I sank into the sumptuous couch in Dr. Alexander’s office. Two days before Christmas, and not a holly leaf or jingle bell in sight. Maybe psychiatrists don’t celebrate Christmas, I thought. Or maybe Christmas decorations didn’t look professional for a man whose patients must include people from every sort of religion or nonreligion there was. Not that I could talk; my own house wasn’t exactly lit up for the holidays. But I would rectify that after the appointment by going shopping. For the first time in a long while, I wanted to celebrate.
Dr. Alexander raised his eyes from my file he’d been reading. “Tell me about your week.”
There were no words for what had happened in my kitchen two days ago. Certainly terms existed, phrases that could explain it—but no words could express my experience. I looked at Dr. Alexander’s crooked toupee and patient face, and knew it was best to hold my tongue. “There’s a teenage girl at Glen Hills, Sekeena, and she’s pregnant. She needs a place to live.” I bit my lip. He waited, said nothing. I cleared my throat as if about to proclaim a public announcement. “I’ve invited her to live with me.” I rushed on before he had a chance to say anything. “My house is so big, and I wondered, even when I bought it, what I would do with all the space. But this is a perfect solution. She needs a place to live, and I have all this space to fill.”
He frowned. “You should bring this up in group therapy.”
“Huh? Why?”
He raised his eyebrows high on his forehead and his toupee wobbled, then settled again. “To get feedback from people who know you.” He sat forward. “Taking a pregnant teen into your home is a huge responsibility for anyone. For someone with your history …” He sat back again, his eyes flicking over the file on his lap. “By connecting with other points of view about an issue, you’ll see things from different angles. Your group therapy members will come up with questions you wouldn’t think of yourself.”
It was my turn to frown. “It’s my decision.”
His face brightened into something approaching a smile. “Of course. Heaven knows you dislike following orders.” Heaven certainly did know. He tossed the file onto the small table beside him. “Many of the choices you made in the past were so difficult to live with that you tried to wipe them from your mind.” He gave me a pointed look. “The decision is yours, but I suggest you take advantage of the support you have around you.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Are you afraid after I come off the meds completely I might relapse—fall apart?”
He pressed his fingertips together. “You have a great deal of anger to deal with yet, Kate.”
“I know.” The sound of marble cracking resounded through my mind. I was willing to begin to let go of my anger. God had somehow entered into that burning, furious part of my mind and begun to cool it. I shivered at the memory. Of the collaboration of God’s and my desire to heal the wounds. It gave me hope that I could continue toward forgiving Kevin, Blair, and Heather. Even Donna Walsh. Someday. Not today. I didn’t have to do it today. But I could choose, just as Maggie had said. I had choices. It was a start.
“It was a good week,” was all I said.
His eyebrows arched, as if impressed, as he reached for my file. “We’ve been weaning you off the medication for a few weeks now.” His pen poised above the file, he said, “How have things been going for you at the lower doses?”
I smiled. “Fine.”
“Uh-huh. Racing thoughts? Dry mouth? Voices?”
Voices? Yes, one voice, but this time it was a voice of healing, of new beginnings. But what would a psychiatrist say to news that I’d heard the voice of God?
I recalled the first question the on-call doctor at the hospital psychiatric ward had asked me, “Have you been talking to God?” It was a diagnostic question, designed to see how far gone I was. Now, as of two days ago, God had spoken to me.
“I’m not hearing Kevin’s voice,” I said, a note of honesty ringing clear and sharp. Maybe too sharp. Dr. Alexander gave me a withering glance. Trying to keep things from a psychiatrist is like playing hide-and-seek behind a water hose. “I mean, it’s different,” I mumbled.
“Different? You’re hearing a voice?”
I took a deep breath. “No. I’ve started talking to God. Praying. And, well, it’s not like we sit around and chat. It’s just that He sort of … communicates with me.” Even to my ears I sounded crazy. Maybe spiritual things were a little bit crazy.
“And you believe God speaks to you?” There was a hint of weariness in his voice, as if he were plodding past scenery he’d seen before.
I waved both hands at him. “I’m just praying, that’s all.”
His eyebrow went up, but otherwise he didn’t move a muscle. “Do you consider yourself a spiritual person?”
Eliza Campbell had asked me the same question nearly six months ago. Then, I was plugged up, she had said. Now a fissure of joy ran up my spine. “Yes,” I said. “I’m a spiritual person.”
He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Yes, well, prayer and meditation are considered by many to be a vital part of good mental health.” He tapped the pad of paper with his pen. “And you haven’t heard Kevin’s voice?”
I straightened my shoulders. “I’m done talking to the dead. I’m ready to talk to the living God.”