Chapter 3: Be strong

Tomorrow comes, after a night spent pretending to sleep. Dr. Jenkins gives me my "get out of jail free" card, on the condition that I see a psychiatrist. I'm not sure what a psychiatrist is going to do for me. It's not like it's a big mystery why I have problems. I could recite a list of "Crappy things that have happened to me," provided I could talk, that is. Despite Dr. Jenkins' platitudes, speech still ain't happening. And I'm not sure how a psychiatrist can help me if I can't talk to him.

Catherine drives me home. I'm surprised when I get there to find Grissom with an overnight bag. I can't exactly protest, so he fixes me dinner and spends the night on my couch. I go to bed early because the awkward, one-sided small talk is giving me a headache.

The next morning, Grissom drives me to the office of the psychiatrist, Dr. Clarence Clark. On the thirty-minute drive through downtown traffic, he grips the steering wheel unnecessarily hard and makes more uncomfortable small talk. I nod my head in the right places, but I'm thinking that I'm glad the doctor is a man because I don't exactly want to break down and confess all my problems to a woman. It doesn't fit the façade of strength that I'm trying to rebuild for myself.

When we get to the office, I make out, through the lens of gray that still seems to cloud my vision, that the walls are some kind of pastel and there are fresh flowers on the table in the waiting room. Grissom tells my name to the receptionist, a perky blond wearing too much makeup, while I look around. I wonder if Dr. Clark does his own decorating, if he picked out the rose-patterned furniture and "Better Homes and Gardens" magazines.

"Mr. Stokes, Dr. Clark is ready for you now," the perky blond chirps with a 1,000-watt smile. "Right through that door."

Grissom sits down on one of the flowered chairs and picks up a magazine. "I'll be right here," he says.

I stare at the door for a moment. It's plain brown, with a little framed sign that says "Welcome!" surrounded by flowers. Doesn't look too scary. I reach out a hand that still trembles, and open the door.

"Nick, come on in," says a pleasant voice. "I'm Doctor Clark." I'm surprised to find that "Clarence" is a woman, with skin the color of strong coffee and fingernails painted blood red. At least that explains the decorating scheme in the lobby. When she holds her hand out to me I take it,and try to shake it firmly. Her hands are warm and dry, her grip firm.

"Please sit down," she says, so I sit in one of a matching pair of overstuffed chairs in front of her desk. She sits in the desk chair and opens a laptop computer. "Dr. Jenkins sent me your file." She gestures at a plain manila folder, at least an inch thick, lying on her desk. I stare at the file, swallowing hard, wondering what it says about me. When I look up, Dr. Clark is watching me closely.

"You can read it, if you like."

I nod casually, not wanting to seem too eager. Her perfectly manicured fingers hover over the file for a second, and then she says, "How about I have Colleen make you a copy, when we're finished today?"

I nod again. I'd rather have a copy I can read at home, at my leisure, in privacy. Of course, she's already read all the information in there anyway.

"Do you want to know what I found out?"

I nod slowly.

"You were buried alive without food or water for almost twelve hours. Fire ants swarmed you and nearly ate you alive."

I flinch at the blunt description. This is the first time anyone has talked to me about my little "incident", and now my mind is filling in the details.

"Am I right so far?"

I nod, blinking away the mental pictures that her words have dredged up.

"Your friends found you just in time. There was a bomb under the box you were buried in. When they pulled you out, it exploded and sent you flying into the air. When you landed you cracked three ribs."

So that's where the bruising on my side came from. I have absolutely no recollection of this part.

"You spent three days in the hospital. For the first day and half you were semi-conscious. Since you woke up you have been unable to speak." She watches my face intently. "Did I miss anything?"

I shake my head hesitantly. As far as my memory goes, her recitation seems fairly complete.

"The reason you came to me is to try to figure out why you can't talk." Her voice is very serious. I nod.

"There might be a number of reasons. I'm going to ask you some yes/no questions to try to figure it out. First of all, do you have a history of anxiety disorders?"

I shake my head no. Her fingers tap on the keys of her computer.

"Depression?"

Another no. More tapping. I shift in my chair uncomfortably, itchy but determined not to scratch at the partially healed ant bites.

"Have you ever suffered from a speech disorder?"

No. If anything it's always been the opposite. I talk too much, get myself into trouble with my mouthiness.

