Just a Little Bit Crazy

by T A Ford

  “I won’t buy anymore,” she promised.

  He stared at her for a moment.

  “I’ll take down the post-it notes. Sheila looks at me funny when she comes over and sees them. I like Maura better. You should date her. One girl Rodney, not four.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he winked. “Can you clean up a bit for me? And yes, take down the post-it notes.”

  She nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Thanks kid. Close the door—I need to finish this.”

  “Okay.” She sighed and went downstairs. She began to lift every post-it note she found.

  Cue hammered at his computer keyboard. It was two days after the incident in the elevator, and he had a deadline: he had to get a patient’s profile and assessment into the system before five to ensure she got accepted into the Lakewood Mental Health Facility.

  The phone on his desk rang. He picked up his earpiece and put it on before answering. “Dr. Walsh speaking.”

  “Hey, it’s me, Jeff.”

  “Oh, hi?” Cue asked.

  “You didn’t follow up. I left you several messages,” he said.

  Jeffery Robinson was a renowned psychologist in their field. He’d been after Cue for the past month to be his resident psychiatrist for his study. He dealt with compulsive anxiety disorders and the hereditary factors that contributed. He’d successfully helped people deal with schizophrenia and other types of borderline personalities. Most psychologists preferred other treatments that didn’t rely on medication, but Jeff had introduced a new drug therapy that had shown some results. Cue respected him. He studied some of his early work when at Harvard and had conferred with him on Dina’s case.

  “Sorry, been busy,” Cue said, and kept typing.

  “Any candidates you think might be good for my program? That young lady you mentioned the other day with Asperger’s?”

  “Dina? No. Her brother won’t allow her to be admitted into the program. Had an interesting time with her the other day. Panic attacks. She was able to get through it. Barely.”

  “Well. Keep me posted, if anyone comes through your door that might need my consult. And read my email. I want you on my team. I have a better proposal for you than Emory.”

  “Will do.” Cue hung up.

  “Dr. Walsh?” came a knock to the door.

  “Damn it!” he muttered. If the distractions kept coming he’d never get done. “Molly, not now,” he said, typing faster.

  “I’m sorry. But we have a situation.”

  He frowned. “A what?”

  “A woman. She doesn’t have an appointment. She’s insisting on seeing you. I tried for the past ten minutes to make her understand she can’t just walk in here, but she is refusing to leave. And she’s a bit agitated. Not sure if you want me to call security?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Won’t give a name. Just said she will talk to you only.”

  He sighed. He itched for a drink. He hadn’t had one all day. It could be a patient referral or a family member of a patient. He got all kinds. It was why he had relocated his office to this building—the security was tight. He could call them and get rid of the burden. But he decided against it. Can you ask her to give me five minutes? I’m almost done.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Molly said.

  Dina paced the office. The white woman with red hair returned. Her hair was so red she looked like she bathed in the hair dye. It was probably seeping poisons and toxins into her brain. She couldn’t look at her long without feeling queasy.

  “Ma’am, you can have a seat. He said he will see you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and sat down. The woman kept staring at her. She hated to be stared at. She suppressed the urge to say so. Instead she picked up a magazine and pretended to look through the pages.

  The wait dragged on forever. Longer than she could stomach.

  And then it was over. Dr. Clinton Walsh walked out into the reception area of his office. He stopped at the sight of her.

  “Dina?”

  She stood.

  “Hi. I’m sorry for coming but I couldn’t think of what to do. I needed to see you.”

  “No, it’s okay. Come on, we can talk in my office.”

  Dina smiled with gratitude.

  “Molly, cancel all the rest of my appointments for this afternoon.”

  “But you have Robert Drake at four.”

  “See if we can get Drake into Dr. Endres across the hall.”

  She blinked at the impropriety of the request. It was rare for physicians like himself to pass off a patient, but not unheard of in case of an emergency.

  “If he can’t see him, then I’ll take it, but it will be late.”

  Molly nodded.

  Cue walked into his office and closed the door. Dina was over near his bookshelf reading his awards. He observed her for a moment. She turned and saw him staring. “You went to Harvard?”

  “I did.”

  “So did my brother. Do you know him? Rodney, his name is Rodney Erickson.”

  He smiled. “Not sure. Maybe.”

  She smiled. “I went back to flamenco. I saw Marissa. I got her to give me your real name. Told her I wanted to thank you.”

  “So you googled my practice?” he asked, and went around to the chair in his office. Dina continued to stand but she nodded her answer.

  “It’s nice. Neat. Looks like you. Nice and neat office for the doctor who treats the crazy people.”

  “We don’t use the word crazy here.”

  “Why not?” she said.

  “There’s enough labels in the world for the differences you see in people. Let’s not use them here,” he explained.

  “Oh,” she smiled.

  “Is there another reason you came?”

  She picked up a tribal flute he had brought back from New Zealand. She inspected the carvings and then set it down. He allowed her to set her own pace. Eventually, after she’d inspected everything on his bookshelf, she walked over and sat in the chair across from him.

  She wore a purple jogger suit with a lavender headband to hold back her thick curls. Her natural beauty was significant. She had doll-like eyes, with soft features like her voice and manner.

