Blind Rage

by Terri Persons

  She looked back down and turned the page.

  “Kyra. Don’t tell me.”

  Grinning, she looked up. “It’s my favorite.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Torture me if you must. I’ve only heard the damn thing a million times.”

  She continued her page flipping. “I can find something else.”

  “While you’re doing that, tell us why you picked Dorothy Parker for your paper in the first place.”

  She looked up from her book. “Actually, my first choice was Sylvia Plath, but you told us we couldn’t do her.”

  He stood straight and ran his eyes around the room. “How many of you wanted Sylvia Plath?”

  Nearly everyone raised his or her hand.

  “Good God, people. Sylvia Plath?”

  “What’s wrong with Sylvia Plath?” asked a girl sitting to Klein’s right.

  “Cliché city,” squeaked Jess, who always sat in the front row, smack-dab in the middle. Jess had a shaved head and was either a puffy guy with a Truman Capote voice or a puffy woman with the downy beginnings of an Ernest Hemingway beard. Out of sensitivity and without prior planning or discussion, the entire class avoided the minefield of transgender issues in literature while Jess was in their midst.

  “I could fill the Metrodome with undergraduate papers on Sylvia Plath, and to a one, they would be wretched,” said the professor. He went back to the board, scribbled madly, and stepped to one side. He’d scrawled Sylvia Plath, drew a bell shape around the name, and then slashed a diagonal bar across it.

  A young woman two seats in front of Klein raised her hand. “How can we take a class like this without Sylvia Plath?”

  “I didn’t say we’d do without her, Alisha.” He went back around the Formica table and poked an index finger in his chest. “I shall discuss Sylvia Plath, and you shall listen.”

  He walked between the rows of desks, heading for Klein. Clasping his hands behind his back, he came up next to her. “Now tell us about number two on your hit parade.”

  He was wearing cologne. Did he have a date tonight? There were rumors he went out with students. Distracted by his closeness, she dropped her lashes and fumbled with the small volume under her hands. “Well…she…she had a hard life. Both her parents died. She lived in a boardinghouse for a while and played the piano to make money. She wrote fashion ads for Vogue.”

  “‘Brevity is the soul of lingerie,’” he said.

  She looked up with wide eyes. “What?”

  He turned around and marched back to the front of the room. “That was one of her clever captions.”

  “She had a successful writing career. Poetry and short stories and scripts for Hollywood. But she wasn’t always happy.”

  The professor leaned one hand against the table. “She tried to kill herself. More than once.”

  Klein nodded slowly.

  “And that’s what this class is all about, isn’t it?” Returning to the board, he wrote something in large letters, underlined it three times, and stepped away so the class could read it. Enough Rope. “Who can explain what that means?”

  A boy in a middle row raised his hand.

  The professor pointed at him. “Jason?”

  “It’s part of an expression. Enough rope to hang yourself. It’s like—I don’t know…you do it to yourself.”

  Klein raised her hand.

  “You’d better get this right, Kyra,” the professor said.

  “It’s the title of one of Dorothy Parker’s best-selling collections of poetry,” she said.

  “Excellent.” He tipped his head toward her. “From that collection, please read the selection that you think best illuminates the creative and personal struggles of Mrs. Parker.” He paused. “And, Kyra, if you really think your first selection does the job, then by all means, go right ahead.”

  Klein turned back to “Résumé,” the oft-quoted poem about suicide, and began reading. “‘Razors pain you…’”

  AFTER CLASS let out, she hung back while the other students surrounded him to ask questions about their papers and a quiz set for Friday. She’d wait and get him alone. While she leaned against the edge of a desk, she looked at her watch. Screw her doctor’s appointment. Let him wait on her for a change.

  After the room emptied of the other students, Klein approached him while he erased the board. There was that cologne again. “Professor, I’m having second thoughts about Mrs. Parker. I’m thinking I might do Anne Sexton instead.”

  He moved to the end of the board listing students’ names alongside the writers they were set to profile. Before he erased “Dorothy Parker,” he turned and asked Klein, “Why the change of heart?”

  “It’s—she…her life was a little too much like mine.”

  He looked at the clock on the wall. “There isn’t another class in here for forty-five minutes. Let’s sit.”

  She took a seat in the front row, he turned a desk around so it faced her, and they sat across from each other. While she talked, he listened and nodded and interrupted only to ask an occasional question. She was going to be really late for her appointment, and she didn’t give a damn. This was better therapy.

  Chapter 7

  SIGHING, KLEIN TOSSED THE DOG-EARED COPY OF WOMAN’S Day from two Thanksgivings ago onto the coffee table. She had enough turkey pointers to write her own cookbook. She checked her watch, looked at the wall clock hanging to the right of the receptionist’s window, and sighed again, this time loudly and with more feeling.

  Taking the hint, the receptionist peeked over the counter and addressed the impatient patient. “I’m sorry about the delay. Wednesdays are always bad for some reason, and he had an emergency this morning.”

  “I suppose my coming late didn’t help,” she said.

