Billie Girl

Chapter Eleven

I didn't know how mother got wind of my walks, since I was always sure to do them while she was fast asleep. But she did get wind of it, and she promptly booked an appointment with Dr. Moody, which was a pretty funny name for a shrink. Obviously, I had to go. There was no way out of it.

I had to fill out a form and give some information about myself. Age, sex, siblings, and some simple questions about whether I was allergic to medications and so on. Ever the rebel, I wrote on the back of the sheet:

My name is Billie Moore and I just started loving everything about things lately when I met a boy name Blake. But the two of us are well aware that even though we walk in bliss there are pitfalls and dangers everywhere. This was made appallingly clear now as a killer roams our streets. But we are not stupid. We know that just because we are young and beautiful does not mean that we cannot succumb to the terribleness that is out there. So we like to challenge fate and go for walks. There is no law against it and it is our personal choice. Who knows? Maybe we do it because we have faith in God, or gods or spirits or Karma or fate but we feel that if it is meant to be, then we will survive..."

Dr. Moody was a tall robust man of, oh, I would say sixty who still looked strong, like there was some good down-home Christian testosterone in him. He looked like the preacher that everyone could love. The kind that you could confess your sins to, and then he would counter with a smile and say, "I understand."

We had a good rapport, and I took a seat on the plush leather couch in his office. He asked if he could get me some coffee, water, or some soda. I said that I would take a soda, thanks. I figured, why not get something out of the deal? I had never cared much for the whole talk therapy thing. My mother tried it once, after Dad died. She was pretty despondent and would walk around the house wearing layers of clothing and her bathrobe on top of it all. She looked like a homeless homemaker, if such a thing was possible. Things got progressively worse for Mom until they gave her some pills for her chronic depression that would also help her with her sleep. One night she took half the bottle in an apparent suicide attempt. But of course the doctors are not idiots, and they made sure that the pills they prescribed would not be fatal no matter how many she downed.

But it did qualify her for a brief stay in a mental hospital, which she averted simply by begging them not to put her there. She vowed she would never try something like that again. So she lucked out big time and got to continue on as an outpatient.

Don't get me wrong, I have heard some good things about the power of talking. I have even heard that when you spend time talking to the right person, it can actually change your

brain chemistry. I bet that Dr. Moody, with his tailored suit and his rather thick mane of brown hair, could have that effect on the brain waves of his patients.

"So Billie, I read what you wrote on your intake papers," he said to me after giving me a glass of Coca Cola."Cery creative and very honest."

"Everyone calls me honest. I'm known for it," I said, and then sipped my Coke.

"It's a good thing to be known for."

"I guess so. That is, unless I have something that isn't so nice to say. Then it doesn't help matters much."

"Like they say, honesty is the best policy."

"Avoiding clichés is the best policy."

"Touché."

"Im not trying to win. I'm not like guys. I don't need to win everything. I just want to be happy."

"OK, I hear that. You want to be happy. So, are you?"

"When Blake is around, I am."

"Blake. Is that your boyfriend?"

"Well, kinda, we haven't really defined it. But we do spend as much time together as possible. Or at least, I like to spend as much time with him as I can. But he..."