Ms. N. Crouch stood and extended her hand to greet me. We identified ourselves and she gestured in the general direction of her seating area and said, “Please make yourself comfortable.”
I did a quick survey of the office. Deep plum was the dominant color, except for the far wall, which was faux- finished in light brown with delicate black threading, to resemble cork. On this wall hung several professional certificates, including a diploma from the University Of Pittsburgh School Of Medicine. Everything felt crisp and modern, save for the antique wooden coat rack in the entryway corner.
I chose a plush, high-backed leather throne chair and settled in.
Ms. N. Crouch said, “Dr. Hedgepeth mentioned a possible psychosomatic pain?”
If Darwin, my government facilitator, knew I was seeing a psychiatrist, he’d put an assassin on me. With that in mind, I was reticent about jumping right into things. I sat quietly and stared at her.
She had on a layered skirt, navy, with a matching jacket she wore opened. Her blouse was cream-colored silk, with a round neckline. A cable-wrapped, white gold necklace dangled in two strands and rested modestly at the center of her chest.
“Mr. Creed, you can remain silent if you wish. But just so you know, I get paid either way.”
With that, she went quiet and stared back at me. It has been my experience with women that they don’t like to remain quiet for long periods of time. Which is why I was surprised that she allowed us to sit there in total silence, staring at each other, for the next twenty minutes.
Finally, I said, “I believe I like you, Ms. Crouch.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Creed.”
“Call me Donovan.”
She nodded, and we remained silent until she realized it was her turn to speak.
“Donovan, in one way my profession is similar to that of a dentist.”
“How’s that?”
“Like your dentist, I can’t begin helping you until you open your mouth.”
I nodded.
She continued, “There are several chairs here, from which a patient can choose. I purposely stay out of the selection process because the chair choice tells me something about the patient.”
“Uh huh.”
“For example, the chair you selected tells me you’re accustomed to being in control, which often indicates trust issues. You’re obviously finding it diffi cult to let your guard down enough to discuss your personal life with a complete stranger.”
“Good point,” I said. “So tell me a little about yourself, and then we won’t be strangers.”
She smiled. “With all due respect, Donovan, this session is about you. It would be highly unprofessional of me to discuss my personal life with you. More importantly, the less you know about me, the easier it will be for you to share your feelings.”
“Fine,” I said. “Don’t tell me. I can find out anything I need to know about you by looking around the room.”
“Really, you’re that perceptive?” she said.
I noted that Ms. N. Crouch was on the edge of mocking me, despite her best effort to keep all emotion out of her voice.
I stood up. “Shall I demonstrate?”
“If you feel it necessary.”
“Your face tells me you’ve been beautiful your whole life, but you’re older now, in your late fifties, and your clothes and hair style reflect your acceptance of that fact. You’ve aged gracefully, and you believe you’re smarter than your friends, even those who have surpassed you professionally. You keep but one picture on your desk, two young boys who appear to be Japanese-American. They’re your sons, but neither you nor their father is in the picture. If your husband had taken it, you’d be in the photo with your sons. If you’d taken it, he’d be in it. If your husband were dead, you’d have his picture on your desk to honor him. But there is no picture of the husband, which tells me you’re divorced. Based on your current age, and the age you had to be to give birth, these pictures are at least ten years old. You haven’t updated them because they remind you of a happier time.”
