For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  Yes, Lowry, you git. That is bad. She was your patient. You shouldn’t be asking her to dinner, even fifteen years later. She has every right to want your head on a stake, your balls on a platter, and your entrails roasting over an open flame.

  Given that, I shouldn’t be doing anything with the phone in my hand other than returning it to its cradle on my desk. And yet, my fingers seem to be connected to a far more animal part of my brain, the part that would like to talk more to the beautiful, sharp, and challenging woman. The part that had been stewing in the back of my mind, putting these ideas in my head about, how, perhaps after I’d been in town for a bit, I could casually ask one of my former colleagues about her. And…I don’t know. Is there a good way to run into your former patient on purpose? I’m fairly certain that’s called stalking. So, though the urge is there, I won’t act on it. I’ll give her an opportunity to turn me down and then that will be that. One more phone call and then I’ll force myself to stop, because if anyone deserves peace, it’s Starla.

  Before I can think better of it, I press redial because even having to press each of the digits would give me time to think better of this. Even though I know it’s a terrible idea and anyone would tell me so, I don’t want to be talked out of it. Because I’m terrible. Or human. Perhaps there’s more overlap in that Venn diagram than I’d like to think, particularly when it comes to myself. Saint Lowry, my brothers used to call me. If they could see me now…

  “Hi, this is Starla.”

  “Starla, this is—”

  “Did you forget something, Doctor Campbell?”

  Ach, the archness in her tone makes my balls ache. Not good, Campbell. Not good at all.

  “Ah, no.”

  Forget? No. Not exactly. Wasn’t given a chance to make any kind of chitchat that might’ve more naturally led up to this invitation? Yes.

  “Then you’re calling because…?”

  “Because that last call was purely professional.”

  There’s a pause, and I check my phone screen to make sure she hasn’t hung up on me again. But no, the connection is still live.

  “And what’s this one?”

  “Well, I…I’m new in town, and—”

  “You’re not new. You went to med school and did your residency and fellowship here, in addition to practicing here for four years after that. That’s sixteen years, if I'm not mistaken. You’ve been gone a long time, but you’re not new. I’m sure you’ve kept in touch with friends and colleagues and old classmates who are happy you’re back and would like to spend time with you, so don’t give me that.”

  I hadn’t realized she’d paid any attention to where I’d gone to school or done my residency, though all that’s true. I ought to have come up with a better excuse. Though given that much time, I might’ve come to my senses and decided not to call her at all, and I like the sound of her voice in my ear—rimy though it may be. So, continued fumbling will have to do. “Okay, that’s true, but I don’t know the hot spots these days. Half my haunts are probably closed.”

  “And that’s my problem because?”

  Ice cold. Well, I do deserve an icicle through the heart for having left when and how I did. I saw her through the acute, inpatient time after that unfortunate episode but when I wasn’t tending to her and my other patients during her stay, I was doing my utmost to find other employ and it didn’t take long to succeed. Then I was gone, without a word of warning to Starla because I couldn’t stomach it. Left Lacey to do it, which was a—what do the kids say, a dick move? That, definitely that. Since dissembling isn’t going to work, perhaps I could try honesty? Churns my gut, but what have I got to lose? Nothing, as far as I can tell, since that’s what I have right now.

  “It’s not, at all. I am in no way your responsibility and you are in no way, shape, or form obligated to me. If you say so, I will never have any communications with you outside of a professional context if this referral works out, and I swear to keep those to a minimum. But…”

  But what? What am I doing? Why am I rebelling against every professional bone in my body to speak with her? What do I have to offer?

  “But I’ve thought of you often since I left. And I would like it very much if you would have dinner or coffee with me and tell me about your life now. From what I’ve seen, you’re flourishing, and I’m so glad for it. Selfishly, I’d like to know more. And this is wildly unprofessional to say, but I always enjoyed talking to you. So, what do you say?”

