Beatrice A. Kiviet, M.D.
Practice of Psychiatry
I tap my heel on the laminate, turn my phone over in my hands as I glance away from the door and gaze out the blinds at the lagoon.
Another picture perfect Highlands day.
Strictly for the birds.
My gaze flicks back to the door.
Beatrice A. Kiviet, M.D.
Practice of Psychiatry
It’s…
I check my watch.
9:26.
Four minutes.
I tap my foot again a single time, shift in my seat, then settle back into the same exact position. It’s my fifth time using the back entrance like some common thief. A month and three days since what happened happened and everything went belly up. Now I’m parked outside a shrink shop waiting so a near-stranger can probe and poke at my feelings like we were BFFs.
Before the close of session one, Beatrice Alison Kiviet, the shrink in question, told me that I was exhibiting early symptoms of PTSD, gave me some mindfulness exercises and a script for anti-anxiety meds, told me to come back Friday.
I glance left, make eye contact with the receptionist before looking away again.
Beatrice A. Kiviet, M.D.
Practice of—
The door opens.
“See you next week,” someone I don’t recognize says as he pulls it all the way open. He doesn’t look in my direction as he shuffles off, and my attention turns to the half-open door before he’s cleared the passage.
“Emma,” the owner of the gold plaque I keep reading says as she appears. She has that look already. “Good morning.”
Is it? I want to ask as I get up, shoving the phone in my bag and slinging the damned thing over my shoulder. “Morning,” I echo instead, sneak a glance at the time. 9:30, right on the dot.
She shuffles aside to let me into the room. I glance around on autopilot as I walk in. The place looks pretty much the same as it did last week, except for the fresh flowers and a small mound of magazines on the coffee table.
She shuts the door, and I stop where I stand. Silently, I watch as Beatrice takes her seat across from the couch, but I do not move to follow suit. The anger I’ve been able to barely suppress has now bubbled to the surface. “You catch the news last night?” I ask aggressively, as if somehow it’s her fault.
She studies me for a beat. And even though I suspect she did, “What news”, she asks.
I smile humorlessly. “Apparently I was in league with the Highlands Butcher.”
She doesn’t say anything. God, how I wish I had something to throw at her. Beatrice Kiviet is the type of bird that’d sit there and look you square in the eye while you spontaneously combust into flames. I swear she would.
“The enquiry, or whatever it is they attempted”, I continue begrudgingly, “left a paper trail, surprise surprise, and some idiot at the Herald thought it’d make for a compelling read. Only they left out the part where I was exonerated, because why have any respect for me or our dear and laughable justice system.”
She leans back in her chair. “I’m sorry,” she says, unhelpfully.
“Yeah?” I look at her long enough to find her eyes, then away again. “I thought this was all going away. I’d honestly started to think that maybe the media had found some new piece of tabloid to latch on to, but here we are.” I blow out a breath, walk to the window. And for a long moment I simply stare at the lagoon.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” I continue coz dear old Beatrice isn’t the talkative type, “having everyone believe I was his co-conspirator or that I was this bumbling simpleton of a cop he seduced and tried to cut up into neat little pieces like some farm animal.
The silence stretches for a million miles. And I don’t know if Beatrice is waiting for me to continue, but I’m tired. I’m tired.
“I… I just want my life back.”
“You mean your job?”
“No, I mean my life.” Her correction annoys me. “Look, I don’t have any friends outside work, and right now I can’t even look at them. I’m sick of being asked how I’m doing.”
“And you think going back to work will change people’s perception of you?”
“At least I wouldn’t be on disability.”
She pauses, then, “Would you mind if I asked you something?”
My eye twitches, “Go ahead.” She might as well. She’s asked and said everything else.
“Do you believe you shouldn’t be on disability leave?”
Several seconds tick by. And frankly, I don’t know to answer that, and it kind of pisses me off that she asked. “I don’t know,” I say.
Her voice floats in from the left, “Do you really believe that your co-workers hold what happened to you against you?”
“I… I should have known.”
“Known what?”
I look in her direction. “That the man I was dating was the Highlands Butcher.”