Loss

Chapter 10

She looked the sort that I didn’t run into a whole lot. Going by those I did run into, maybe this meant we’d get along just fine.

‘So should I call you Dr Naughton?’

‘Would you like to call me Dr Naughton?’

I figured pretty quick that this was the way it was gonna play out: she’d be big on questions, short on answers. ‘Well, I suppose.’

Somewhere in my mind, I’d formed an impression of what a psychiatrist should look like. I blame television. She fitted none of the cliches, was too relaxed in a black linen shirt, grey-to-black cords and Kicker boots. Looked like she’d walked out of a Gap advert. Only the candy-stripe neckerchief bust the image, brought her back into the professions.

Dr Naughton sat to the side of her desk, explained she didn’t want the object to be a barrier. I saw a young child’s drawing in a picture frame hanging behind her, wondered: One of hers, or a client’s maybe?

She eyed me over a clipboard. ‘I usually ask new patients to tell me what they’d like to achieve with their first session.’

I laughed. ‘Sorry… until recently I was going for a whole other type of session.’

She didn’t say anything, gave me that over-the-glasses stare as a prompt.

‘A session… y’know, a few bevvies.’

She smiled, an indulgent one, wrote something down on her clipboard. There was a cycling helmet and a Karrimor rucksack in the corner of the room; figured an outdoorsy type wouldn’t approve. ‘Is that me down there as a drinker now?’

‘Is that what you want me to put down?’

Sighed, ‘Wouldn’t be wrong.’

She placed the clipboard to one side, took off her glasses altogether. She had very grey eyes. They unsettled me, reminded me of a caged wolf I’d once seen; but I was prepared to admit I was imagining things, making life difficult for myself. That was my usual modus operandi.

I scanned the pine bookshelves behind her. They looked pretty light on books.

Another question: ‘Can you tell me a little about yourself?’

‘Not much to tell.’ I sounded defensive. Maybe it was just nerves but I didn’t want a bad report to go back to Debs; tried to play along. ‘Well, can you give me some pointers? Yourself covers a multitude of things.’

She returned to the clipboard and glasses, read from a list, ‘Patient. Ambitious. Sensitive…’ She stopped, looked at me again, continued, ‘Temperamental. Pedantic. Domineering.’ She put aside the notes once more. Removed her specs again and folded them in her hands. I noticed a wedding band and a very large rock sat above it.

Said, ‘Yeah, that sounds like me.’

‘You identify quite a few aspects of yourself in there?’

I nodded. ‘At one time or another I think we all have the potential to be sensitive or patient or… temperamental.’

‘When have you been temperamental, Angus?’

‘Gus, please.’

‘I’m sorry… Gus.’

She waited for my answer.

I sighed. ‘Temperamental… I’m pretty temperamental now, have been for a few days… Look, my brother just died, you must know that.’

‘Yes. It’s in your file. How many siblings do you… did you have?’

The answer bit me: ‘One. I’ve one left.’

The doctor looked to be weighing possibilities; something formed behind those grey eyes. ‘What position were you in the birth order?’

The question seemed ridiculously formal. ‘What does that matter?’

She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really, I only ask to find out a little bit about you.’

She’d laid a guilt trip on me. This line of questioning had me rattled. I didn’t want to talk about my brother. I didn’t want to talk about our childhood, didn’t she get it? ‘I was the eldest… Michael was the youngest.’

She fidgeted in her seat, then pressed on. ‘Was there a big age difference between you?’

‘Eight years,’ I snapped.

A lengthy silence drew out between us; she caught me checking my watch. She knew she’d unsettled me, made me feel uncomfortable with her questions. I wasn’t ready to talk about my brother. I stood up. ‘Can I smoke?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. We can take a quick break if you like.’

I nodded, took my tabs out my coat pocket and went to the door.

I walked straight out of the building in a white rage. I didn’t know where it had come from. Temperamental. That was one of her words; yes, I was temperamental. I sparked up and took the smoke deep into my lungs. A ferocious chill filled the air; I’d left my Crombie inside and the shock of leaving the centrally heated rooms near knocked me out. I felt my shoulders start to tremble. Debs, what the fuck have you signed me up to? God, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for that woman but this was edging close to the limit. I felt like I’d just stepped out of a Far Side cartoon. The therapist was nice enough, but her professional sangfroid set my nerves jangling. Get a grip, Gus, I told myself. I knew I needed to open my mind to new experiences; like Mac said, I had been too closed-minded for too long. Christ, this might even help me. And I needed all the help I could get.

I dowped the tab, crushed it under my boot and went back inside. The waft of warmth gave me a smack. I felt myself automatically rub at the outside of my arms.

‘Chilly out there,’ I said.

Dr Naughton smiled. ‘Yes, it is. You feel it when you leave these overheated buildings.’

I sat down, had grown more relaxed; she had a way of setting you at ease. Did they teach them that?

‘Would you like to take off where we left?’ she said.

‘Where were we?’

‘You were telling me about your brother… but if it’s too painful to talk about him so soon after…’

I wanted to say ‘he was murdered’ but went with, ‘No, it’s fine.’

‘What kind of upbringing did you have?’

I crossed my legs, fiddled with the seam of my jeans. ‘Not your average.’

‘Oh, no? In what way?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to say, what’s average?’

She stayed silent, waited for me to continue.

‘My father was a sportsman, a footballer… He had aggressive tendencies and, well, a violent streak.’

‘Was your father violent towards you?’

‘Shit yeah!’ I uncrossed my legs, leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry… I mean, yes… He was a drinker.’

She looked concerned — they taught her that, surely. ‘Did his violence extend to other members of the family?’

I nodded.

‘To Michael?’

I nodded again.

I felt the middle part of my chest hardening, a stiffness spreading up my neck and into my jaw. My throat grew paralysed.

The doctor spoke: ‘Perhaps that’s enough for one day.’

I felt enormous relief. ‘You sure?’

She stood up, extended her hand. ‘Quite sure. You’ve been very strong. Thank you for that, Gus.’

It seemed a strange thing to be thanking me for. I felt utterly confused by this whole experience. Didn’t know where to file it away in my head. I took my coat down from the stand. ‘Do I make another appointment?’

‘Yes, I’ll see you again in a couple of days.’

I was surprised. ‘So soon.’

‘Yes, is that all right?’

I put on my coat. ‘Fine.’

I walked to the door. Neither of us said goodbye. I turned, ‘A couple of days — I must be a special case… or a nutcase.’

She said nothing.