***
Tessa’s room looked pretty normal and the nurses bore no resemblance to Nurse Ratched, much to her relief. The social worker, or whatever her title was—Tessa couldn’t remember exactly, was a 40ish-year-old woman named Shawntay Green. Shawntay was more like a force of nature than social worker. Tessa liked her.
“So,” Shawntay said, looking at her notes, “your appointment with Dr. Blaine is tomorrow at 11:00.”
Tessa nodded. Dr. Blaine was her primary physician. Shawntay insisted that she begin with a complete physical examination, “to rule out physical causes of depression.”
“On Monday, you see Dr. Howard.” Shawntay handed Tessa some papers. “Will your medical insurance cover this?”
It had never occurred to Tessa to check. “I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. I inherited a large sum of money when my parents died. And my business is doing well. Money is one of the few things I don’t have a problem with.”
“Alright,” Shawntay said. “Fill those forms out and I’ll fax them to Dr. Howard’s office.”
Tessa took the stack of papers. The heading at the top said Dr. Sinclair Howard, MD, ABPN.
“What’s ABPN?” Tessa said.
“American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology,” Shawntay said. “Means the man knows his stuff. He’ll look at the workup your primary did and together, you’ll figure out what you need to reclaim your life.”
Tessa had told Shawntay the short story she thought of as Losing Mark, and the complete and utter shock she felt at not being able to ‘get over it.’ Reclaiming her life was exactly what Tessa wanted but she hadn’t known how to do it. The pills—death—was never her real goal; it had been the only path to peace she could see at the time. And it had been a very poor one at that. That had become crystal clear to Tessa within an hour of talking with the force of nature that was Shawntay Green. Shawntay made her see there was a much better path to peace, to reclaiming her life, and that the network of professionals she was constructing would help her find that better path.
“I will call you tomorrow afternoon to see how your appointment with Dr. Blaine went,” Shawntay said. Her words were business, her tone was mother hen.
Tessa nodded.
“And I will call you Monday afternoon to see how you liked Dr. Howard. If you didn’t hit it off with him, there are other qualified psychiatrists in New York City. We look until you find one that works for you. Got it?”
Tessa smiled. Not exactly a break-your-face grin, but the tiny glimpse of teeth was a rare, and welcome, occurrence.
“Look,” Shawntay said, “I’m supposed to remain clinical and professional. I got no problem with professional, but clinical can get a little detached for this woman to abide.”
Shawntay’s voice was as rich as her skin and as strong as the muscled arm that handed Tessa a tissue from the box on her nightstand. Tessa dabbed the tears trickling down her own face and Shawntay continued.
“I’ll be checking on you until I know you’re hooked up with a psychiatrist. Good and hooked, got it? I will ride your ass, if I have to. I’ll use every Article 9 section of the Code to keep you from repeating the stupidity that brought you here. Got it?”
“Got it,” Tessa said.