“It might’ve saved your life.”
“I thought psychiatrists didn’t believe in the power of prayer and God?”
“I wouldn’t say that. To each their own.” Alice shrugs. “And this is about your beliefs, not anyone else’s.”
“Speaking of saved lives, I’m lucky I was found and didn’t freeze to death.” Deborah groans. “I spent three days in the hospital while they did some tests.”
“I’m guessing you had some injuries from this?” Alice asks. “Maybe even concussive symptoms or a hematoma as a result of the fall?”
“Yes, I had a concussion.” Deborah focuses upward on the ceiling so she doesn’t burst into tears. “As a result, I’m experiencing a lot of headaches. Migraines, actually. I’m dizzy as soon as I wake up, and my ears ring at times.”
“Did they do a brain scan?”
“Yes. Both a CT and MRI.”
Alice stares at her notes, tapping her pen in thought. “First, I’d like to request those medical records so I can review both scans. I’m guessing your brain activity didn’t show signs of tumors or torn tissue?”
“Correct.”
“Anything else you’ve noticed since then?” Alice points to Deborah’s leg. “Any issues with your motor skills? I noticed you had a slight limp. Did they do a neurological exam to check your coordination and balance?”
“That’s from another accident,” Deborah stammers. “I fell down the stairs a week ago.” Ignoring the surprise behind the large spectacles Alice is wearing, Deborah continues, “I live in an old farmhouse, and the steps are wooden and pretty steep. I sprained my wrist and hurt my leg.”
“How did you fall?”
“I tripped.”
“Did anything cause you to trip?”
“My own klutziness,” Deborah says with a nervous laugh.
“Any hallucinations? Visual or auditory?”
“No,” Deborah lies. It’s more than the attack that has Deborah concerned. Lately, her brain has seemed muddled, as if she’s taken a handful of hallucinogenic drugs, like the time in high school when she mistakenly ate some shrooms and objects appeared to take on their own ominous shapes.
A couple of days ago, Deborah was driving at nighttime when she swerved to avoid a collision with what she thought was a deer, but in reality, it was a telephone pole.
Embarrassingly enough, she was pulled over as a possible intoxicated driver. The police officer cautioned her about driving in her lethargic state, said being unalert was as dangerous as driving drunk. She couldn’t tell him the wooden posts reminded her of moving animals, the electrical wires impersonating outstretched limbs.
But she doesn’t feel like confiding in Alice about what happened. If Deborah said it out loud, even to her own ears, it would sound bonkers. She doubts Alice will be able to cover up a judgmental reaction. She’ll probably suggest she be thrown in the loony bin for good.
Alice tilts her head, as if suspecting her of dishonesty. “Another reason for the neurological exam is to check your vision. You’d be surprised how your body works in conjunction, or against, other muscles, organs, and tissue. Speaking of, when was the last time you had an eye exam?”
“Hmm . . .” Deborah tries to remember. “I believe it was last year.”
“I’d suggest both visiting your optometrist and scheduling another neurological exam, since the fall was recent.”
“Okay,” Deborah consents. “I can do that.”
“Has a doctor prescribed any meds?”
“Pain pills—Oxycontin. For sleeping, trazodone.”
“Wait, Deb . . .” Alice writes something on her pad.
“Deborah,” she corrects. “I go by Deborah.”
“Of course, Deborah,” Alice repeats. “Deborah. Got it. Since you were prescribed sleeping pills, can you talk to me about your issues with sleeping?”
“I didn’t sleep well to begin with, and it’s even worse now. It’s hard to feel like I get a good night’s rest.”
“What happens when you go to bed?”
“Nightmares,” Deborah stammers. “About the stranger coming back to finish me off.”
“Do you know if you talk in your sleep?”
“Uh, no, I don’t.”
Alice points at Deborah’s wedding band. “I noticed the ring, and if it’s one thing I know, your spouse will tell you when they don’t get rest because of you. My husband woke the whole household up, including the farm animals, much to our detriment.” Stopping suddenly, Alice shakes her head. “But I’m digressing. My point is they’ll typically mention if you talk in your sleep, flail—heck, even kick or punch.”
Deborah raises her eyebrow at this. “People punch in their sleep?”
“Some people have very vivid reactions.” Alice shrugs. “Especially to dreams. Have you ever had a dream that seemed so real you woke up and were mad about it?”
“Now that I think about it, yes,” Deborah says. “But I live alone, so I couldn’t tell you about my sleep patterns.”
Alice looks at her with curiosity.
Deborah explains, “I was married, but I’ve been widowed for a long, long time, and my boyfriend . . .” The word boyfriend sounds so juvenile coming out of her mouth, so Deborah rephrases. “Robert and I tend to sleep at our own houses.”
Alice claps her hands. “I didn’t know Robert was dating anyone, but I’m glad to hear it.”
In her head, Deborah mutters a curse word. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone they were dating; it was what they both agreed to.
“Do you mind if we keep that private?” Deborah’s face burns with embarrassment. “We . . . we wanted to keep it between us for now. We connected after my attack, and we’re moving slow.”
“Certainly.” Alice shrugs. “Our sessions are strictly between us. I know you mentioned being a widow, which has to be difficult.” Alice leans forward. “What was your husband’s name? I want to be sure I know who you’re referencing when we talk.”
“Jonathan.”
“How long has Jonathan been gone?”
“About sixteen years.”
“What was his cause of death?”
“It’s complicated.” Deborah presses a hand to her forehead, suddenly feverish.
Alice stares at her in puzzlement. “He’s deceased, though?”
“Yes. My . . . my husband . . .” Deborah’s heart starts to pound, and she’s sure Alice can hear it. “Would you mind . . .” She clears her throat, unable to catch her breath. With a racing heart, she whispers, “Could I please have a glass of water?”
Alice
