“You look like shit, I called and left a message, where’s the booze?” The elegant looking brunette breezed past him and into the kitchen. Opening a cabinet, she grabbed a bottle of wine, uncorked it, and poured herself a healthy glass.
“Make yourself at home, Jackie,” Richard said as he closed the front door.
“You know we have a standing date for dinner. God, could your music be any louder?”
Richard closed the door with a resigned sigh. “Pour me one too, while you’re at it.” He went to turn the music down.
Jackie grabbed another glass from the cabinet and filled it. “Seriously, you look done in. Busy week? Lots of crazies to dissect?”
He sat heavily at the kitchen table. “You could say that.”
“How’s that case of yours, you know…?” She made a stabbing motion with her hand. “Biggest thing to happen to Woodland since the Christmas parade. I don’t know how you stand living here, Richard.”
“You know I can’t discuss details concerning my patients.” He took the glass from her.
“But you will, because we’re best friends and I have a boring life as a bank manager in the big city since you left.” Jackie pulled a chair from the living room and collapsed into it, kicking off her red heels and crossing her long legs. “Moira Flynn, isn’t it?” She took a sip of wine and brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead. “I read about her in the newspaper. Pretty, if you like that Botticelli kind of look. But cuckoo crazy, it sounds like.”
“Well, she’s not ‘cuckoo crazy,’” he said with a trace of annoyance. “Far from it, in fact.”
“Do tell!” Jackie’s eyes widened.
“That wasn’t in the paper recently, was it?”
“No, no, it was several weeks ago, right after it happened. See what happens when you try and dodge me? You miss all the gossip.”
“Wouldn’t want to miss out on that,” Richard said dryly. “What did the article say?”
“That she heard a voice telling her to stab a door-to-door bible thumper,” Jackie said. “And the police dragged her away to the nut house. Oh, sorry, your hospital.”
“Newspapers.” He shook his head in disgust. “This is between you and me.”
“Always, Richard, you know that.” She crossed her heart, dark eyes bright with anticipation. “I can keep a secret.”
“Mine, at least.”
“Touché.” She shrugged.
“I thought this would be a cut-and-dry case of schizophrenia,” Richard said, “but, I don’t know.”
“Hearing voices isn’t a tad schizophrenic?” Jackie asked doubtfully.
“She says there are two…spirits that talk to her. I found out one of them is a girl from her past. A little girl who died. I’m pretty sure she was there when it happened.”
“How awful!”
“I’m not sure about the other one,” he mused. “Just that he’s male. She doesn’t seem to want to talk about him, which concerns me. Well, she doesn’t want to talk about either of them, actually. But she’s being cooperative.” Richard took a sip of wine before continuing. “I feel like I’m being watched during our sessions.”
“On camera?”
He made a cynical sound. “The hospital certainly can’t afford anything as high tech as that, no. They can’t even afford a decent computer system.” Richard ran a hand fitfully though his hair. “I can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling I have.”
“Note date and time Richard has a feeling!” Jackie called out to the ceiling.
“And something weird happened today,” he continued, not joining in on her laughter. “A stack of papers flew off my desk.”
“On little wings? Maybe you’re starting to go cuckoo.”
“There was nobody near the papers, Jackie,” he said. “And it was at the same time she started talking about this little girl that died. The same girl she claims she hears talking to her.”
She grew serious. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to release the tension that knotted there. “A ridiculous notion, of course. Most likely due to—well, nothing.”
“Spill it,” she said. “There’s more.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
“Oh, Richard. I’ve known you for too long. Spill it.”
He pressed his mouth in a tight line.
“Please do not tell me you slept with her. You won’t even sleep with me.” She gave him a wicked grin. “And I’ve flirted my shapely butt off for the past nineteen years.”
“Of course not,” he dismissed the thought with a frown. “It concerns her treatment. The director of the hospital wants her on medication.”