  It’s done then. I have shot my shot and it’s no longer up to me. It’s been a while since I asked a woman on a date and despite not being a date, this—whatever “this” is—is even more fraught than that ever was. I don’t remember being breathless after I’d asked Maeve out after the cocktail party where we’d been introduced. But this isn’t the same as that at all, now is it? This wouldn’t be a date, nor would it be a therapy session. Uncharted territory for both of us. I don’t actually have a word for what Starla Patrick is to me, nor do I have a word for what she ever was to me, which quickly became more than an average patient.

  Which is perhaps why I feel like I’ve had an artery severed when she says no and hangs up. Again.

  Chapter 3

  Starla

  It’s been a week. A week since Lowry called me. No, not just called me. Called me twice. And I cannot stop thinking about it. The first call would have been enough to distract me for days. The second call…short-circuited my brain. And my brain doesn’t need any more of that, thanks.

  As much as I would’ve liked to take him up on his offer to…I don’t even know what that was. There’s no way he was asking me out on a date. Was there? Of course not. He would never do that.

  I don’t know what the rules or ethics or whatever are about dating your ex-patients—especially when you’re a psychiatrist, and they were a minor for most of the time—but I can’t believe that would be okay. Even if it technically were, Lowry strikes me as the kind of man who takes his professional responsibilities even more seriously than he’s required to. He loves his job, cares very deeply for his patients, and to throw that away on…anything? No, I don’t think so.

  Definitely not a date. He was being nice. Because he’s always nice. Which is what I tell myself as I drive out to Harbinson. It’s a pretty drive. I could’ve switched to the other hospital in metro Boston that does ECT, which is closer to my apartment downtown, but… Whatever, I didn’t. And now I like the drive because I get to see more trees, and green things, or as is the case at the moment, heaps of fallen leaves and skeletal trees. Come on, snow. This is perhaps my least favorite time of year here. After the foliage and before the white magic of snowfall.

  I’m doing okay, though, considering. My next ECT is coming up on Friday and I suppose I could’ve skipped seeing Lacey this week, but I have my routine and I like to stick to it. I see Lacey every Wednesday at ten thirty in the morning, and I have ECT every six weeks. You could set a clock to it.

  I find a parking spot and head into the building. This place is almost as familiar to me as my childhood home, which shouldn’t be surprising given I’ve been coming here regularly since I was eleven. Wow. Twenty-two years of my life. I suppose it could’ve been worse, which is what Lowry always reminded me of when I got to be a grumpy asshole about doing ECT. “Better than the alternative,” he’d say, and yeah. Doing ECT and being alive and functional is way better than…doing none of that stuff, which is almost certainly where I would’ve ended up. Where I was headed by the time I turned fourteen.

  Which is when I met Lowry. Who was definitely Doctor Campbell then. I remember in vivid detail my father yelling at Lacey when she told him she thought I might do well with this young, brand-new doctor.

  “What the fuck, Lacey? You’re going to send my child to your junior varsity squad? Have you given up on her? Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d hand my seriously ill daughter’s care over to some goddamn Doogie Howser type.”

  He’d gotten so loud, and more furious
than I’d ever heard him. Even though I’d felt half-dead at the time, I remember thinking he shouldn’t yell. Doctor Gendron really did do her best, had tried all the things with me. Any kind of psychotherapy you can think of, I’d done it. Acupuncture. Yoga. Meditation. Drugs, all the drugs: SSRIs, SNRIs, TCAs, MAOIs. Herbs: St. John’s wort, gingko. Diet: gluten-free, dairy-free, caffeine-free. Seriously, if it was a thing, I’d done it. It wasn’t her fault nothing worked.

  Wouldn’t it be easier if it all stopped? Wouldn’t it be easier if they let me go? So much time and money and effort and stress and for what? I still had only a lukewarm interest in being alive on my best day.

  I’d sat outside Lacey’s office pretending not to hear, pretending I wasn’t feeling increasingly guilty for being the source of the yelling, pretending I wasn’t feeling like an even bigger disaster because even Doctor Gendron—the head of the whole department at the best psych hospital in metro Boston, of course, because my father insisted on the best—couldn’t help me. What the hell kind of fucked-up mess was I if even she couldn’t help me? If she was, in fact, sloughing me off to one of her Triple-A players for… I couldn’t even think of for what. Learning experience? This is what a hopeless patient looks like. Good luck! Or maybe it was meant as a hard lesson: how to cope when one of your patients—inevitably—kills themselves.

