Doctor Theresa Lawrence sat in the chair I’d claimed as my own, closest to the bed, and stared down at Irina’s “sleeping” form. The emotion on her features was recognizable, even with her attempts to disguise it. I turned my attention away, giving her a moment of privacy to try to force her face back into something more neutral.
She struggled, the professional mask taking effort to slide into place.
“You make sure he spends the rest of his life behind bars,” she said finally, turning to Irina’s father with hatred blazing on her face. She was an older woman, her hair graying at the temples and her face weathered by the stories and traumas she’d undoubtedly lived through her patient’s memories.
“He won’t live long enough to see the inside of a jail cell,” I said, making her attention snap back to me.
She swallowed, shaking her head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, in the interest of the world being a far better place without men who would do this in it. How’s she coping?” she asked, pulling a bottle of pills out of her purse and handing it to me.
I took it, nodding toward Irina on the bed. “Why don’t you ask her yourself? Time to stop playing dead, Little Butterfly,” I said, touching the top of her foot through the blankets. She peeled her eyes open, hatred filling them the moment that defiant gaze landed on me.
Good. I would take her hatred over her numbness any day.
“Irina?” Doctor Lawrence asked, making my butterfly finally turn her attention to the psychiatrist I suspected knew her better than anyone—knew the inner workings of Irina’s mind better than I could ever hope to know.
“I’m fine,” Irina said, the flatness in her voice raising the hair on my arms in warning. There was something so dejected to it, so empty, that I sat on the foot of the bed and ran a hand over her shin. The gentle touch did nothing to bring any of the fire back to her eyes, and she stayed the blank version of herself.
“I’ve known you since you were a girl,” Doctor Lawrence said, raising a brow at Irina. “I think I know you better than that.”
Irina’s face pinched, her mouth tensing as her eyes filled with the threat of tears. She screwed them shut, shoving down the emotion to whatever place she was using to keep her trauma away. She shook her head, raising her good arm to press her hand to her mouth. “She needs to allow herself to feel what happened so that she can process it,” Doctor Lawrence said. “That may take time. Sometimes patients with this level of physical trauma aren’t able to process the emotional damage while their body handles the physical healing.”
“So we just let her be, in the meantime? Let her stay practically catatonic?” I asked, feeling my other fist clench at my side. The thought of letting Irina suffer inside her head endlessly, of leaving her to her own recovery and not being able to help her through it, was an agony I didn’t think I’d survive.
“Keep a close eye on her. Give her reassurance that you’re all here for her when she’s ready, but healing has to come on her terms. Anything forceful will only traumatize her further,” she said, then turned her attention to Irina. “There’s no right or wrong way to recover from something like this, Irina. You just tell us what you need to help you along.”
She finally opened her eyes again, glancing to where the Doctor studied her intently. “Don’t want to sleep,” she mumbled, shaking her head.
“She’s been having violent nightmares,” I explained, continuing to rub soothing circles over her leg.
“That’s to be expected. I’ll get her something to help her sleep that should keep the worst of the night terrors away. Okay Iri?” she asked, and she smiled softly when Irina nodded.
“She still isn’t eating,” Ivory offered from the doorway. “I can barely get her to sip water and broth.”
“If that persists, call me in a couple of days. We’ll get someone out to address your nutritional concerns,” she said, pulling a blank notebook and a pen from her bag. She placed it on the nightstand. “In case you want to write things down instead of talking, Irina. Sometimes it helps.”
Irina didn’t respond, turning her head away from the notebook I hoped she would use one day. Doctor Lawrence asked Ed and I to join her in the hall, and we moved to do just that.
I hated to leave her alone, but Ivory stepped in to fill the gap as I emerged into the hallway where Dr. Lawrence had already begun speaking. “Make sure she doesn’t have access to any sharp objects. Her tendency to self-harm when she’s overwhelmed is a concern for me. Medication should be carefully administered. She isn’t in the right frame of mind, and an accidental overdose wouldn’t be unlikely.”
“Do you think she’s at risk of suicide?” Ed asked, his voice a harsh whisper.
“I can’t say for certain. Irina has never expressed consistent suicidal thoughts to me in the past, but that doesn’t mean a trauma like this couldn’t be enough to drive her to that point. My advice would be to make sure she’s watched closely until she’s through the worst of the immediate aftermath, but know that she has a long road to recovery ahead of her.”
“Thank you,” Ed said, leaving me to nod a goodbye to her as she walked down the stairs.
“Can you sit with her for a while? I need to do something, but—”
“Of course. I’ll stay until you’re ready,” Ed said, stepping into the bedroom with Irina and Ivory.
I needed to get the fuck away before I did something I regretted.