  “Well…no,” he said hesitantly. “But I’m sure you had a good reason.”

  He was trying to be nice. She’d screwed herself. “Enough rope,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” Leaning over, she picked through the other periodicals littering the table. The only magazines that were current were the ones about golf.

  Bored, she glanced through the window framing the man. He had his head down now and was pecking at a computer. Dressed in a polo shirt with a subtle designer logo embroidered on the sleeve, he appeared to be the type who would read golf magazines cover to cover. He looked like a younger version of that famous golf pro. What was his name? Jack something. Her eyes went to the cover of one of the golf magazines. No help. Everything was about Tiger Woods. She missed the grandmotherly receptionist who used to greet her with a sympathetic smile and offers of hot tea with sugar. This guy offered bad black coffee. At least he tried. He had a nice smile. A golf pro smile. Bright white.

  He glanced up from his typing and caught her staring at him. “You could reschedule, Kyra,” he offered.

  She dropped her eyes and picked up a decorating magazine. “I wouldn’t get to see him for weeks, and I need to talk now. You know what I mean?”

  The golf pro head bobbed up and down in affirmation. “I understand completely. It shouldn’t be that much longer. He just got your file and took it back with him.”

  Her file. Her masterpiece. Her version of Enough Rope. It was cleverly titled Klein, Kyra A., and it started something like this:

  Patient’s biological mother, diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder in early adulthood, committed suicide when the patient was ten years of age, leaving the juvenile in the care of her biological father…Father died of acute alcoholic hepatitis when the patient was twenty…Shortly afterward, the patient was diagnosed with depression, and was prescribed antidepressants.

  That diagnosis turned out to be dead wrong and led to a really juicy plot twist in her opus.

  On the patient’s twenty-first birthday, she was hospitalized after ingesting a full bottle of an over-the-counter pain reliever/sleep aid…During hospitalization, her mental status was reassessed and she was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disord
er.

  She had to credit her current psychiatrist with that bull’s-eye. The chapters that followed were downright mundane, thank God.

  Patient has one sibling, a married older brother employed as a software designer in Seattle…Brother is assisting the patient financially so she can complete her studies. He communicates with her sporadically via phone and e-mail…Patient is currently taking undergraduate courses at the University of Minnesota–Twin Cities; she has not yet declared a field of study, but enjoys reading the American classics and writing poetry.

  She was just another unemployed English major in the making, she thought as she flipped through the pages of an article giving tips on easy bathroom makeovers.

  Patient is single and reports no steady “boyfriend,” but has engaged in unprotected sex with multiple partners since the onset of puberty…Sexual activity increases during her manic episodes, as does her reckless driving and her excessive clothing purchases.

  She’d once blown an entire paycheck on a pair of Manolo Blahniks and defiantly worn the stilettos to one of her appointments. Her psychiatrist had trouble taking his eyes off those heels, and she didn’t blame him: black satin with crystal-studded ankle straps. Very expensive come-fuck-me shoes.

  Patient works during the week as a part-time cashier at a grocery store near the Minneapolis campus and on weekends is employed selling hand lotion at kiosk located in the Mall of America…Has stated that she enjoys her jobs and has twice received raises in her hourly pay as a cashier.

  Patient is seeing a therapist, but reports that she is unhappy with this particular health professional…On more than one occasion, she has referred to the therapist as “the bullshit artist.”

  Patient states that the therapist “talks to hear himself talk” and “doesn’t listen to a damn thing anyone else has to say.” Patient has requested a list of recommended therapists/psychologists practicing in the university area.

  Lithium has proven an effective maintenance treatment, although patient has complained about the “flat feeling” it causes.

  That flat feeling seemed to be intensifying with every second she spent in that cell-like waiting room. Dropping “Breezy Bathrooms for Less” on the table, she looked at the clock again and double-checked its accuracy against her watch. Yup. Already noon. If she didn’t get in soon, she was going to be late for her next class. She rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her chin in her palms.

  She wasn’t a new patient, nor was she very different from the hundreds of other cases this doctor had handled over the years, she suspected. She was just another nut job. He hated when she called herself that. Nut job. She told him it helped to laugh.

  He didn’t have a sense of humor, this doctor. He’d drum an eraser head on his desk while he reviewed the highlights of her masterpiece. He had high cheekbones and a prominent jawline, and when he read something that piqued his interest or disturbed his sensibilities, both facial features tensed almost indiscernibly. She could always tell when he got to the dirty parts of her little book: his face reddened. She loved it when that happened. At least she could tell he was human.

  The blond head levitated from behind the counter and the receptionist cracked open the door leading to the bowels of the office. “The doctor will see you now.”

  “Great,” said Klein, Kyra A. She got up with her purse and her books and followed the receptionist down the hall to the doctor’s exam room. She scrutinized his bottom half as they went. Jack Something had a nice butt for a guy who sat at a computer all day. Why was she not surprised that he was wearing boring khaki slacks and geeky brown walking shoes?

  “Miss Klein,” he announced, pushing the door open for her.

