Sister

today, Pantone PMS 635 to be precise, a hopeful sky. This morning Mr. Wright is going to ask me about the next installment in your story, which is my meeting with your psychiatrist. But still half asleep, my mind lacks the necessary clarity so I will run through it out here first, a mental dress rehearsal before I tell Mr. Wright.

Dr. Nichols’s NHS waiting list was four months, so I paid to see him. His private patients’ waiting room looked more upmarket hairdressing salon than anything remotely medical: vases of lilies, glossy magazines, a mineral water dispenser. The young receptionist had the same de rigueur disdainful look, lording her keeper-of-the-gate power over the clients waiting. As I waited, I flicked through a magazine in a futile bid to look occupied. It had the next month’s date on the cover and I remembered you laughing at time-traveling fashion mags, saying the date on the cover should alert people to their absurdity inside. Nervous mental chatter because there was so much riding on this meeting. It was because of Dr. Nichols that the police were convinced you had postpartum psychosis, because of him that they were sure you committed suicide. It was because of Dr. Nichols that no one was looking for your murderer.

The receptionist glanced at me. “What time did you say your appointment was?”

“Two-thirty.”

“You were fortunate Dr. Nichols made a space to see you.”

“I’m sure I’ll be charged accordingly.”

I was limbering up for a little more confrontation. She sounded irritated. “Have you completed the form?”

I gave her back the form, which was blank apart from my credit card details. She took it from me, voice snide, eyes scornful. “You haven’t filled in any of your medical history.”

I thought of people coming here who were depressed, or anxious, or losing their grip on reality and falling into the void of madness; fragile, vulnerable people who were owed at least a little civility by the first person they would have to talk to.

“I’m not here for a medical consultation.”

She didn’t want to show me she was interested. Or maybe she thought I was just another barmy patient, not worth the bother.

“I’m here because my sister was murdered and Dr. Nichols was her psychiatrist.”

For a moment I had her attention. She took in my greasy hair (hair washing is one of the first corner cuttings of grief), my lack of makeup and the bags under my eyes. She saw the markers of grief but interpreted them as signs of madness. I wondered if, in a larger way, this was what happened to you: your signals of fear being interpreted as insanity. She took the form from me without another word.

As I waited, I remembered our e-mails when I told you once that I was thinking of seeing a therapist.From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

A shrink?! Why on earth do you want one of them, Bee? If you want to talk about something, why not talk to me or to one of your friends?

T xoxFrom: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone To: [email protected]

I just thought it would be interesting, valuable even, to see a psychiatrist. It’s completely different to talking to a friend.

lol Bee XX

PS They’re not called shrinks anymore.From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

But talking to me comes free and I’d have your best interests at heart, and I wouldn’t limit you to an hour time slot.

T x o x o

PS They’re a hot cycle for the personality, shrinking you down to something that fits a category in a textbook.From: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone To: [email protected]

They’re highly trained. A psychiatrist (rather than a psychologist) is a fully qualified medical doctor who then specializes. You wouldn’t say they were washing machines if you were bipolar or demented or schizophrenic would you?

Lol BeeFrom: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

Fair point. But you’re not.

T X

Ps I’ll shout that a bit louder in case it didn’t reach you up on that podium.From: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone To: [email protected]

I wasn’t just talking about the severely mentally ill needing a psychiatrist; the walking wounded sometimes need professional help too.

Lol Bee xFrom: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

Bee, I’m sorry. Can you tell me about it?

T X XXXXFrom: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone To: [email protected]

I have to go to a v. important meeting, talk later.

Bee xFrom: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

And I’m meant to be waitressing not e-mailing you from Bettina’s computer, and table four’s still waiting for their cheese but I’m not budging till you reply.

T XxxxFrom: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

Table four’s gone home cheese-less. Give me a break here will you? I’m even using Americanisms, so you can see how desperate I am for you to forgive me.

T XOXFrom: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

My shift’s over now Bee-bean, and I’m still at Bettina’s computer, so e-mail back as soon as you get this will you? Please?

T XXXOOOOFrom: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone To: [email protected]

I wasn’t avoiding you, I was just in a meeting that ran on. Don’t read anything into this shrink business. It’s just a case of when in New York, do as New Yorkers … It must be past midnight in London so go home and get some sleep.

lol Bee XFrom: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone

If you don’t want to tell me, that’s OK. I’m guessing that your wound is to do with Leo? Or Dad?

lol T X

The receptionist looked up at me from her desk. “Dr. Nichols can see you now.”

As I walked to his room, I remembered our phone call that evening (my time; two in the morning your time). I still didn’t tell you why I wanted to see a psychiatrist, but you explained why you didn’t think it was useful.

“Our mind is who we are; it’s where we feel and think and believe. It’s where we have love and hate and faith and passion.”

I was getting a little embarrassed by your earnestness, but you continued, “How can someone hope to treat another person’s mind unless they are also a theologian and a philosopher and a poet?”

I opened the door to Dr. Nichols’s consulting room and went in.