Social Girl

The Good Doctor

EVELYN PRATT
The day of
Friday, June 12, 2015, 12:27pm

There's a new photograph on Dr. Desousa's desk. It wasn't there before so it must be new. I can't see it because it's turned around, facing him. How selfish, keeping a photograph here that's meant only for him. Doctors shouldn't be so selfish. This one is because he's a psychiatrist and not a real doctor, a bitter truth I like to remind him of every now and again.

I imagine the photograph is of his wife, Sandra.

On second thought, not his wife. His children. Without a doubt, it's a photograph of his children. Three plump innocents, so fresh and untouched in their youth. The sparkling palette of promise. He's brought them to be with him here, in his office, hoping that their purity will cleanse him.

You've been a bad, bad doctor, haven't you?

How completely, utterly, selfish.

How almost interesting.

Dr. Desousa clears his throat because I've been staring at the back of the photograph on his desk for quite some time now. His is a big desk. It looks heavy and strong. It's always reminded me of a sacrificial altar; the kind I imagine would bear the weight of trembling bodies as innocent animals and Blessed Virgins prepare to have their hearts ripped from their chests.

Dr. Desousa opens his mouth as though he wants to say something.

Go ahead, doctor. Ask me how I'm feeling.

"How do you feel right now, Evelyn? Tell me what you're feeling."

Slam my head against your altar. Write down your broken promises on the high gloss faces of your children and stuff their precocious grins down my throat. Absolve yourself of your sins. Weigh me down when you roll me off your wood trimmed Adrironsack deck, so that I sink to the bottom of the harbor. Maybe then Simon will come find me to do what he wants with my corpse. I give Keith a month to get over me. Ami will need a few weeks to find a replacement, but by then I'll be forgotten. I won't even be a ghost in the elevator.

"Whatever you're feeling, you should be feeling. Give yourself permission to feel. Like we discussed, the more moments you allow yourself to feel, the better you'll be. Honesty heals.

"Take a deep breath. Tell me. How are you at this very moment?"

Invisible.

"Peckish, now that I think about it," I say with a light laugh. It's more of a pleasant tinkle really. Not the forced giggle of a lunch-starved, career-driven maniac; and certainly not the caustic cackle of a wicked witch. It's the kind of laugh that's meant to be overheard in a dimly lit, invite only private members club. A laugh to intrigue the elites who are sure to be listening for it because they're all silently dying of boredom; a laugh I've spent decades tuning for my target audience.

"I really appreciate you meeting me over the lunch hour," I say with real enthusiasm. I mean it. Coming here always eases me. I've known the doctor for most my life, so he's as predictable as they come. Sitting down with him is like sitting down to an easy, relaxing game of chess.

Dr. Matthew Ryan Desousa, my favorite pawn, doesn't miss a beat.

"You must be thirsty, too. Do you want some water?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and closing his notebook. His voice is patient and his face is neutral.

Time to play.

I mirror his body language with my own. All in one smooth motion, I pull my long hair back over my shoulder to reveal my bare neck; and I swing my head just enough to send gentle notes of lavender and vanilla over to him. My body is cozy inside his sunny, overwarm office. My sweat, clean and sweet-smelling from all the liters of water I diligently drink to keep my stomach full and fair skin glowing, blends with my perfume.