remained trapped by her strangulated larynx.
Roger/Andrew kept staring at her, finally moved
his
lips. Out came a mouse-squeak of humiliation.
Grace turned hot. Cold. Frozen.
Andrew and Grace.
Roger and Helen.
He’d lied about his name, too.
No comfort, there. Grace’s limbs were permafrost.
Sound filtered through a window. A car with a faulty muffler rumbling by.
Thankful for the distraction, Grace prayed for more noise. None followed. She remained rooted. Paralyzed.
This was new, different, this was
dreadfully
different.
Sweat pooled in Grace’s
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