Medicine Man

I look at the lime jello, and the plastic spoon beside it, and almost lunge for it. If I’m eating, then I’m not thinking about him climbing trees to impress a girl.

Things boys do for pretty girls and not for girls like me. Not that he’s a boy or anything. He’s thirty-three. A man. A man much older than me.

“Good for you,” I congratulate him on impressing this unknown girl who may or may not have been pretty, and march to the chair, pull it out, and drop down in it before plucking the jello from the table and digging into it.

I shovel a mouthful of it in before looking up at him and raising my eyebrows. “Shall we?”

He studies me for a beat before taking his hands out of his pockets, pulling out his own chair, and sitting on it way more gracefully than I did.

Rolling the chair forward, he opens a file, probably filled with notes on me and my sessions and hits a few keys on his laptop. He’s getting my entire medical history together.

I hate that.

So I look at something else. The watch strapped to his wrist. It’s one of those large dial ones with a brown leather band, which make him look even more severe, manlier. Older.

“It says here that you have trouble falling asleep?”

I swallow my lime jello. “Yes.” Then, “No thanks to your stupid meds.”

He looks away from the chart and at me. “Stupid meds.”

I try to stay quiet. I really do.

Four seconds later, I blurt out, “Yes. Stupid meds. They are ruining my life and my sleep. Thank God, I’m not throwing up anymore. I’m pretty sure I lost an organ last week while you guys kept saying that it will pass.”

He waits a second, all silent and studying me. “It did pass, correct?”

Damn it.

I stab the spoon at my jello. “Not before I lost one-fourth of my liver. It came right out of my mouth.”

“It will grow back.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Liver. It exhibits regenerative properties. Meaning, it can grow itself back. But let me see what we can do about your sleep.”

He’s laughing at me; I know that. Although his expression is very smooth and serious.

Narrowing my eyes at him, I ask, “What exactly are you going to do about it?”

“What do you think I’m going to do about it?”

“Sing me a lullaby?”

Closing his laptop and the files, he puts them aside and laces his fingers together. This time there was definitely a crease on the side of his eyes. “Yeah, singing. Not my forte. Let’s try some medication first.”

God, why does he have to be so… unruffled?

“I don’t want your meds. I told you they are ruining my life,” I say in my bratty tone.

I didn’t even know I had that tone until right now.

“This one will save your life, I promise,” he says. “And fix your sleep.”

Fix.

There’s that word again. The look in his eyes shows he’s doing it on purpose. Jerk. I do want to come at him with a snappy statement, but I won’t.

Don’t engage the enemy. Well, not more than what you already have.

I eat more lime jello and look away.

“Tell me about the night of your eighteenth birthday.”

The question jolts me, and I pause mid-swallow, glancing up at him. At his gorgeous, ice-cold, expressionless face to see if he’s kidding. Or maybe he didn’t speak at all and I’m hearing things.

Crazy people hear things, right?

Bringing my lime jello to my chest, almost hugging the tiny cup, I gulp whatever I had in my mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“What happened that night?” he repeats.

I see his lips move. With my own eyes. Meaning I’m still sane enough to not hear things. Though for the first time in my life, I wish I weren’t.

Swallowing, I wedge my plastic spoon in between the green jello and put it back on the desk. There was a tiny tremble in my fingers but I’m not focusing on that. I bring my hands back to my lap and clasp them, tightly.

In a calm tone, I say, “It’s all there in my chart.”

There. Nice and polite.

I’m proud of myself.

“It is. But I prefer to hear it from you.”

“Well, Dr. Martin and I, we’ve already had this conversation. And I talk about it with Josie all the time,” I lie.

Dr. Martin talked about it and I listened but never spoke. And Josie and I, we don’t talk about it all the time. I mean, she tries to, but I ignore her.

Basically, all I’ve done is ignore this conversation and rightfully so. I don’t wanna talk about it. Why don’t people get that? Why do they think they have a right to poke and prod into my psyche like this?

Across the desk, he’s cool, composed. Almost sprawled in his chair. Like this is his domain, which it is but he doesn’t have to flaunt it. “That’s excellent,” he rumbles, dryly. “That you talk about it. But I’m not Dr. Martin or Josie. Why don’t you tell me what you told them?”