  “You said you’re a psychiatrist. Right?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s the difference between a psychologist, a therapist and psychiatrist?” she asked.

  “Is this a trick question?” he chuckled.

  She nodded that it was. “I need to know if you know the answer.”

  “Hmm, okay,” he said. “Think of a therapist like a mental health coach. He’s there to help the patient make better decisions. He helps the patient work through their feelings to solve problems by just being a listener, a supporter.”

  She nodded that the answer was correct.

  “Psychiatrists do the same, but they are trained medical doctors who prescribe medication. A psychologist is tied to a psychiatrist but focuses more on psychotherapy. If you have extreme mental suffering and need behavioral management, then a psychologist can help better than the other two.”

  “It sounds to me that I may need more of a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. It’s my behavior I can’t manage.”

  He listened.

  “But that will take too long. Rodney has big plans. He’s going to be someone important someday. I hear him on the phone talking about traveling more. That means things will change for me. I need medication. A pill or something to take that will stop my panic attacks and make me normal. So that’s why I came to see you. A psychiatrist can give me Xanax.”

  “There is no magic pill. With all of your research, you must know that.”

  She fidgeted and looked to the floor. “Anxiety can be controlled through medication. You have the training to teach me how to manage myself and medicate me. You see, when I get in enclosed spaces, it makes me nervous. I was thinking maybe I could take some lessons on how to control myself from you.”

  “Is it just anxi
ety?” he asked and sat forward.

  “What?”

  “Is it just anxiety, or is there something more?”

  “What do you mean ‘more’? I don’t like elevators.”

  “You told me you were afraid to die,” he reminded her.

  “I never said that.”

  “Okay, what did you say?”

  She sighed. “I don’t remember.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” he began. “Do you think you can trust me?”

  “I don’t know you,” she shrugged. “But you’re a doctor, so there’s that.”

  “You were trapped and alone with me. You came here to meet with me. I think you might know me, a little.”

  “Enough to trust you with my secrets?” she scoffed. “Hardly.”

  “Not as a man, or as a friend, or even a dance partner. Do you think you can trust me as a doctor?”

  Dina laughed. “Oh I get it. I read about this in my book, Rehabilitation: The Road to Recovery by Dr. Andrew Theroux. He said psychiatrists love to put you in these studies and enter you into mental hospitals. I’m not like that. I have Asperger’s. It doesn’t mean that I’m crazy. I read the books. I have a lot of good qualities about me.”

  “I agree,” he said.

  “I have good concentration and I’m persistent. I can focus on patterns and numbers. My memory is sharp.”

  “Dina...” he tried to interject.

  “So, what I have anxiety? Like you said, I’m not crazy. Panic attacks are normal. Trump is President. The world is having one big panic attack right now.”

  He smiled, he then got up from his seat and went to his computer.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Give me a moment,” he said. He printed several documents and then picked up a pencil. He put them on a clipboard. “Do you mind?”

  She accepted the clipboard that was filled with questions. She read through questions for a moment and then looked up at him with so many questions in her eyes.

  “I know anxiety. I know mental disorders that cause them. I can help you, if you can trust me. Filling out that form is the first step in trust. From this moment on, you’re my patient. Nothing we say or discuss will ever be given to anyone without your permission.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “I’d be disappointed.” Cue sat forward and stared her in the eye. “You aren’t crazy Dina, or retarded, or weird, or any of the things people have said to you. I think you’re remarkably original. I do think that there are some things we need to understand. Asperger’s is not the reason for all of your symptoms. I will need to get to know you to manage better how to help you. And if you need a different doctor or a psychologist, then we’ll decide who that person should be.”

  She smiled.

  “You think I’m special?”

  Cue realized the tone in his voice and hers. He corrected himself. “I think what makes you different from any of us is special.”

  She put pencil to paper and answered each question while he observed. For all of her brother’s schemes to get them to this point, it was Dina who walked through the door and started her own path to mental wellness. He respected that. Now he had to find a way to convince Rodney that giving Dina control of her life was the best approach.

  “SO, YOU’RE TELLING me Dina just came into your office and said, ‘Hey Doc, I need your help’?” Rodney frowned.

  “It wasn’t exactly like that—”

  “Why did you tell her you were a doctor?” Rodney demanded, agitated. He hadn’t drunk any of the beer.

  Cue was working on his fourth beer and considering switching to whiskey. “I honored your wishes. The goal was to get her to trust me to let me help her.”

  “No. The deal was for you to figure out what was wrong with her, so I could get her some medicine and then get the fuck out of Atlanta.”

  “I’m confused brother. What’s the difference? And why is it so important that you leave Atlanta?”

  “The difference?!” Other customers gave them sideways glances. Rodney realized he was yelling. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “The difference is, I don’t want her pushed too hard to fast. Dina is sensitive. She finds out we set her up and it could push her over the edge. I appreciate what you did bro, but I’ll just take it from here. If she met with you, then I can convince her to meet with another doctor.”

  “She’s not crazy Rod.”

  “The fuck she isn’t,” he mumbled and drank his beer. “I’ve known her all her life.”

