August 1st
The session starts when Greg enters the room to find the House whisperer already at her desk. He slouches in his chair, and feels (as he usually does) like an eight-year-old caught with a cigarette in the bathroom, and sent to the principal's office. Goldman watches him. After a few moments she takes something out of the top drawer. It's a composition book, the kind with the mottled black-and-white pasteboard cover he remembers from his high school days. She walks around the desk to stand before him and offers the book. He takes it, more from reflex than a desire to accommodate her. "What's this for?" he asks. His voice is hoarse from disuse; he hasn't spoken in nearly a week. Silence is the only fortress he has left at this point.
"What do you think it's for?" Amber says. She perches on the corner of the desk, her expression one of derision. "She wants to get into your braaaaain."
"I'd like you to keep a journal," Goldman says in her quiet way. She has returned to her seat and watches him with that steady, clear gaze of hers, her expression impassive, calm. "It's your choice. If you decide to try it you're free to use whatever medium appeals to you-writing, drawing, and so on."
Amber leans forward, her tone one of mock solemnity. "She wants information . . . information . . . INFORMATION!"
He can't quite stop the laugh Amber's comment generates, though he turns it into a snort. "So now I have to keep a fucking diary." He examines the notebook with exaggerated care. "No pink vinyl cover, no little brass key. Damn." Goldman gives him a slight smile. She has a dimple by the corner of her mouth that disappears when the smile fades.
"Anything you write will be private, unless you choose to share it," she says. He gives her an incredulous look.
"Yeaaah," he says, and draws out the word to show his opinion of her pathetic attempt at deception.
"I'll admit I'd like to read whatever you have to say, but coercion is not and never will be a part of my practice." Her eyes darken for a moment as she speaks. He catches a glimpse of pain, some private sorrow she can't quite hide, and files it away as potentially useful information. "At any rate, it's up to you. If you accept, you'll have two hours a day to yourself in the OT room. I'll make sure you have pens, pencils, markers, whatever you like. You can use the media in the painting area if you like as well." She pauses. "Please give it some thought."
"An out-and-out desperation tactic." He leans back. "Uh-uh. No way." He is puzzled by this relatively mild suggestion until comprehension dawns. He acts on it swiftly, barely misses a beat. "Not unless you keep a journal too. Then we trade."
She watches him for a few moments, her gaze speculative. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine." Again the dimple flashes when she smiles. "Deal."
Greg is careful to hide his triumph. Oh, she's a smart one. She'd known he would refuse at first, would counter with something to trump her offer; his idea gets her what she wants, and she thinks she doesn't look like the manipulative bargainer she is. And she can say anything she likes in her own journal, which gains her the objective with no cost to herself. But he's smarter than she is. He's pretty sure she's naive enough to be at least a little honest with him-nothing works like a lie with a grain of truth at its core-and that will give him immense leverage in future sessions, because he can pick truth out of lies like lima beans in vegetable soup.
He makes his decision, but decides to play-act a little longer so she won't get suspicious. "If I agree, we work on them concurrently," he counters. "That way you can't rip off my stuff."
She doesn't say yes right away. She considers it, to his surprise. His interest sharpens. What could make her hesitate? He studies her for the thousandth time. Her eyes are a bit deep-set, that luminous grey with just a hint of green he'd noted before. There's a little scar above the bridge of her nose, a faint line through her left eyebrow. Battered, he thinks. Someone worked her over. Wow, obvious career choice, trying to fix people when you're a mess yourself. Will she write about it? He isn't sure. She can be a tough one to read, her body language cautious, guarded. That tells him she's got some unique events in her background. Her family history would probably make for a fascinating read. Or maybe not; perhaps she comes from god-fearing religious farmer types who treated her like a precious diamond. He'll make it his business to find out, sooner or later. Sooner would be better though. He's so bored he's thought about extra hours in the OT room, just so he can pull the fire alarm and blame it on someone else.
"Okay," she says at last. "We both work on a journal, two hours a day for two weeks. But at the end of that time I read yours first, if you agree to it. If I find out you've been bullshittin' me, you don't get to read mine."
"That's not fair!" he says in pretended shock.
"Take it or leave it," she says in her calm way. "My entries will be truthful. I want the same in kind or this is just a circle jerk."
"It's a trap," Amber says, and leans in toward him, her voice tight with urgency. "You think you've got her figured out. You don't."
Greg eyes the notebook. He should be able to pull off a good fake and earn some brownie points that will get him released a little quicker. Besides, she's thrown down the gauntlet and dared him to lie to her; how can he resist? "If I read yours and it's bullshit, I get another doctor," he says. Again Goldman thinks about what he's said. He's struck by the quality of that pause. She doesn't humor him, that much is very clear. She considers what he says and gives it her full attention.
