The Blind. A.F. Brady
thing with the beets?”
“Ha!” David opens his mouth to laugh and a single grain of rice flies past me and sticks to the window. “Yeah,” he says, wiping his lips, “she was trying to delicately explain that some foods can change the color or consistency of pee and poop, and he just bolted. I think she wanted to get the message across that people panic when their shit turns red, thinking it’s blood, so she was trying to preemptively quell the anxiety.”
“Sure, which would make sense if anyone ever had beets here. What an idiot! Such a princess. I told you she shouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, Rachel asked me to keep an eye on her because she’s been racking up complaints.”
“Really? How wonderful! Maybe Typhlos will give me an early Christmas present and fire her!” I joyfully scoop another forkful of chicken into my mouth.
“Yeah, don’t hold your breath. How is the new guy, by the way? Last we talked you were getting nowhere.”
“I’m still getting fucking nowhere. It’s confusing. He’s so high functioning, seems to be completely normal, so what is he doing here? Why is he in treatment?”
“What’s his diagnosis?”
“Oh, right. Like there’s a diagnosis in his chart. That would be too easy.”
“Do you think he’s diagnosable?”
“If I were to slap something on him, like for insurance purposes, I’d say adjustment disorder. And that’s a stretch. There’s got to be something that I’m completely missing. It’s too weird for this guy to be admitted to a mental institution. Aside from being uncooperative and stubborn, he seems normal.”
“You want me to meet with him? See if I can figure something out?” David is always incredibly helpful, always willing to go the extra mile for me.
“No, thanks. But keep an eye out if you notice anything.” David smiles his sweet, protective smile at me and clumsily pats my knee with his free hand. I try to examine his thoughts as he turns toward the window; I’m looking for a place inside him where I could fit.
Although we haven’t made progress with his file, it seems that Richard is getting more comfortable with me. He may even be developing a foundation of trust. He’s speaking now, not about anything relevant to his mental health, but he’s saying words out loud. He tells me about books he’s read, or ones he’s heard of that he hasn’t had a chance to pick up yet. I tell him about what’s happened in the music industry, and he’s never happy to hear it. Today is another session with us just warming up to each other.
“You have a cell phone?” he asks me. He hasn’t shaved this morning, and I can see the prickles of a pale beard poking out of his fat pores.
“Yes, I have a personal phone. Why do you ask?” I’ve got my legs crossed and I’ve twisted my chair to face him. We usually sit this way, even if the sessions are uncommunicative. It’s a therapeutic technique. People are uncomfortable with silences, so often if a therapist faces a patient like they’re talking, the patient will feel obligated to fill the silence.
“That was a shock to me. I was away when those things came out. Now even the homeless people have them.”
“You were in prison when cell phones became popular?” This is the first time he has acknowledged his incarceration to me, and I want to draw more information out of him.
“We didn’t even have personal computers. Now everyone has a supercomputer in their pocket.”
“Did you have computers available to you in prison?”
“Well, the phones are even more advanced than the computers now.” He’s not going to engage on this with me.
“It’s true. They really do make communication much easier.” Hint.
“Not just communication—everything. It’s got a camera now, the internet, the emails. You can read books on those things! It used to be you had to have a whole suitcase worth of stuff to have everything that these phones have now. And they’re this big.” He holds out his wide palm to indicate the size of today’s cell phones.
“A miracle of technology.”
Richard shakes his head in wonder and returns his attention to his newspapers. Maybe I can draw him further out of his shell if I tell him that I addressed the issue with Devon and his shit jacket.
“Before you disengage completely, I wanted to let you know that I looked into the issues you were having with Devon.”
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows in anticipation.
“I put in a request with his counselor to take up the issues that you conveyed to me, including the hygiene problem and the disruptive behavior in groups. It has since been addressed with Devon personally, and I hope you will show some patience and tolerance as he adjusts.”
“Well. Thank you.”
“Is that a commitment to give the guy a break?”
“Not exactly.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s a thank-you. I haven’t said thank-you to anyone in a long time. I appreciate that you followed through.” Richard bows his head to me.
“Maybe since I’ve shown you the respect of following through, you’ll show me the same, and we can work on completing your file.” Once last try for today.
His eyes return to his papers and he brushes his cheek with the back of his hand, as if he’s brushing away my request.
My chest tightens as I draw in another disappointed breath. It’s been almost a month now and all I have are his basics. I’m running out of ways to get through to him.
Julie is buzzing the intercom looking for me. Her shrill, piercing voice is making my eardrums explode, so I pick up the phone as quickly as I can and hold the receiver about a foot from my face.
“Yes, Julie?” I grumble from a safe distance. “What do you need?”
“Hi, Sam!” I can hear the syrupy ooze of her voice falling down the telephone line, threatening to come trickling onto my neck through the receiver. She pauses, waiting for me to return the cheerful greeting. I say nothing. “Um, I wonder if you have a moment to come to my office? I’m meeting with one of your patients right now; we had a little incident in group.” She says little incident like she’s talking about a kindergartner who wet her pants during nap time.
“Which patient?”
“I’m with Tashawndra.” She enunciates each syllable slowly, fearful that her inability to properly articulate Tashawndra’s name will indicate she’s racist, or out of touch, or not relatable.
“Give me a minute.” I hang up the phone before she inundates me with more pleasantries, and begin the slow walk to Julie’s office.
I knock loudly on her door and realize that though we’ve worked together for several years, I’ve never seen the inside of her office before. She pulls it open, and I see Tashawndra with a shamed expression on her face, sitting on a blue plastic group-room chair. Looks like there weren’t enough office chairs for Julie. She invites me in, and I take in my surroundings.
She doesn’t have books or files or anything visible that would indicate this is a clinician’s office; instead she has a large stuffed bear wearing a green Ralph Lauren sweater sitting on her bookshelf. She has pictures of her family with quotes about sisters etched into the white wooden frames.