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DOCTOR IRAKLIY VATSADZE’S office was sparsely furnished with only a beautiful mahogany desk—which gleamed in the morning sunlight that filtered in from un-shaded windows—several wing-back chairs, and one wall of shelves floor to ceiling, jammed with fine leather bound first editions, but also with many colorful paperbacks of his favorite suspense and horror novelists.
There was no fabled couch, nor did he have any trinkets or figurines around his office, like many of his colleagues possessed, as a distraction for their patients. Only several paintings hung on the oak-paneled walls: two oil paintings and one watercolor by a popular artist. He had no pictures of his wife or children on his desk, although he was a devout family man.
Dr. V, as he was affectionately called by his friends and colleagues, was a big man, at least six-feet-three-inches and he weighed about three hundred pounds. He motioned Susan to sit in one of the wingback chairs with the wave of one large hand. She moved to the chair on her left and smoothed her skirt as she sat in it.
“So, Susan,” he said—in a voice quite like James Earl Jones with a Russian accent—as he straightened up in his chair. “Shall we just begin?”
“I suppose so.” In the years that she’d known Dr. V, as a teacher, mentor, and colleague, she had become adjusted to his directness. His directness was sometimes misconstrued as smugness. Among many of his colleagues he was considered brusque and eccentric. The fact was that he was a very sweet and caring man who just did not mince words.
“Very well, then.” He opened the top left drawer of his desk, retrieved a digital mini recorder from within, and placed it at the edge near her. “Let’s talk about Timothy Altman.”
“Must we?” This was something she expected but for which she was still not prepared. Each time she came to consult with Dr. V she knew he would want to focus on her episode of Timothy Altman and each time she thought she was prepared to discuss it.
Obviously, she was still not as ready as she thought.
“Is there any reason we should not?”
She folded her hands into her lap and tugged absently at the hem of her skirt. She said, “I believe I’ve gotten through with that.”
“I see,” he said, although he clearly did not.
“I know I’ve said that before, but David’s been helping me through this. I realize there was nothing I could have done differently, there was no intervention that could have changed the outcome, and it’s beyond the range of my abilities.”
“So, David has been practicing psychology now, has he?”
“No. He’s just trying to help. He wants me to be happy and he wants to be part of all this craziness. He wants to help me make sense of my psychic abilities.”
“That’s what I want, Susan. And that must be what you want, or you wouldn’t be wasting your time—or mine for that matter—to be here with me.”
He paused for a moment giving her chance to respond. When she said nothing, he continued. “Do you honestly believe that you’ve “gotten through” this? If so, you might as well leave now and go back and see David. I’ve been trying to get you to admit all those things for months now and he seems to have driven it home in one day. Bravo.”
“It’s not like that,” she said, blushing.
“You’ve not answered my question. Do you believe what you’ve just told me? Have you really come to terms with the death of Timothy Altman? Do you no longer feel one shred of guilt? Do you no longer resent the fact that you were unable to change the outcome of events?”
She paused for a long moment, with a simple yes at the tip of her tongue but was unable to say it.
Say it, damn you! Yes. Yes!
“You don’t believe that, do you Susan? I don’t understand why you would want to try to fool me, or yourself,” he said as he rose from his chair and moved over to the bookshelves. He placed one elbow at the edge of a shelf and stared openly at her. “You are a strange one my dear. It strikes me odd that you should want to fool the man who you seek guidance from. “
When she again did not respond, he continued. “You obviously want me to help you progress through this, or you would not be here. So, what’s the deal?”
“Look, Doctor V, I’m really not trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. I know I have come to terms with this, but I just need to do it my own way, in my own time. I just can’t—”
“What do you want most out of life?” The question surprised her, as he obviously intended it to.
“Excuse me?”
“What is it that you want most in this life, Susan?”
Without hesitation, she said, “I would like to be normal.”
“You aren’t normal?”
“No.”
“Are you some sort of freak with three eyes or two heads?”
“No, but that’s not what I mean.”
“No, you most certainly are not that,” he said, ignoring her. “You’re quite beautiful to tell you the truth and with the requisite one head and two eyes. Well, if not that, then what makes you abnormal?”
“Doctor V—”
“Perhaps because of your ability?”
“Doctor, please.”
“You are in no way abnormal because of your ability. On the contrary, you are quite special because of it. You help people. That’s right. Don’t look so surprised. You’re not all about finding lost lockets, or the missing wills of dead relatives. You’re no back-street fortuneteller. You’re the real thing. You’ve been involved with finding missing children and bringing closure to people’s lives, allowing them to move on because, after years of wondering, they finally know. And you function normally as a human each day. You love, you cook, and you read books to pass time. You haven’t let your wonderful abilities affect you in such a profound way, as I—or anyone for that matter—might have been affected.”
He paused for dramatic effect and said, “And above all you make the difference in people’s lives.”
“You’re making me out to be some sort of heroine.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Heroes are ordinary people who do extraordinary things. Heroes spend their life helping others; you certainly qualify.”
She sighed and slumped in her chair. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem that way.”
“Ah, now you are thinking of Timothy. Now we’re getting to the nitty-gritty.”
“Yes. All right, I am.”
“What happened to Timothy, Susan?”
“You already know this.”
“Not the details, not all of it,” he replied. “You were preparing breakfast for David. What happened then?”
“I saw.”
“Just like that? Out of the clear blue?”
“Yes. I was in the kitchen. The spatula was in my hand and I was about to flip the egg and then I was . . . in darkness.”
Vatsadze sat back in his chair, folded his hands on his ample belly, and waited. Now that she had begun, he would not have to prompt her to tell her story.