That looks very much like respect. But it can't be, because who could respect anyone committed to an institution?
"Done," she says at last. Amber rolls her eyes but says nothing.
"Fantastic," he says, and stands. He winces as his leg protests. "When can I start?"
The OT room is quiet for once; there's no one in it but him and the inevitable orderly. Greg gathers up his materials—a fine-point Sharpie pen, a few colored pencils—sits down at a table, and opens the notebook. The blank page stares back at him, ready to be used. He rests his chin on his hand and chews a fingernail, searches for something to put on the paper.
Half an hour later the page is still blank. The orderly dozes, head tipped forward. Greg wipes a trickle of sweat from the back of his neck and toys with the Sharpie, frustrated and a little scared now, though he doesn't want to admit it. To acknowledge the fear leads to other things he won't think about at the moment, like the loss of his gift, the delusions, the sleepless nights as he wonders what on earth he'll do if he can't work. He wants a smoke and a shot of bourbon, and his piano. Hell, he wants out of this shithole and back to his life. As fucked-up as it is, it's miles better than this pointless existence.
"Not as easy as you thought it would be, huh? Told you this was a bad idea," Amber says. She lies on the table on her back, one leg drawn up in a provocative display. "Now you're stuck writing this stupid journal." She rolls over and gives him an intense look. "So make it a prank. Make it a joke full of half-truths, but a joke she won't get, not at first. Maybe not at all, unless she asks for help. Naughty naughty, bringing in other people." She smiles, a feral stretch of the lips. "Pick a theme. Then put it in code."
The idea is tempting. He looks at the page again, lets his mind fill it in. A moment later a smile curls the corners of his mouth. He picks up the pen and begins to write.
An hour later, there's progress of a sort. He's come up with some ideas that should please everyone, keep them all entertained. His shrink will have to enlist help for this, and that will be her mistake, one he can use to his benefit if he has to.
By the time his two hours are up, he's got everything planned. The Sharpie and colored pencils won't be enough, though. He wants to use anything and everything available to him, to stretch out his time and keep Goldman in the dark. Besides, it's something to do during the day besides endure back-to-back episodes of Judge Judy. He can never get the nurses to change the station so he can watch Prescription? Passion! At least with American soaps it's easy to catch up on the storyline, they move forward at a glacier's pace.
After he's kicked out of OT, Greg wanders into the general room. A couple of people play imaginary ping-pong, since they can't get the paddles and ball outside of the supervised hour set aside every other day. The piano is locked too. He has almost no chance to obtain the key; it's early afternoon. Most of the population here gets meds in the morning at change of shift. That means the drugs wear thin now, and more won't be available till the evening staff trickle in at three, nearly an hour away. Music is a potential source of aggravation, so it's off-limits.
He plops into a chair and looks out the windows at the day beyond the glass. Another hot one, he's heard the orderlies and nurses complain about the continued heat and lack of rain. The lawn has started to turn yellow in places where the sprinklers don't reach, and everything looks dusty and tired . . . A childhood memory surfaces: a run through through a neighbor's oscillating sprinkler on a hot day in Georgia. He remembers the shock of the cold water on his skin, the crunch of brittle grass under his feet, the smell of warm dirt. He'd gotten in trouble for it of course, he'd come home soaked and filthy and given his mother an extra hour's worth of work to get him cleaned up and presentable by the time his father came home. John expected order and neatness, no excuses. And Mom had told John about the sprinkler, an offense paid for by a week's worth of weed duty in the garden under that same hot afternoon sun . . . For a moment he feels the baffled anger he'd known as he knelt amid the wilted flowers, and yanked dandelions and lamb's quarters out of the parched, rock-hard earth. What was so wrong with a little fun? With sweat and dirt?
He looks out over the yard once more. His interest quickens when he sees a woman with auburn curls in a tan suit. She walks down the path to the parking lot. She has a briefcase in hand and a purse slung over one shoulder. Her stride is steady, slow; it's clear her feet hurt, even though she wears modest heels. Now why would that be? He ponders several options and rapidly comes to one conclusion—she doesn't usually wear heels to work. So why now? The answer is clear: for the advantage of a little more height. She's not all that short, he'd estimate she's somewhere in the neighborhood of five foot three or four, but he's a head taller than she is. An extra inch gives her that much more ability to look him in the eye, something she's taken pains to do at every opportunity. Coupled with a demonstration of sincerity and willingness to listen, all right out of the Psychologist's Big Book of Party Tricks.
Greg sits back and allows himself a small smile.