The Red Eye [Open Novella Contest 2023]

Chapter 9

Donna's phone rang, and it made her jump. Caleb had stopped trying to call a while ago, clearly getting that she wanted to be alone for a while. Because she did need that, every once in a while. She was an introvert, after all. And one who hated other people seeing her cry. She sipped from her water cup, downing the acetaminophen pills in her mouth.

Dr. Viola.

Donna sighed. She hadn't done anything to try and make herself look presentable, not even washing her face or brushing her hair. Not that her doctor would care, but teenage insecurities sure as hell didn't leave by the time you reached quarter-life. She set down her cup and answered the phone, leaning further into the couch.

"Good morning," she said.

"It's the afternoon," Dr. Viola said.

"Good afternoon, then."

"And I'm getting the feeling it's not going well for you."

"Are we going to start talking about how it's stupid that people ask 'how are you' as a greeting, and it's just expected that you say 'good,' even if it's a lie, and people get uncomfortable if you answer in a way that isn't 'good,' because then you're breaking social norms?" Donna said, flinching at a stab of pain in her side.

"We've talked about that before. A couple of times now, actually."

Donna sighed. "Yeah."

Dr. Viola was the kind of person that looked like a therapist. As in, she was one of those doctors that you saw them and you thought, 'yes, that makes sense.' It was the kind, brown eyes and the patient smile that you give an old person that's not really making any sense. (So, you know, the 'you're insane' look.)

Donna had liked Dr. Viola from the very first appointment. Donna had been angry about therapy; she could already picture all the things she could have done with the copay costs. Plus, if she was told one more time that she should 'practice mindfulness' or that she should exercise more, she was going to kill someone.

Dr. Viola had told her to tell her what she was feeling, so she did. "I'm just sick of the bullshit," Donna had said.

"Got it," Dr. Viola had said. "No bullshit."

And so there wasn't any bullshit. The two of them would just talk. Usually, it was about Donna, but Donna would also ask about Dr. Viola. She knew Dr. Viola's husband and son on a first-name-basis, even though she had only met them once. Her husband was a surgeon, and her son was in law school. Dr. Viola had a Doberman named Bobby that she would occasionally bring in, and Donna would sit on the floor with Bobby's head in her lap while they talked. When they had virtual appointments, Donna had started taking them at her work desk, with her back against the wall, and the only place in the apartment that she could ever guarantee would be clean. But as time went on, she felt less and less self-conscious around the therapist. It's not like Dr. Viola didn't know that Donna spent most of her time feeling like she had been hit by a bus, or occasionally feeling like there was an ice pick stabbed through her left eye, accompanied with mind-boggling nausea and stomach cramps. So yeah, some days, cleaning and laundry was not her biggest priority. In fact, most days, getting to the end of the day so she could make it to the next was her biggest priority. It got a little better when she and Caleb lived together. Even when they were both feeling shitty, if each one of them managed to do one thing every day, their apartment at least wouldn't get too bad.

Donna still felt the need to sugarcoat things with Dr. Viola, though. She supposed it was a learned behavior: humans hide how they're feeling when they're hurting all the time. No one wants to be a whiner, after all. And as Donna found out, it's hard to forget when you're talking to a doctor and when you're talking to someone who'll call you a whiner.