Chapter Forty

Session Two

Doctor Virginia East

In my mind I have begun to renumber my sessions with Malcolm. Everything prior to yesterday was preliminary ground work. Yesterday, session sixteen – which I'm renumbering Session One, because it was the first time I'd actually managed to communicate with him in any way – was goal-setting. Today, and probably for weeks to come, we will work on trust-building.

Liz parks him up in front of my desk and leaves with a smile for me and an encouraging squeeze on Malcolm's shoulder. Once she is gone, I make a little small talk, asking about his physiotherapy, mentioning something I heard on the news. Carefully I avoid any questions about his feelings because I told him we wouldn't be talking about them for a while. He responds readily enough, even showing some enthusiasm about being able to take a few more steps with the Zimmer frame than he managed yesterday. It seems he's trying, however awkwardly, to actively participate in his therapy. Honestly, it's more than I expected after yesterday's breakthrough, so, especially considering his reputation, I'm a little suspicious of his sincerity.

Nevertheless, I keep my doubts to myself and take his responses at face value. People have a way of meeting the expectations you set for them. If I expect him to be duplicitous and conniving, he almost certainly will be; if I expect him to engage sincerely in therapy and open up a little bit, it's possible, eventually, he just might. In the meantime, I must remind myself constantly of what he's been through and what it has done to him, and not expect progress to be swift or without setbacks.

"So did you make that list?" I ask casually. I'm expecting one of two things, based on what I've read in his file. Either he decided against it and has nothing for me, or he went over the top. When – after a momentary hesitation – he hands me the paper, I don't speculate on whether his hand is shaking from fatigue after his physiotherapy or anxiety now that he's in session with me. It could be either or both, and it's highly unlikely he'd tell me if I asked.

There are thirty words on the page. I asked for 'at least ten' thinking that would be a stretch for him. So, it seems for today I'm going to get Malcolm Reed, the overachiever.

I read the list aloud, "Fear, depression, loneliness, jealousy, ignorance, inadequacy, grief, hurt, guilt, embarrassment, shame, anxiety, alienation, frustration, helplessness, hopelessness." I stop after the first fifteen. "You have quite a good memory. I think I listed every one of those words yesterday."

"I know you did," he says confidently. "In that exact order. Having a good memory can save your life in my line of work. I used to do regular mental exercises to maintain and improve my ability to memorise things quickly. A list of words is no challenge even now." I just nod, wondering what he'll do if I don't take up the conversation right away. It takes more than five but less than ten seconds for him to add, with only an edge of irony, "It's nice, actually, to know there's something about me that still works properly."

He tosses it out there casually, like it's nothing more than small talk, but I know better. Such breathtaking honesty so soon can only mean one of two things. Either he's decided to throw himself into this little adventure wholeheartedly in a desperate attempt to get a grip so he can somehow rebuild his life, or he's throwing me a bone and using this insignificant scrap of information to humor me so that I'll tell Trip he's genuinely trying.

I decide to take the statement at face value. It doesn't matter either way. If he's sincere, praising him for his courage and honesty could well be seen as condescending – other patients might need it, but this is a man who would sooner die than be coddled. If he's shining me on, it won't last long. What I have planned for him requires too much mental and emotional work for anyone to sustain the effort as a pretence. As long as he participates, he will make progress, whether he means it or not.

"I'm glad that you found that out, Malcolm, and I hope it will be just one of many things you discover as we work together that helps you feel more like yourself."

He gives me a vaguely sinister smile then and asks, "Are you sure that's what you want, Doctor? I'd wager most people would rather I be almost anybody other than myself."

"Oh, I'm not talking about General Reed, Malcolm. I'm talking about Malcolm, the man, or maybe he was only ever a boy, who could be…" I glance at his list and read off a few of his words. "…vulnerable, wounded, amused, or aroused."

He winces at that last word as if I have unexpectedly discovered more of him than he wished to show me, but frankly, from what I've heard about what was done to him, I'd be more surprised if arousal didn'tsendhim into a full-blown panic attack.

"You do realize, don't you, that the general is just a façade of a man, Malcolm? He's the armor you put on when you decided that no one was ever going to hurt you again. You grew into him and he's grown fast to you and become like a second skin or a hard shell. General Reed is not really you any more than Doctor East is really me."

"Well, then, who the fuck are you, and who in bloody hell do you think I am?"