  “Thank you,” she said, offering the receptionist a smile.

  “You’re quite welcome,” he said, smiling back. He looked over at the man behind the desk. “Do you need anything, Doctor?”

  “I’m good, Charles,” the man said without looking up from his paperwork.

  “Would you like some coffee, Miss Klein?” Charles asked her.

  “No, thanks. I’m not a coffee drinker,” she said.

  Charles nodded and left. Klein stared at the closed door, feeling guilty about not accepting the damn drink.

  The doctor looked up and nodded toward a chair parked across from his desk. “Please have a seat.”

  She headed to the leather couch planted against the wall. She tossed her purse and her books onto it and dropped down next to them. “I’m breaking in a new pair of boots, and my feet are killing me.”

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up.

  “I will.” She started unzipping the knee-high boots, which were pulled over skintight jeans.

  He pulled down on the sleeves of his blazer—his idea of making himself comfortable—and took the patient chair over to the couch. Sitting down across from her with his right ankle propped across his left knee, he opened the file up on his legs. He scrutinized her clothing—a fur vest over a cashmere sweater—and shot a look at her boots and Coach purse. “Did you go on another spending spree?” he asked in that judgmental tone of his. That assistant principal’s voice.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not off my meds. My brother sent me a pile of money for my birthday.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “It was last month, but thanks.”

  “How are you doing, Miss Klein?”

  Now she was bent over her boots, pulling them off. “I’m as fat as a cow.”

  “Weight gain is a common side effect with lithium. So are tremors, diarrhea, nausea…”

  “We discussed switching meds.” She dropped her boots on the floor with a thud. “What about that?”

  “Valproic acid has side effects as well.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tremors, diarrhea, nausea, weight gain, hair loss.”

  “Dandy. I can be fat and bald. Let me think about it.”

  “How are you doing otherwise?”

  “What do you think?”

  He glanced down at her file. “Well, I can tell you that your blood tests—”

  “Can we talk?” she asked.

  Pulling his eyes off the file, he looked at her. “What’s the problem?”

  “This is hard for me.” She folded her arms in front of her, crossed one leg over the other, and nervously jiggled her elevated stocking foot. “I don’t know how to put this exactly.”

  “Let’s hear it, Miss Klein.”

  “Kyra. The last time I was here, and the time before that, I asked you to call me—”

  “Kyra. Yes. I remember now. What’s wrong, Kyra?”

  She chewed her bottom lip. “This isn’t working out for me.”

  “What isn’t working out?” He glanced down at the folder. “If you really want to switch medications, I’m sure we can find a more agreeable—”

  “I want to find me. I want to talk about me.”

  “This is about you.”

  “It’s the same thing every time I come in here. I get fifteen minutes with you. Twenty tops. You ask me how I’m doing, but you don’t really listen to me. Half the time you’re not even looking at me.” She pointed to the folder. “Your face is buried in that crap.”

  “I apologize if you feel I’ve been—”

  “You write me a new refill. I disappear for another month or two. I come back. Same thing. ‘How’re you doing? Your lab work looks good.’ We never talk, and I need to talk. Really talk.” Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere. Psychiatrists hated when patients expected them to act like therapists. She could have predicted his response.

  “You have someone for that aspect of your—”

  “He’s a royal dick.” She raked the top of her spiky head with her fingers and waited for him to do his pencil drum.

  Instead, he surprised her with a grin. “Well, yes, you’ve made your dissatisfaction known. We can provide a list of other capable—”
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  “I am so sick of getting shuffled around, shopping for doctors.” She curled her legs up on his couch, sat back, and sighed. “I wish you could do it all.”

  He checked his watch. “Tell you what.”

  “My fifteen minutes can’t be up already. You kept me waiting forever.”

  “I apologize for that,” he said, drumming the pencil on her folder. “If you can come back later this afternoon…”

  “I have class.”

  “What about the end of the business day? You can be my last patient. We can take a little longer.”

  “Will my insurance pay for two visits in one day?”

  “I’ll make it a freebie,” he said.

  She fingered her purse strap. “By the time we get through, it’ll be dark out.”

  “I can give you a ride home, or Charles. Someone around here will be going your way.”

  “That sounds good.” She pulled her legs down from the couch and put on her boots, suddenly energized by his offer. She was more than a file tab to him.

  The door popped open, but this time it wasn’t Charles. Another male head poked into the room. “You’ll never guess who called me just now, out of the blue.”

  “It’ll have to wait.” The doctor closed her file and got up off the chair. “I’m busy with a patient.”

  The man in the doorway looked at Klein. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m on my way out.” Klein sat up, stared at the man in the doorway, and looked back at her doctor. “This has got to be a relative of yours. You could pass for twins.”

  “He’s my younger brother,” her doctor said shortly. He went back to his desk and sat down.

  “I wish my brother lived in town.” Klein got up from the couch, plucked her purse off the cushions, and hiked the strap over her shoulder. She gathered her books in her arms and started for the door. “It’s nice that you get to see each other.”