Thread: Trust the Good Doctor [T-Howell and skittish_butterfly]

Grace sat quietly for a minute, waiting for Dr. King to get his act together. She sat on the expensive leather couch with her bare legs crossed and her arms folded in front of her, staring at him, wondering how Mrs. Lewinsky could swear by him. Probably because she still lived back home two blocks from her mom, and her dear son Ralph was probably selling her a load of crap about therapy sessions he never really had. Frankly, as far as Grace could tell, other than a ready prescription pad Dr. King was a quack. Which was perfect for her. What she didn't want was some probing shrink on a holy quest to get to the bottom of problems she didn't actually have. Why did so many of them seem to think the only possible cure for her healthy mind was enough sob sessions about her parents to end up making her miserable. She'd been through 3 or 4 of them after her dad's death alone, and none of them could simply recognize that she was fine, that she was strong and didn't need to cry like some sappy movie therapy. Watching Dr. King's trouble just with a few sheets of paper left her hoping his brand of incompetence might be easy enough to keep at arm's length, where she wouldn't have to sit and dredge up every sad story of her whole entire life. He scarcely even remembered her name let alone her issues, just nodding with a vacant look in his eyes like the kids in class who never really studied and were trying not to get called on, so maybe he would just be happy to pocket her mom's money and let her sit in peace for an hour. The couch seemed comfortable maybe she could just take a nap while the meter ran. That would be perfect. Finally he looked at her with a strange, non-therapeutic grin on his face, more smirk than smile, as if he was getting away with something. It was fine with her, he could get away with all he wanted to, she didn't care, he could even sit and read a novel for their hour for all she cared. He seemed to want to get started though. Pity. They'd been off to such a good start for only their second session. Dr. King was sitting down behind his desk, a big mahogony thing with a little laptop closed in one corner. She remembered it from last time too, remembered wondering why he hid behind it rather than just sitting in a comfy chair like all the other therapists and psychologists she'd visited. But in his fancy suit and fancy office, he seemed like the kind of guy who would want a fancy desk too, and mabe it helped compensate for his lack of self-confidence and incompetence. Most patients were probably a little cowed by it, Grace imagined. Whatever. She didn't care if he was competent, since she didn't actually need his help anyway. He wanted to move on to something else instead of talking about her mom and dad and Grace couldn't help a tiny smile at the corners of her mouth. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as the rest of them had been. She adjusted her position on the couch, switching her crossed legs and folding her hands in her lap now as she leaned against the big, soft arm rest beside her. Ok, shoot. Unplanned and unscripted is fine with me. I always do great with surprise quizzes. Dreams. She almost laughed. Did he actually go to therapist school or whatever? Or did he just watch a bunch of bad movies and decide he could do that too? Grace smirked, her expression pretty similar to his although she coudn't see it heself. Break down her dreams, that's what he wanted to do. Ok. Since her mom and dad weren't in her last dream, she didn't really mind. No sob stories today, thank you very much. She tensed a little as he explained the goal, that he thought he was cleverly going to sneak around with his dream-business sneak up on her grief, except he didn't realize she didn't have any grief anymore. Yes, she'd been sad, shocked, crushed, all of that when they got the call from France about her dad's heart attack on that last business trip. But her own grief had passed quickly -- a burial, some sad speeches, an awkward group dinner where no one knew what to say to her and she had to carry all the conversation -- and then just years of helping her mom cry and cry and cry like he'd just died yesterday. But Grace herself was fine. No grief to sneak up on. So let Dr. King try, so long as he just wanted to discuss dreams and not reality. It was his mention of her mother, as if her mother had anything to do with her dreams as well, and especially saying she only wanted what was best for her that made Grace snort with disbelief. I'm sorry, I.... allergies. She carefully reset her face to neutral. Had he even talked to her mom? Or just cashed the check? He laughed too, so maybe he was just joking, or maybe he was thinking about the check. He dimmed the lights from a switch he had at his desk, like it was the console of a space ship or something like that, and then he told her to close her eyes. She looked around, and then back at him. Ok, I guess so, why not. I'm game. Maybe he'd let her get that nap after all. She didn't lie down on the couch though, not with him staring at her from behind the desk. He'd either have to sit in a high-backed chair facing away from her toward the window, or she'd have to wear longer pants and maybe a parka. Enough boys stared at her that she just had a certain sense of when her body was going to be too much on display, too much of a temptation. Of course some guys like the porn addict stared at her no matter what she did, but Dr. King seemed more in control of himself on that point at least, or at least his glances were subtle enough it didn't bother her. Still, Grace sat with her legs still crossed, curled up protectedly against the corner of the couch and closed her eyes. His voice did sound reassuring, a deep voice with little extra warm tones tossed in like an accidental harmony, almost musical, kind of like her Dad's voice she suddenly remembered. Her eyes flickered open, but then closed again as she pushed that thought aside and tried to dredge up her last dream. She was silent, trying to remember it, and he kept talking so smoothly she felt half-asleep by the time it came back to her. Well, Dr. King, I don't know if it's the last, but it's the last one I remember, if that's ok. She sounded as if she was worried she was being graded. She always felt like she was being graded. It was at the beach. A warm day, and I was with Patrick, my boyfriend. It was weird. Everyone else was in swimsuits and frolicking in the water, but we were fully dressed. I was on the sand and he was dipping a toe in the water but not coming near me. He asked me if I thought we should go in and I didn't know. There was a man. Not my Dad. But an older man. He went in a bathroom, I guess it must of been one of those portapotties cuz why would there be a bathroom right there, but that's the dream I guess. I watched him go in the bathroom, and suddenly I decided I should try going in the water. He left the door open and he was watching me, like he knew me. I stripped off my pants and my sweater and my shirt -- I don't know how I wasn't sweating like that -- until I was just in this little bikini, the pink one I used to wear back when I was a teen, not the one-piece I wear when I swim nowadays. Things had been so different back when she wore that bikini. She had just started blossoming and she remembered how obsessed she was with whether boys were interested in her, what she looked like, wanting to look like the other girls at the beach. Her dad had raised an eyebrow at the time but gone along with it. Of course he died a year later and she never wore it again after that, switching to the one-piece when she started swimming again late last year. So I went down to the water and I passed Patrick. I didn't say anything to him, and he didn't say anything to me. Just splashing with his toes, still dressed. I went in deeper and the water was so unbelievably warm. I looked back at the man, and the door of the bathroom was still open and he was... well, he was you know, going to the bathroom -- number one, not number two -- and he was looking right at me and making a mess like the guys in the dorm do when they have the keg parties because he wasn't watching where he aimed. I hate that when it gets on the toilet seat. Anyway, I remember wanting to get out of the water right away, like I didn't belong there, but he told me to wait until he was done, which was really, really weird. By the time I came out, Patrick was gone and I just stood there, dripping wet, looking for him but the guy in the bathroom was the only other person left on the beach. That's all I remember. Grace kept her eyes closed, hoping maybe he could chew on that for ten or fifteen minutes quietly. She felt so relaxed and the couch was comfortable, even just sitting down, that she didn't feel like moving or opening her eyes. That nap felt like a wonderful idea.