“Perfect.” Dr. Alacoy scans the room and locates the candle on the window ledge. After setting it on a mosaic glass platter, she pulls a lighter from her pocket. “Did you know they used to use lavender to help purify mummies?”
“No, I did not.”
Dr. Alacoy sniffs the air. “The camphor is subtle, yet distinct.”
Deborah inhales a deep breath.
Dr. Alacoy smiles at her. “Lavender has been an essential oil since practically the beginning of time, used to soften the skin and cover up odors back then but also as part of the embalming process.”
“I like that it’s not an overpowering smell.”
“Absolutely. That’s the draw of it. The way it sucks you in without being overly potent.” With the candle between them on the side table, Dr. Alacoy casually steps out of her clogs and tucks her bare feet up underneath her, as if they’re old friends catching up and need to be as comfortable as possible.
“First”—she reaches for Deborah’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze before she lets it go—“I’d like you to call me Alice. No ‘Dr. This’ or ‘Dr. That.’ I’m here to act as a guide in your journey to self-enlightenment and healing. I’ll know I’ve done my job if you feel better than you do at this moment.”
Alice fixes her with a caring smile. “This is a judgment-free zone, and it only works if we have open communication lines and trust. I realize this isn’t easy—I’m a stranger, and telling someone your innermost thoughts or feelings can be hard, especially with a shrink. By the way,” Alice mutters, “I hate that word. But”—she gives Deborah’s knee a quick tap—“if I can listen and advise you on the best course of treatment, then we will make progress. But it’s not just up to me; it’s up to you.”
Deborah slowly nods, unclear what Dr. Alacoy is implying.
“You’ll have to do the work, put in the time.” Alice peers at her through the massive lenses of her glasses. “I take it you’re open to whatever type of therapy or recommendation I make?”
Deborah feels her face redden, as if Alice can detect her reservations.
“You’re here because you want to feel better?”
“Yes.”
“You seem unsure,” Alice points out gently. “I just want to make sure you’re on board. Many people are coerced into seeking help, and the success rate is minimal if it’s not what you want.”
“Of course I want to feel better,” Deborah snaps.
Alice sits back as if she’s been slapped but quickly recovers.
“Sorry, it’s just”—Deborah takes a deep breath—“I’ve had some bad experiences with therapy. To be honest, I’ve seen a psychiatrist before, and I have mixed feelings.”
“Don’t apologize,” Alice murmurs. “It’s quite all right. You’re not offending me.” They consider each other for a moment while Alice rests a finger on her chin. “Was it because of the doctor or the treatment?”
“Both.” She sniffs. “I didn’t like the outcome.”
Alice opens her mouth to speak, but Deborah isn’t ready to address her comment.
“I value my privacy.” Deborah twists the thin gold band around her finger. “Nothing stays quiet in a town this size; everyone knows everyone’s business, regardless if they should.”
“Are you alluding to something public or a breach of confidentiality?” Alice must notice Deborah’s pained expression and adds, “Your concerns are valid. Our conversations and sessions are strictly between you and me, unless, of course, someday you want or need a medical release for other treatment. Also, to be clear, even though you were referred to me by a mutual friend, he isn’t privy to our sessions unless you want him to be.”
Deborah stares down at her lap, silently processing this. Trust is a hard thing to come by, especially now.
Alice’s blue eyes flash with worry. “I want to hear about what brings you here today and delve into the past, but first, let’s start with your medical history so I have the full picture.” She reaches forward and pulls out a notepad from the small drawer in the side table. “Do you mind if I take some notes? This way, I can go back for clarity if I need to.”
“Uh . . .” Deborah twists uncomfortably on the couch. “I guess not.”
Alice starts off with simple yes-or-no questions, as if earnestly preparing Deborah for the easy parts of an exam until she can interrogate her on the harder subjects. And finally, Alice does just that, making a smooth transition by asking Deborah about the “incident” that prompted this visit. Tapping her pen against her cheek, Alice says, “Let’s talk about what happened.”
“Okay.” Deborah anxiously tugs at her cross necklace. “About three months ago, in January, I was inside my home when I heard a noise outside.”
She tightens her grip on the thin chain. “It scared me since I’m on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Besides that, it was nighttime and the middle of winter. I thought I saw something outside, but I told myself it was my mind playing tricks, especially since my night vision isn’t the best.”
Alice is fixated squarely on her, her pen poised, unmoving.
“When I went outside to check it out, I managed to slip and fall on a patch of ice.” With a quivering voice, Deborah falters. “I was right; someone was there, and that person hit me repeatedly with my own rifle, kicked me, and left me for dead.”
The color drains from Alice’s fair skin. “Before we talk about the aftereffects, I have to ask: Is there a police report?” The creases in Alice’s forehead deepen. “Do they have any suspects?”
“Yes.” Deborah sighs. “There’s a police report, but they haven’t mentioned anyone. Ever since they built that men’s prison outside of town, we’ve had an influx of crime.” Deborah shudders. “Escaped convicts using the farms as their hideout.”
“I’d like to think they are still investigating this closely.” Alice shakes her head. “How awful.”
“It definitely has been a test of my faith.”
“Were you wearing that necklace?” Alice nods at the cross tangled in Deborah’s fingers.
“I was.” Deborah