  And then a man had come by, looking like he worked there. Barely. Disorderly reddish-copper hair, five o’clock shadow at ten thirty in the morning. But he had one of those ID tags all the staff wore. He plopped himself into the seat next to me and leaned over like we were kids waiting outside the principal’s office.

  “What are they fighting about, do you know?”

  He’d had a nice voice. Some kind of accent. Not English, but I couldn’t tell then whether it was Irish or Scottish. I’d given him a sidelong look, which was a vast improvement over the reaction most people could pull out of me in those days, but I didn’t answer his question. Seemed, frankly, like a lot of work. And for who? Some rando? Not worth it.

  “Aye, no, you’re right. Nonna my business.”

  Sat back in the chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and my gaze followed.

  “But if you do know, it’d be grand if you shared, because that’s my boss in there. I’m new here and I’m hoping this isn’t about me, that I’m not going to get sacked. You’d tell me if that were it, right?”

  I had liked the look of his face, the way he talked to me like he assumed he would get an answer because clearly I was a person capable of holding a normal conversation. I didn’t get a whole lot of that in those days. It didn’t feel as though anyone saw me then. I was a problem to be fixed, something fragile teetering on the edge, and everyone was convinced I was going to fall and break. Why should I bother trying to hang on if that was the outcome they were banking on? And it was so fucking hard. To get out of bed. To get dressed. To do any goddamn thing. So, I wasn’t sure what to tell this man but I appreciated, at least a tiny bit, that he was asking.

  “It’d probably help if I introduced myself. Then you could nod if it was me they’re caterwauling about.”

  We both looked toward the door because something crashed. Wow. I’d never known my father to throw things, but I couldn’t honestly say I was surprised. He could lose his temper sometimes. And when you’re one of the richest men in Boston, in the country, it must’ve been very frustrating to not be able to get your way. Perhaps I’d been sent to him as a lesson in humility.

  “I’m Lowry Campbell. Doctor Campbell,” he amended. Arms still crossed, he tilted his head, again insinuating that we were in on some conspiracy together. “So, this is about me. Isn’t it? Can you give me even one wee hint?”

  I should’ve been disgusted. Or insulted. Or something other than what I was. I felt bad for him, trying so hard, but also grateful he was trying so hard when it seemed like everyone else around me had about given up. What would be the harm? Letting a word or three out? Would I be giving my father false hope if I did? Should I walk into a pond with rocks in my pocket, or out into the woods like a dog who knows it’s going to die? I was going to hurt him anyway. What did it matter if I took pity on this man—who smelled good, I realized—and answered him? It wouldn’t.

  “Me. They’re yelling about me.”

  * * *

  Lowry

  “Tony.”

  He looks at me, and something about his expression sends chills up my spine. My patients all look very different—God knows mental illness comes in all shapes and sizes. But there’s something the ones with the worst depression have in common. I can’t say what it is precisely, but there’s a look, a tone, something, that pings a wary part of my brain, makes the hair on my arms and the back of my neck rise. It’s the most disturbing sensation and I’m having it now.

  “Tony. I know things are bad right now. I know you’re hurting, and you’ve had a time of it lately. I know you’re in a dark place and you can’t see the light, but you know there’s always light. There is. You have a wife and two daughters who you love and who love you back, and I know you don’t want to hurt them. Emily and Portia and Clara would be devastated if anything happened to you.”

  Tony doesn’t say anything, just turns so he’s not looking at me anymore. Not good, this isn’t good. I can practically hear the arguments in his brain because other patients have made them to me out loud. Things would be easier for them if I was gone. They’ll be sad for a minute but ultimately better off because I’m worthless and a drag on them. Better to take myself out of the equation than to have them realize how unlovable and useless I actually am and they leave. Oh, I’ve heard it, and I’m going to do my damnedest to be louder than all that. I can be pretty fucking loud.