"Have you had any previous traumatic events that I should know about?"

I hesitate, wondering how she defines traumatic events.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says with a small smile. "You came in with someone. Is that your father?"

I shake my head quickly. Grissom is not my father, although I sometimes find myself treating him like he is.

"A friend?"

I shrug, and then nod slowly. I guess Grissom is my friend.

"Does he know about the past trauma?"

I nod. He knows about one of them, anyway.

"Do you mind if I talk to him about it?"

I look down at my hands. Do I really want her to know what happened to me, about the stalker in my attic? What else does Grissom know about me?

"Nick? I won't talk to him unless you give me permission."

I stare at my trembling hands for a moment longer, and then decide, if it will help figure out what's wrong, help get me back on the track to normal, then I'm willing to do it. I give her a small nod.

"Ok, I'll talk to him when we're done. Just a few more questions. Are you having nightmares?"

Another nod.

"Are they disturbing your sleep?"

My head bobs up and down quickly. I haven't slept more than about an hour in the past two nights, mainly because I'm afraid of the images that flood my mind the second I close my eyes.

She pulls a notepad out of her drawer, along with a pen. "I'm going to give you a prescription for Paxil. It's an anti-anxiety medication. Should help you sleep." She scribbles on her pad and rips off the top sheet. "At this point, it's very difficult to pin-point why you are unable to speak. It seems obvious to me that it's related to the trauma you suffered, but exactly how is hard to say. You may be suffering from a condition known as selective mutism, which is actually an anxiety disorder."

She hands me the paper and I take it automatically, barely glancing at it. I'm wondering how I can have "selective" mutism when I'm sure I didn't "select" to be this way.

"There also might be something organically amiss with your speech mechanism. You apparently inhaled a significant amount of dirt, which may have damaged your larynx. We'll have to run some tests to rule that out." She writes on the pad again and hands me the page. "I'm referring you to Dr. LaMer. He's a voice specialist who can take some pictures of your vocal folds and determine if there's any damage."

I stare at the prescription, thinking about what kind of organic damage could take away the power of speech. The thing is, I remember talking to Grissom, right before they took the lid off of that box. He made me promise something, I remember that clearly. I said it out loud. So whatever took away my speech must have happened after the lid came off.

"All right, Nick. I think we're done for today. You can wait in the lobby while I talk to your friend."

Wait a minute, she's going to talk to him alone? I'm not sure if I want her to talk to him alone. Grissom knows an awful lot about me. What if he tells her something that contaminates her opinion of me?

Dr. Clark smiles at me, a genuine smile full of warmth. "Whatever he tells me, I'll pass it on to you at our next session, deal?"

I shrug and nod. She picks up my file off the desk and follows me out to the lobby.

"Colleen," she says, handing the file to the receptionist. "Can you please copy this for Mr. Stokes?"

"Can do!" Colleen responds brightly and disappears into the back room with my file.

Dr. Clark turns to Grissom, who is standing next to his chair. "I'm Doctor Clark," she says, hand out.

Grissom looks surprised, but recovers in time to shake her hand. "Gil Grissom."

"Mr. Stokes has given me permission to talk to you for a few minutes. Do you mind?"

"Ah, no, not at all." Grissom is looking at me curiously, but I studiously avoid his eye.

"Right this way, then." She disappears back into her office, and Grissom follows, with a backward glance at me. I sink down into a chair to wait, staring at the pastel walls.

In a few minutes, Colleen returns with my file. She slips my copies into a new file folder and hands it to me with a smile and an enthusiastic "Here you go!" When I don't say anything, her smile falters a little, and after an awkward moment she goes back to her desk, heels clicking on the hard floor.

I hold the plain manila folder in both hands and stare at it, intently. There is information inside that might help me understand my situation. But I'm afraid to open it. On some level, I'm not sure I want to understand my situation. I'm afraid I "can't handle the truth." With a small sigh, I stuff the folder under my arm without opening it. Maybe I'll look at it later. I'm not ready yet.

After a while Grissom returns and we head back to my house, with a short detour by the pharmacy. He makes more pointless, painful small talk. I wish I could tell him to stop trying so hard, because it's not helping.

&

More coming soon. . . maybe Christmas Eve, if I get a spare minute.

Now it's time to review again.