Simple Genius

Chapter 8

Michelle studied the doorknob of the room she was in, waiting for it to turn, revealing another person who wanted to ask her questions. Every day here was like the one before it. Breakfast, shrink time, lunch, exercise time, then more psychobabble, an hour to herself, then more shrink interaction centered around mastering her emotions, tempering her inner violent core that threatened to destroy her. Then came dinner, a couple of pills if she desired them, which she usually didn’t, and then bed, where she could dream about the next day of this living hell.

When the knob didn’t budge she slowly rose from her chair and her gaze bounced off all four windowless, brightly painted walls. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet and took deep breaths, testing the healing stage of her ribs.

Michelle hadn’t thought much about that night in the bar. She’d gone there to drink and forget. And then, drunk, she had done her best to kill a man. Well, not her best. Somewhere deep in her mind had she wanted to be hurt, perhaps to die? No, Michelle could not admit that. And yet if that was her intent, she apparently couldn’t even kill herself properly. How did one even chart that level of ineptitude?

She spun around when the door opened and Horatio Barnes walked in, dressed in his usual faded jeans, sneakers and black T-shirt with a silkscreen of Hendrix on the front smoking the frets. She’d seen him several times since she’d come here, but their conversations had all been general. She had come to think the man was not very smart, or else didn’t really care whether she got better or not. Do I even care?

He was clutching a tape recorder, and asked Michelle to sit. And she did. She always did what they asked. What else was there to do?

Horatio sat down across from her and held up the recorder. “Do you mind? I’m afraid dementia’s setting in. I’m lucky I remember where my front door is or I’d never get out anymore.”

Michelle shrugged. “I don’t care, record away.”

Horatio took this rebuke in good spirits, turned on the recorder and set it on the table beside her. “And how are we doing today?”

“We are super. How are you doing today, Dr. Barnes?” Michelle added in a dead-on impression of the man.

The psychologist smiled. “Just make it Horatio. My old man was the Dr. Barnes in the family.”

“What kind of a doctor was he?”

“He was chief of medicine at Harvard Medical School. Dr. Stephen Cawley Barnes. That’s why he was ticked I always called him Stevie.”

“How come you’re not an M.D.?”

“My father wanted me to become one. Had my whole life planned out for me. He named me Horatio after some distant relative of ours from colonial times because he thought it would give my life historical weight. Can you believe that? Do you know the shit I took about my name? In high school I was either called ‘whore’ or ‘rat’ just because my old man was an elitist snob. So I went to Yale and became a shrink.”

“Quite a rebel, were you?”

“Go big or go home. I see from your chart that you didn’t have a restful night.”

Michelle took this abrupt segue in stride. “I wasn’t sleepy.”

“Nightmares apparently,” Horatio said. “They finally had to wake you up.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well that’s why I’m here. To help you remember.”

“And why would I want to remember a nightmare?”

“I find I do my best soul-searching smack in the middle of some kick-ass nightmare.”

“And if I don’t want to know? Does that count?”

“Sure. Do you want to know?”

“Not really.”

“Gotcha. I’ve mentally checked the nightmare off-limits box. I also see that you asked Dr. Reynolds if he was getting laid enough at home. Mind telling me why you did that?”

“Because he kept trying to look up my gown every time I crossed my legs.

You’ll notice I’m wearing pants now.”

“Lucky me. Okay, let’s talk about why you went to that bar.”

“Didn’t we already discuss this?”

“Humor me. I have to justify my enormous salary somehow.”

“I went there for a drink. Why do you go to bars?”

“Let’s just say I have barstools retired in my honor in eleven different states.”

“Well,” said Michelle, “I went for a drink.”

“And then what?”

“And then I got in a bar fight and got my ass kicked. That cover it for you?”

“And you’d been to that bar before?”

“No. I like to try new spots. I’m what you’d call daring.”

“I am too, but picking a bar in the middle of the highest crime area in the District of Columbia at eleven-thirty at night? Think that was a wise choice?”

She smiled and said politely, “Didn’t turn out to be, did it?”

“Did you know the brick wall you got in the fight with?”

“No. I’m not even sure how it started, to tell the truth.”

“Which I’d like you to start doing, Michelle, telling the truth, and I think you can.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“According to the police report every eyewitness in the bar said you walked up to the biggest bastard there, tapped him on the shoulder and then sucker-punched him.”

“Well, eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable.”

“Sean talked to the man you attacked.”

Michelle visibly flinched at this news. “Really, why?”

Horatio didn’t bite on that. Instead he said, “The guy told Sean something interesting. Would you like to know what?”

“Well, since you’re obviously dying to tell me, go ahead and fire away.”

“He said you let him nearly kill you.”

“Well, then he was wrong. I made a bad move and he got hold of me, end of story.”

“Last night, the nurses said you kept shouting in your sleep, ‘Goodbye, Sean.’ Do you remember saying that?”

Michelle gave a brief shake of her head.

“Were you thinking maybe of leaving your partnership with Sean? If so, shouldn’t you tell him that? Or do you want me to?”

Michelle said quickly, “No, I—” She broke off, evidently sensing a trap.

“How am I supposed to know what I meant? I was sleeping.”

“I’m a pretty good dream analyzer and I throw in nightmare interpretation for no extra charge. It’s a special I’m running this week because business is so damn slow.”

Michelle rolled her eyes.

Unperturbed, Horatio said, “You trust Sean, don’t you?”

“As much as I trust anybody,” she said tersely. “Which isn’t much these days.”

“These days. So has something changed for you?”

“Look, if you’re going to jump on every word I say, I’m just not going to say anything, okay?”

“Fair enough. I understand that your parents don’t know that you’re here. Would you like us to contact them?”

“No! I mean you call your parents if you made the Dean’s List or got a new job. Not because you checked yourself into the psych ward.”

“And why did you check yourself in here?”

“Because Sean said I had to. To avoid jail time,” she added defiantly.

“Is that the only reason? Isn’t there something else?”

Michelle sat back in the chair and curled her long legs up to her chest.

Twenty minutes later she hadn’t broken her silence and Horatio hadn’t either. Finally the psychologist switched off the recorder and rose. “I’ll be back tomorrow. In the meantime I’m available by phone at any time. If I don’t answer, you can just assume I’m either at my favorite bar or dealing with another whack job like you.”

“I guess this session was pretty much a bust. Sorry,” Michelle added sarcastically. “But I guess you get paid the same regardless, right?”

“You bet I do. But I thought our session was dynamite.”

Michelle looked confused. “How do you figure that?”

“Because you actually sat there and thought about why you wanted to be here. And I know you’re going to keep thinking about it once I leave, because you just won’t be able to help yourself.” He started to leave but then turned back. “Oh, just to warn you about something coming up.”

“Yeah?” Michelle said, the look on her face begging for a fight of some kind.

“They’re having Salisbury steak for dinner tonight. Get the PBJ option instead. The steak sucks. I don’t even think its real meat. I think it’s something the Russians invented to make dissidents talk during the Cold War.”

After Horatio left, Michelle sat down on the floor and slumped back against the wall. “Why am I here!” she screamed, kicking the chair clear across the room with one snap of her powerful right leg.

By the time a nurse came rushing in, the chair was upright and Michelle was on her feet. She said ceremoniously, “I understand the steak sucks.”

“It does. So you want the PBJ instead?” the nurse said.

“No, put me down for the steak, double helping,” Michelle said as she sauntered out the door.

“What, you a glutton for punishment?” the nurse called after her.

You bet your ass I am.