  “I’m serious, man. The other day we were trapped in an elevator. Did she tell you?”

  “So the fuck what?”

  “At the dance studio. She had a full-on panic attack. A complete meltdown. I talked her through it. Didn’t take a pill to get her under control.”

  “Shit, I do that all the time,” Rodney rolled his eyes.

  “No. You talk at her. I talked to her. You have to accept that what she is feeling in that moment is real. It’s as real as if I picked up this fork and stabbed your hand. And she gained control because I didn’t dismiss her pain. She did this on her own.”

  “Can we get her on medication? That’s what I want to fucking know.”

  “I’m not ready to diagnose her. There are many tests I want to run. But I’ve been studying cases of verbal hallucinations with Asperger’s. The compulsion is fed by the desire for uniformity. The verbal hallucinations stem from a form of OCD.”

  “How do you hallucinate verbally?”

  “OCD is when you have the compulsion to do specific actions or routines over and over. For her Asperger’s, it’s a bottle of fears, like fear of being contaminated by germs, or for some people the compulsion to over clean, and for others the fear of losing control. I could go on. It’s a form of anxiety. The verbal hallucinations are triggered by the anxiety. She talks to herself, out loud, and in unexpected ways. It’s the trigger of the anxiety that takes the thoughts in her head and forces them past the filter. She just says it. And her need to control this compulsion makes her try to limit her free thinking. So she puts reminders of things she should know in post-it notes everywhere to keep the conflict or just the cognitive response out of her head into a more responsible thought. She overreads to fill her mind with what she thinks is missing content. It’s complicated man. I can run tests to see what can be done to help her. Maybe medication. It’s helped other patients, sure. Or maybe it’s just who she is and we need to help her learn how to manage her life in a sustainable way. I just need time.”

  Rodney sighed. He turned his glass around on the table and stared at his beer. “I never told you about my mom.”

  Cue finished his beer and signaled the waitress to bring him another.

  “She was OCD on steroids. Constantly cleaning, constantly checking doors and window locks, constantly making us pray and read the Bible over and over because she had these irrational fears of the devil. My father dealt with it. He found a way to keep her under control. I don’t fucking know how. He died when I was seventeen. His death was like a trigger. A switch just flipped in Mom’s head. Dina was nine and she became her target. My mom was hard on her. Made her repeat things over and over. Made her read books over and over. I was so busy trying to deal with my own shit in high school that I ignored most of it. I knew Dina was in trouble. When I got my scholarship, I booked it up out of there with a shitload of guilt. That’s why I started the hustle with you and the brothers. Pool, poker, we were a team. A lucrative team. Until we got busted. I needed money to get them both help. It’s fucked up. All of it.”

  “You were trying to better yourself to help your family. I knew that about you. When we started the hustle, it was because we all needed it. And we were good at it,” Cue joked. Rodney smiled. “That’s why we call you Cue. No one better at pool.”

  “Oh, poker is my game. Yea, we were all good at what we did, until we weren’t.” Cue sighed.

  “Until we weren’t,” Rodney agreed. He drank his beer. “Nah,
it wasn’t just the money that we won when we hustled those players. It was the power. I need power to feel control. I’m addicted to it. Got my own fucking issues.”

  “Don’t we all,” he agreed. He accepted the beer and ordered a whiskey to go with it.

  Rodney didn’t notice. He kept talking. “I wanted to get the fuck away. Far away from them both. And when I did Mom got worse. What I thought was OCD went straight schizophrenia. I had to have her committed and put Dina with friends of my family while I was in Harvard. Then I took care of Dina myself. If Dina has anxiety, it’s because of me. Because of what she went through when I wasn’t there.”

  “That’s a lot to carry. Dina isn’t a lost cause. She just needs help. Let me try help her first. Medication should be a last resort.”

  Rodney sighed. “I got to get out of Atlanta, though.”

  “Why?”

  “A deal in the works. It’ll put me in Paris for three months. I can’t get her on a plane if you won’t medicate her. This anxiety thing, it controls her in small spaces. You saw it.” Rodney wiped his mouth and then rubbed the side of his brow with three fingers. “How soon can you start this therapy with her?”

  “She’s coming in tomorrow. I got her booked for every day for the rest of the week.”

  “She agreed to that?” Rodney frowned.

  “Only if I get rid of the color red from my office,” Cue smiled. “That includes my secretary.”

  Rodney laughed. “Oh yeah, forgot to tell you about that.”

  “I’m learning,” Cue laughed.

  “You will, bro. You will.” Rodney toasted him. Cue clinked his glass to his. He took a shot of whiskey and then cleaned his palate with the beer. Rodney swallowed the rest of it. “Fine. Let’s play it this way. I’m thinking of getting her a place. A mile from me, some place safe with a guarded gate. If she gets better or is able to handle it, I might be able to do this Paris thing, and leave her in your care.”

  “We’ll see,” Cue said.

  2

  Chapter Seven

  Healing Dina

  “I didn’t think we’d have to do a physical exam,” Dina said as she signed the documents he gave her. “Do you do this with all your patients?”