"I'm Ginny," I tell him, and decide spontaneously to open up a little more than I would with most patients. I'm well aware anything I tell him can and will be used against me if he ever decides he has a need. So I take care not to mention anyone or anything he couldn't find out by having me tailed or simply checking my records. "I'm a country girl. I like horses and gardening, which is convenient because the horses produce a lot of fertilizer for the gardening. I'm just nuts for ripe tomatoes still warm from the sunshine; crisp, cold cucumbers straight from the 'fridge; and fresh berries, cherries, and grapes. Bosom-heaving, bodice-ripping historical romances that stop just an adverb or two short of pornographic are my guilty pleasure. I am genetically my mother's daughter and a daddy's girl by disposition, which is why you'll never hear me say no to dessert; but you'll find me in the gym three days a week working on my thighs and butt."

"Mummy has a large arse, does she?" The smirk that accompanies his question doesn't seem nasty. Maybe he's amused by my candor. Maybe he's trying to trip me up by playing innocent and being deliberately offensive.

Maybe I need to brush up on my chess game. Most of my patients try both deceiving and offending me at some point, but rarely do they have a go at both at once. I don't know if I've ever encountered anyone as clever and as subtle as this man. For one dreadful moment, I worry that he's still just messing with me, and will continue to do so for as long as he pleases, because I'm simply not perceptive enough to know the difference with him.

Then I decide that he can only manipulate me with my permission. If I forget about his intentions and treat him based on observable behavior and the things he admits to me, he'll either get better or he won't, depending on the sincerity of his efforts. And if he's not getting better, I know enough of his history to crack his calm façade like an egg.

My confidence returns as quickly as it left me. He might get something over on me now and again, but he can't fool me in the long run.

Whether his comment was meant as an insult to my mother is irrelevant. He's never met her, so he's in no position to know if she's sensitive about the size of her derriere. And taking offense at an off-the-cuff remark never won anybody any friends, so I lean into it instead. If he ever decides to use the people I love against me, I imagine Trip would be his first target simply due to ease of access, and my parents would naturally come next. Still, I have to be careful not to give him anything too personal about them, certainly nothing they wouldn't willingly confess. Fortunately, my mother and father both have broad shoulders, the hide of a rhinoceros, and a self-deprecating sense of humor.

Slapping my outer thighs, I say, "Saddle bags, Mama calls them. Anything that tastes good enough to be bad for you settles on me right there. But she does call Daddy a jackass sometimes, and he's almost as tall as Commodore Tucker, so I guess the answer is yes, she has a big ass, any way you look at it!"

The quip gets me a look of surprise and an appreciative if almost reluctant chuckle, but we're straying off course, and I need to get us back on-topic before he can lead us farther away.

"Now, who do I think you are? Well, it's not my place to say."

"That's not a very graceful evasion, Doctor," he observes, narrowing his eyes slightly. Now he's being honest with me, he's alert for any failure in me to reciprocate.

"I'm not trying to be graceful or evasive, Malcolm," I tell him frankly. "I think you knew who you were. You might not have liked that guy all the time, but you knew him up and down, backwards and forwards, inside and out and every which way; and that was comfortable. It was safe because General Reed was predictable to you. People around him might not have had a clue what he was up to ninety percent of the time, but that's only because you're so damned smart. If life's a game of chess, you were about six moves ahead of the next best player, and you knew what he would do, and what you would do, what everybody else around you would do, which pawn was about to be sacrificed, and which one was about to take one of your opponent's pieces off the board, before said opponent even formed an intent to move."

I can tell from his expression that I've hit the mark. Until he was taken down by the people he trusted the most he was very secure in himself and had a lot of confidence, but he held no illusions about his own faults.

"But you're not that guy right now, Malcolm. You can't be the old comfortable General Reed who made you feel safe, because you can't do all the things he would have done." He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. "Maybe someday, but not right now.

"In the meantime, it's not my job to tell you who you are or how to be. You get to decide that for yourself. My job is to help you find opportunities and experiences that will help you figure that out and to suggest exercises and activities that will help you achieve the goals you set for yourself."

He's looking at me warily, and well he should, because I've deliberately chosen an exercise I know he's really going to hate. "To that end, I think it's time we get started, don't you?"

"I…suppose so," he concedes reluctantly.

"Excellent. We're going to try something easy first."

I start by teaching him 4-7-8 breathing. It will help him sleep, calm his anxiety, curb his temper, even shorten his recovery time after his physiotherapy because it increases the amount of oxygen that's drawn into the body. Of course he thinks it's ridiculous. Most people do, until they actually put it into practice. I plan to make sure he gets a chance to practice today.

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