“So, put her on medication.” She saw his look and continued, “It’s ironic how you don't support modern medicine, Richard, seriously. But that's always been a part of your charm.” She sighed. “And why my mother loves you. Two peas in a pod, both of you. The nutty-crunchy mid-wife and the psychiatrist who doesn’t believe in medication.”
“How is your mom?” Richard asked, changing the topic.
“Nagging me to marry, as usual. With all the babies she helps bring in the world, she’s itching for her own grandchildren.” She snickered. “Wait until I tell her you believe that spirits are talking to one of your patients.”
“Your mother is much easier to talk to, by the way.”
“My mother thinks you walk on water, Richard. If you said a flock of angels flew through your office, she’d believe you.” She re-crossed her legs. “So, are you going to put this girl on medication?”
He swirled the contents of his wineglass. “I don’t know. Her plea deal states counseling and treatment…” His mouth worked silently for several moments. “But I just don’t see that her case warrants medication.”
“She’s hearing things,” Jackie said. “That doesn’t warrant something?”
“In most cases…yes,” he replied, flustered. “I feel like we’re almost at a breakthrough. I just have to be patient.”
“Breakthrough or not, she’s hearing voices, Richard. Voices? You know, those things that sane people only hear when…oh, I don’t know, actual people are talking to them?”
“I didn’t expect you to understand.” He stood and walked to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he gazed blindly at the sparse contents.
“Oh, Richard, don’t get your boxers in a bunch.” Jackie said. “I’m not questioning your ability to assess the situation. You’re the best psychiatrist I know. If it’s any consolation, my mother would back you one-hundred percent. Especially, once she heard the word ‘spirit.’”
“Do you want some ice cream?”
“I always want ice cream. That’s why I came over here, for the ice cream and the booze. And to get in my eye candy for the week.”
“Funny.” He gave her an appreciative smile and slid a carton of ice cream from the freezer. “So, your mom would believe Moira heard spirit voices?”
“Of course she would; you know how superstitious my mother is. In my culture, hearing voices would be related to ghosts or demons, a spiritual crisis or haunting, not schizophrenia.”
“Would the person be treated?”
“Not treated in the way your hospital probably treats patients. Different healing practices.” She saw the look on his face. “You’re serious? You really think she’s hearing the voices of spirits?”
“I don’t know.” He scooped a generous helping of chocolate ice cream into two glass dishes and handed one to her. “Schizophrenic auditory hallucinations are usually negative. They tell the patient negative things about themselves, that they’re worthless or others don’t like them. Moira’s voices don’t seem to be doing that.”
“What do they say to her?”
“She says the little girl is nothing more than an annoyance.” He stirred his ice cream thoughtfully. “And the male spirit… Apparently he told her she needed to protect herself. That…the religious door-to-door guy wanted to rape her.” He spooned some ice cream in his mouth. “I don’t think she believed him. I’m also unsure if she feels his concern for her is altruistic.”
“Rape her?” Jackie repeated, suddenly serious. “If that’s true, then he got what’s coming to him. But I don’t remember reading anything about him threatening her in any way.”
“Technically, he didn’t,” Richard said.
“So…she acted on what she thought he was going to do?” She waited for him to answer. When he didn’t, she continued. “She attacked a man with a knife, Richard. She wasn’t messing around.”
“Moira says the male presence entered her body. She doesn’t remember a thing about the attack.”
“Seriously? So a ghost made her do it?” Jackie said, laughing. “The papers would have a field day with that if they knew about it.”
Richard frowned. “Regardless how well treatment goes, I can’t release her for at least forty-five days because of her plea bargain.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. They’ve been trying to prove the existence of ghosts for years and from what I can see, there’s no conclusive evidence.” She rinsed her bowl and set it in the drain board. “I can tell you one thing, though. If what your patient says is true, then that sucks for her. My guess is that she’ll be stuck in your hospital for a very long time. You’re talking mental illness versus a spiritual thing.”
“Yes,” Richard agreed, resigned. “I guess I am.”