A voice interrupts my thoughts.
I turn to see Ralph.
I hold back a groan.
I’m really not in the mood for more of his threats.
“What do you want?” I demand.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jason
I sit outside Peter’s office, waiting for the renowned Dr. Melanie Steel to arrive.
She’s a well-respected psychiatrist. I have to think of her that way. I have to separate her from what I think of the field of psychiatry.
Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll be able to contain my anger at the world.
I also have to separate her from Angie.
A few moments later, she arrives, her cheeks red from the chill of the outside air. Her silvery blond hair is pulled up in a loose bun, and her green eyes sparkle.
“Dr. Lansing,” she says. “I apologize for being a little bit late. I was having breakfast with my niece, and she seemed a little troubled, so I wanted to give her as much time as I could.”
Dr. Steel has many nieces, but she can only be talking about Angie. I assume the rest of them live out west.
“Peter gave me his keys.” She unlocks the door to Peter’s office swiftly. “Come on in. Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Dr. Steel’s voice is gentle, soothing. It’s a stark contrast to the icy weather outside and, in a way, the turbulence inside me. She’s comforting‚ a quality that I suppose is essential to her profession. If I believed in her profession, that is. I still think it’s all BS.
I follow her into the office. I’ve been in Pete’s office many times, but still I gaze at the shelves lined with hardback books, his medical degrees and awards on the walls. The office is huge. He’s the chief of surgery, of course. A plush sofa sits in one corner while two armchairs flank a mahogany coffee table in the center of the room. Next to the window is Peter’s desk, neat as a pin.
“It’s Sunday, so the staff aren’t here,” Dr. Steel says. “I apologize that I can’t offer you any coffee.”
“I’m good,” I say.
“Okay.” She smiles. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the chairs facing the desk and takes Peter’s chair behind the desk. “As you know, we’re here for me to assess your mental health with regard to the experimental nerve graft to restore full function to your right hand.”
I simply nod.
“It’s important that you’re honest with me, Dr. Lansing.”
“Of course.”
“The reason the board is concerned is because of the trauma you’ve been through. The accident that took your daughter’s life and resulted in the injury to your hand, and your wife’s subsequent suicide.”
I try not to wince. “That all happened nearly three years ago,” I say.
“Yes, I understand that,” Dr. Steel replies, her voice steady and empathetic. “But as you know, the ripples of such traumatic events can linger for a long time. It is crucial to make sure you are emotionally stable before undergoing such an experimental procedure.”
I nod again, clenching my good hand into a fist. This woman in front of me isn’t wrong, but underlining each tragedy is like reliving them all over again. I try to force myself to relax.
I’m unsuccessful.
“Dr. Lansing,” she says. “I think it would be beneficial to further discuss these past traumatic experiences. To understand your coping mechanisms.”
“I’ve coped,” I insist. “It’s not like I had any choice in the matter.”
