Dr. Richardson
“Let’s stop there, Nora.”
She inhales and blinks away her memories. “Okay.”
“Why is that information safe to share?” I ask. She looks at the floor, posture rigid, fingers twisted tight.
“Because it was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before he kept me.”
I jot down my observations. “How are you sleeping?”
“Not well. There’s too much noise here. Too many lights.”
I nod. “And how are you feeling?”
“Sore.” She motions to her body. “And exhausted.” She looks over her shoulder toward the window. Shallow breathing, blank expression and detachment. Check.
“What kept you going all that time?”
“Words.” Her voice is small.
“Interesting. What do you mean by that?”
“I’m a logophile. I give people, situations or things three words. It calms me.”
“So, you were often anxious?”
“In the beginning.”
“But then you weren’t?”
She smiles. “No.”
“What changed?”
She shakes her head, clamping her mouth shut.
“It’s okay, Nora. You can tell me.”
She shakes her head again. “I need to rest.”
I frown. “Just a few more questions.”
“How is this helping anything?” she asks, irritated.
I ignore this. “Do you feel safe now?”
“No,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks to the door.
“What do you feel?”
She glares at me, panting. Sweat is visible at her hairline. “Anathema, deprecated, perfidious.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Those are words I’m not readily familiar with.”
She laughs. Her knuckles are white from making fists with her hands. She’s spiraling.
I stand and approach the bedside. “I want you to feel your feet on the bed the way the blanket feels, press on your thighs, feel your rear end on the mattress; look around you and pick six objects to focus on.”
“What?”
“Just do it. Please.” She exhales, but begrudgingly acquiesces.
“Notice how your breath gets deeper and calmer. Good, Nora. Let’s try something else. Gently pat the different parts of your body with your hand. Your body may feel more alive, sharp. You may feel more connected to your feelings. Hold your shoulders with arms across your chest, tighten your grip on them and pat your arms up and down. Do the same with your legs, tighten your back, tighten your front, then gently release the tension.” Her breathing gradually slows, the blush in her cheeks and chest dissipates.
“Do you feel better?”
“A little,” she says.
I smile and nod. “Good. You can practice those techniques whenever you feel you need to. Remember, you are the one in control.”
“I don’t feel like it. I feel like a prisoner.”
“I assure you, you aren’t. Remember the freedom you have now.”
She looks me directly in the eye now.
“Captivity is a mentality. A thing you carry with you. It is hard to let go, even when you have your freedom returned.”
This takes me by surprise. Nora is clever, more so than she lets on. Agent Brown was right to have her evaluated. Something is off.
“I’d like to continue seeing you.”
She shrugs and looks away. On her cue, I scoop up my notebook and pen and exit her room. Agent Brown and Salve wait in the hall.
“Could someone grab me a dictionary?”
“What?” Agent Brown asks.
“A dictionary,” I repeat. Agent Brown looks to Salve. He huffs but takes off toward the nurse’s station to ask around.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“She has all the classic symptoms of shock: shallow breathing, eyes that appear to stare blankly, anxiety, confusion, difficulty making decisions, emotional detachment, de-realization and depersonalization, an altered sense of time and insomnia.
“Right. That’s some laundry list but how will that affect how I can proceed?”
“She needs to stay grounded. She’s disoriented, confused, and in disbelief.”
“I’d like to continue seeing her. Daily, while she’s admitted but I think bi-weekly when she’s discharged. As for your investigation, questioning her can happen, but I doubt you will get too much from her at this stage. She’s guarded and untrusting.”
Agent Brown pats me on the back and smiles.
“See you tomorrow, Doc,” she says and I cringe. I hate that term.
Salve approaches, shaking his head. “Thanks anyway,” I say. Looking up her word choices will have to wait until I’m back at the office.
“How can we get her to open up?” he asks.
“Time.”
“We don’t know if we have any of that. It may already be too late for Charlotte.”
I frown. What that child must be going through pains me. “I’ll be back tomorrow for another session. For now, try approaching her in a more conversational way. Questioning her only makes her feel like a caged animal.”
Salve drags a hand through his hair and nods. “Got it,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”