Three days later Dr. Alexander sat tapping his pen on a pad of paper. Apparently he carried those two critical objects everywhere he went. Even to a psychiatric assessment center like the one I was consigned to. On his lap was a file folder with my name on it. My chart. Only in here, they don’t call it a chart; they call it a behavior journal, and only mental health professionals could write in it. He fixed me with a pointed stare. “You’re in a very dangerous place, Kate.”
I slumped on the hard, scratchy couch of the interview room. “You’re telling me. My roommate’s suicidal and the guy who thinks he’s invisible keeps following me around. When I tell him to get lost, he says I can’t see him.” I shook my head. “Yesterday he stole my green Jell-O. Right off my tray. Just yoink, and he walks away. I’m going to start locking my door.”
“I was referring to your mental state. And your legal position.”
I made a snorting noise. My legal position was what had brought him here. Because I had already been seeing him, the court appointed him to oversee the assessment of my mental health. How convenient.
Dr. Alexander wrote slowly with his medium blue ink pen. “You were nearly arrested for assault.”
I raised a weary eyebrow. “Nearly arrested? Is that like being nearly pregnant? Either a person is arrested, or they’re not.”
“You’ve narrowly escaped a felony charge—”
I raised my hand high, like a bright student in the front row. “Three charges pending.” I gave him a lopsided grin. “It ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings.”
“And now you’re confined to this facility. How does that make you feel?”
How did I feel? I was locked up in a psych ward, with a suicidal depressant for a roommate. She kept going through my purse looking for something she could OD on. Then there was the anorexic who believed her food was being poisoned. To say nothing of the invisible man. And someone with a fair amount of clout had decided I belonged here among them. How did I feel? Unreasonably calm. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel a thing. Didn’t care. Couldn’t make myself care.
One side of Dr. Alexander’s mouth jerked upward in amusement, perhaps, or irritation at my silence. “How are you feeling now that you are taking the medication?”
Forced to take it would be more accurate. Twice a day for the last three days, my name had been called over the intercom. I was to go to the dispensary, stand in line, accept my paper cup of pills and glass of water. Then a guard wearing latex gloves would examine the inside of my mouth, shoving his fingers beside my gums, poking under my tongue. Once, a man at the front of the line spit his pills onto the floor. The guard and two orderlies sat him on a chair and poured them down his throat. When my turn came, I swallowed mine.
Dr. Alexander said, “I hope you are beginning to see that by not following my orders you made things worse for yourself.”
I stared at my shoes.
“You held your sister at gunpoint.”
I raised my finger, cocked my thumb back, and said, “Bang,” pretending to shoot off my big toe. “I’m not hearing Kevin’s voice anymore, did you know that?”
He sat back in his chair. “It may not have been a real gun—”
“It was my finger!” I said, louder than I intended. “It’s not as if I walked into the bank carrying a real gun, or even a fake one for that matter. I didn’t plan on any of it to happen the way it did.”
Dr. Alexander gave me a steady stare. “In a bank, of all places.”
I feigned indifference, picking at the nubby fabric of the sofa. It felt like burlap.
“Your attitude is nothing short of alarming, Kate.”
I sat up and raised an eyebrow. “You think this is alarming? You should have been at the bank when those cops had their guns drawn. Talk about alarming.”
“Kate,” he said, using his deep, authoritative doctor voice. Apparently he was going to try a different tactic. I lowered my chin to my chest and pretended not to listen. He spoke in a low, nearly conspiratorial manner. “I’m disappointed in your recent choices. I was hoping you’d cooperate with this process.”
He paused, maybe waiting for me to jump up and shout, “Three cheers for Dr. Alexander and his amazing patience!” I tipped my head back and studied a suspicious-looking crack in the ceiling.
“The only reason you’re here, instead of in jail is because the woman you assaulted—” he paused, probably to check the name on his notepad, “—Donna Walsh, defended you. She was adamant they not lock you up. Whatever the issue between you two, I’d say you owe Ms. Walsh a debt of gratitude.”
The crack in the ceiling started in the far corner and meandered nearly halfway across the room. I imagined it breaching, opening wide to allow the contents of whatever sat above—beds, desks, filing cabinets—to pour in on top of us. I closed my eyes, waiting for the deluge.
Dr. Alexander’s voice rode above the waves. “I see you’re not in a talkative mood. That’s fine.” He paused. I said nothing. “I want you to understand, Kate, I’m required to write up this conversation as part of the information that will be reviewed by the judge.”
I opened my eyes and craned my neck around, checking to see if there was a corresponding crack in any of the walls, but I couldn’t see any.
“And every other conversation we have until the assessment is complete. The more you cooperate with the process, the better your chances are of walking out of here without facing jail time.”
I gave him a look that I hoped said, You can leave now.
He slapped the file folder closed and stood. “For as long as you’re here, I’ll be meeting with you twice weekly, a routine we will also continue after your release.” He raised his eyebrows with significance.
I stared at the ceiling until I heard him leave.