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I’ve seen so many different counselors and therapists over the last year, it’s gotten hard to tell them apart. Their faces, something about their expressions, morph into one another in my mind so I have a hard time remembering if Dr. Klarson is the redhead with the strawberry blonde goatee and the moose head above his office desk or if that’s Dr. Carter and Dr. Klarson is the jolly-looking one with the little pot-belly threatening to burst out of his shirt that only manages to stay buttoned by an odd miracle.
Today’s meeting is with someone new, a Dr. Jacob (last name, not first). At least I won’t get her confused with Dr. Klarson and Dr. Carter and all those other middle-aged men. She’s the slim, professional type. Look up stock photos for business woman online and you’ll see about nine thousand copies of her with various shades of skin tone and hair color. She’s got the whole look down — dark nylons, high heels that scream femininity mingled precariously with professionalism. Tailored skirt suit, size eight if I had to guess, even though she’d be a lot more comfortable in a ten. The only distinction between her and any other businesswoman is a purple and black beaded barrette in her hair. I wonder if she goes to craft shows on the weekends.
“Thank you so much for stopping by to see me,” she says, as if I had any choice.
I simply nod. My only goal is to get through this meeting so I have a place to live one more week. I’ve gotten so used to surviving from day to day that the thought of being taken care of for seven feels like the epitome of upward mobility.
Dr. Jacob buries her head in my file. It’s short, no medical records for her to sift through since I didn’t give the intake folks at Sacred Meadows my real name. I glance quickly at her oversized clock, the kind with imposing Roman numerals marking the four corners, and then back to her. I give this meeting twenty-five minutes max.
Twenty-five minutes and I’ll have earned my seven-day stay.
She clears her throat. It sounds awkward. Forced. We’re both petite women, she and I, but I outweigh her now. It’s the meds. Makes it near impossible to lose those last ten pounds of baby fat.
Not that there’s anyone to impress at a place like Sacred Meadows.
“So tell me,” she begins. It’s just like all those other conversations I’ve had with all those other strangers who believe that a few fancy letters after their names grants them the right to probe into my psyche. Into my past. These doctors all begin their discussions the same way. So tell me ...
She’s still looking at my file, and I pick up on the fact that she’s lazy. She might dress for the part of a seven-figure executive at some Fortune 500 something-or-other, but she’s here at a shelter for battered women, probably taking a huge pay cut or maybe doing this pro bono on her days off. That’s why she hasn’t bothered to read my file before she strikes up this conversation.
She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t really want to. She’s here because she’s got a time card to punch or because she’s got some sense of duty to the shelter or to God. I’m here because the resident advisor told me I either had to attend group or meet one-on-one with a psychologist. And I’ve been in places like this enough times to know that group’s a joke. All the women ever do is sniff their noses and share their sniveling stories about the horrible men who beat them and bruise them and then come begging on their knees for forgiveness.
Which is why I decided to meet with Dr. Jacob, and I hope she remains as disinterested as she looks. Friday night. Who knows? I don’t see a wedding ring, so maybe she’s got some hot date waiting to pick her up right at five.
I should be so lucky.
“It says here you’re from Orchard Grove? A local girl.” She smiles. As if it’s something to be proud of. She fumbles past another page. “And you’re living with your husband?”
“Lived.” I’m quick to use the past tense.
“Of course. That’s right.” She’s staring at the top corner of a blank piece of paper as if my entire life history were revealing itself to her there. “Well, why don’t we start with him? Why don’t you tell me about your husband. Tell me about ...” Her eyes scan the form.
“Chris.” His name falls dead from my lips. I wonder what I should say. Does she want the sob story about the central Washington nobody who married her larger-than-life boyfriend only to find out that a wedding ring didn’t solve his anger problems? Maybe she’d rather I play the part of the enabler, suffering through her husband’s issues because he’s so good to me when he’s not angry. She’s heard all these stories. Dime a dozen at a place like this.
I’ll tell her something. Anything for the chance to spend a full week here. Sacred Meadow’s no B&B, but I’ve never been all that high-maintenance. I’ve got a bed, and if I’m lucky I’ll find a roommate who doesn’t have a passel of scared, whiney brats with her. I receive three meals a day, and all I have to do is see Dr. Jacob once a week and tell her about why I’ve left my husband.
Easy, right?
I should be so lucky.