Amy and the Shrink
A scene from my unpublished novel, Brother Man.
Amy looked up when the shrink walked in. Dr. Willikins was far from young, but her eyes held what appeared to be compassion as she looked down at poor stupid Amy.
“I’m Dr. Willikins,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Hello, Dr. Willikins. I’m Amy Bain. I’m a nut job.”
The TV was already muted, but Amy touched a button on her console to turn it off. Dr. Willikins brought a visitors’ chair up to the bed so they could see each other easily. The doctor looked like she was over seventy, but her small frame was apparently not frail, as she lifted the substantial chair rather than sliding it. She set her chart down on the laundry hamper by the wall and sat down, empty-handed.
“Why do you call yourself a nut job, Amy?”
“I tried to kill myself. Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t know,” said the psychiatrist. “What were your other options at the time?”
That wasn’t the question Amy was expecting. Most shrinks — and she’d met a few by now — would ask her why she did it.
“Options? Well, I guess I could of just went on to bed and hoped tomorrow would be better.”
“Yesterday was bad, I take it.”