  “If you think there’s a chance you might harm yourself or someone else, let’s get you checked in so you can take a break and get the help you need. There’s no shame in it and it’s better than the alternative. You haven’t tried TMS or ECT yet. Let’s give those a go before you do anything rash and in the meantime, Harbinson might be a good place for you. I’ll make the call right now, handle everything. Please, let us help if that’s what you need. That is literally what we’re here for.”

  His gaze flicks to the clock, and he pushes off the couch. “Time’s up, doc.”

  Son of a bitch. I don’t want him walking out of this office, but I’ve got nothing to go on other than a feeling, and I can’t commit him based solely on my gut. God, I wish I could.

  “You’re right. But I want your word that you’ll be in my office this time next week and if there’s anything that’s going to keep you from that”—like you killing yourself, or God forbid, going murder-suicide as some of these men are apt to do, though Tony’s never struck me as the type—“you’ll call me straight away. I don’t care what hour it is. You want to talk about the Bruins game at three o’clock in the morning? Ring me up.”

  I’m not really a hockey fan. Not a sports fan in general, truth be told, except for football. Soccer, as the Americans call it. But I’ve started keeping up with the Bs so I can talk to Tony about them. He’s a huge fan. Maybe that would be a reason to keep living if nothing else has a strong enough pull—they have a real chance at the Stanley Cup this year. I’ll bring it up next time.

  He shakes out the sleeves of his hockey sweater, heads for the door, and my brain feels as though it’s been flipped to a channel that’s all static. Helpless. I don’t like feeling this way, and hopefully it won’t last long. Perhaps Tony will come in next week complaining about the Bruins’ goalie or perhaps I’ll get a call from Emily in a few days saying she’s convinced him to check in to Harbinson for a bit, or maybe he’ll phone me later and tell me to schedule a course of TMS.

  While I wait, I’ll check in with Lacey and some of my other colleagues to see if there’s not some other thing I ought to be doing. Sometimes they can offer suggestions, and if not, at least empathy for how difficult this job can be.

  “I’ll walk you out, I need som
e more coffee. Stayed up too late watching the Sharks get their fins handed to them.”

  Nothing from Tony who’s headed down the hall without a glance back. Not that my jokes are hilarious—though some of them are, and that was pretty good—but it was about hockey. Really hope I’m reading this wrong because severe depression manifests differently in everyone, but in my experience, not even being able to fake a reaction when it would be in your best interest to do so isn’t a good sign. A lot of my patients are very bright, very good at faking because they don’t want to go through the hassle that results when I know how they truly feel. When they don’t bother…

  I continue to chatter at him until we reach the exit. Tony at least gives me a half-wave, his standard “see ya, doc,” and a sort of grimace I’ll take as an effort at a smile as he walks out the door and toward his SUV. Okay, that’s something. At this point, I’ll take anything. And some caffeine.

  Water would probably be a better idea than coffee, but sometimes water is not going to cut it. It’s sure as hell not going to cut it at the end of this day—I know that already and I’ve only seen two patients. Whisky will be required. Good thing Maeve is a love and had a local liquor store send me a stock of some of my favorites. I think full-on bog petrol is called for this evening, and I can already taste the Laphroaig 30 on the back of my tongue. It’ll burn my throat and send miasmatic fumes through my nasal channels. What better to accompany my ruminating about Tony while I attempt to pay attention to the game.

  At least putting together a cup of coffee is a task I can complete on autopilot because I can’t clear Tony from my mind to focus on my next patient, and I need to. She deserves my complete attention, but my brain is fixated on Tony’s plight, cogitating on how I can fix this. Or if not fix it, nudge it far enough toward better that disaster doesn’t feel so imminent. But sunk I am, and I’ll be able to focus better on Shreya once I have her in front of me. Plus, the SNRI we’ve got her on now seems to be kicking in and making a difference in her anxiety without the shite side effects she’d been struggling with on the SSRI she’d been taking.