Читать книгу The Blind - A.F. Brady - Страница 24

It’s Tuesday at 11:00 a.m., and Richard is about to come sit in my office for an hour. To date he has said nearly nothing to me until I ask him to focus on paperwork, and then he squeezes out one-word answers or angry refusals to respond. I am still scared of him, but it’s getting better. I’m trying to show Rachel that I am capable of managing this, that I will be the singular psychologist able to get through to him and eventually give him the help he needs. I need to maintain her approval, keep her A-plus rating. It keeps me functioning.

Despite wanting to save the day, my mind is elsewhere this morning; I’m harping on what could have been on Sunday night, so I am thinking of bailing on the attempt to work on the files with Richard. I haven’t yet made more progress than any of my predecessors, but I can’t handle another issue right now.

I hardly notice as Richard walks through my door and sits down with his stack of papers. He takes his hat off in my office and gently sets it atop his pile of newspapers. Sometimes he wears the tweed newsboy cap; sometimes it’s a gray one. He seems to have gotten more comfortable around me, now that we’ve had a few sessions and groups together. He sometimes says good-morning, sometimes nothing, but today I wouldn’t have heard him if he had greeted me.

After a short while, he speaks. “You’re different today.”

“Nope, I’m the same today. Same old Sam, right as rain.” I’m not even looking up.

“How come you’re reading that same page over and over, then? You haven’t turned that page in twenty minutes.”

“I’m concentrating.”

“On what?” He is incredulous; he is noticing. He is supposed to be crazy and I am supposed to be able to get away with my mind wandering sometimes.

“If you’re not going to work on your file or talk about treatment goals, then please, read your papers and let me do my work in peace.” Calmly, softly, defeated.

“I’ve never seen you in peace.”

What are you, my therapist? You’ll never see me in peace, Richard; stop looking.

We resume ignoring each other, and I sit quietly wondering what I’m doing with my life. Richard is shifting and wiggling uncomfortably in his chair. He reaches his crooked left arm out in front of him, as if trying to straighten it out properly. He huffs, and he’s distracting me.

“Something bothering you, Richard?”

“Yeah, what’s going on with that kid from the group you were running the other day?”

“I’m not sure what’s going on with Devon. Why do you ask?”

“He always does this contortionist act when he’s in group. I find it very distracting. And he always wears a jacket even though it’s practically boiling in here. He leaves confetti wherever he goes. He’s making me uncomfortable. How am I supposed to get better in an environment like this?” It seems it’s his size that’s making him uncomfortable, but I’d rather hear him complain than continue to avoid speaking altogether.

“Okay, what exactly is it that you would like me to do here?”

“I don’t know—you’re the shrink, not me.” Richard waves his hands at me dismissively.

“This seems like more of an administrative problem. Or even a janitorial issue. I can ask that he refrain from contorting in groups. But, you have to remember, this is an institution, and we need to live with the foibles and behaviors of others.”

“Within reason.”

“Yes, Richard, within reason, but a little shadow boxing never hurt anyone. Maybe what we need to talk about is your ability to tolerate frustration.”

“I tolerate it fine. I’m just not interested in being in groups with a man in a leather jacket who leaves confetti and makes himself into a pretzel.”

“Noted. I will follow up, and should I discover anything, I will let you know. Fair?”

He raises his eyebrows at me, unconvinced, and returns his gaze to his newspaper.

“And he stinks, too. Just sayin’.” One last jab and now he’s finished.