A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [76]
Nevertheless he was grateful when his appointment with the clinical psychologist rolled round on day six of the medication.
He had never met a clinical psychologist, professionally or otherwise. In his mind they were not that far removed from people who read tarot cards. It was entirely possible that he would be asked about seeing his mother naked and being bullied at school (he wondered what had happened to the infamous Gladwell twins). Or was that psychotherapy? He was a little unclear about these distinctions.
In the event, his meeting with Ms. Endicott entailed none of the touchy-feely nonsense he was expecting. In fact he could not remember the last time he had had such an engaging conversation.
They talked about his job. They talked about his retirement. They talked about his plans for the future. They talked about Jean and Jamie and Katie. They talked about the forthcoming wedding.
She asked about the panic attacks, when they occurred, what they felt like, how long they lasted. She asked if he had considered suicide. She asked precisely what frightened him and was endlessly patient while he struggled to put into words things which were difficult to put into words (the Orcs, for example, or the way the floor seemed to give way). And if he was embarrassed by some of these things, her attention was earnest and unwavering.
She asked about the lesion and said Dr. Barghoutian could refer George to a dermatologist if that might help. He said, “No,” and explained that he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was only eczema.
She asked whether he had any friends with whom he had discussed these things. He explained that one did not discuss these things with friends. He certainly would not want any of his friends bringing similar problems to him. It was unseemly. She nodded in agreement.
He left the surgery with no tasks to perform and no exercises to do, only the promise of a second appointment in a week’s time. Standing in the car park he remembered that he had failed to mention the side effects of the medication. Then it dawned on him that he was not the person who had got on the bus that morning. He was stronger, more stable, less frightened. He could cope with the side effects of a few pills.
Later that afternoon he was lying in bed watching some golf championship on BBC2. The game had never really appealed to him. But there was something reassuring about the sensible jumpers and all that greenery stretching into the distance.
It seemed unjust that all his efforts at sorting out the mental aspects of the problem had done nothing to sort out the physical aspect of the problem.
It occurred to him that if the lesion were on a toe or a finger he could have it removed and simply be done with it. Then he would have to do nothing except take the tablets and return to the surgery each week till everything returned to normal.
A plan was forming in his head.
The plan, it seemed to him, was rather a good plan.
59
Katie posted the invitations, left a message for Jamie, then sat back down at the table.
She wanted to break something. But she wasn’t allowed to break things. Not after the roasting she’d given Jacob for kicking the video player.
She picked up the big knife and stabbed the breadboard seven times. When she stabbed it for the eighth time the blade broke and she cut the edge of her hand on the snapped-off end sticking up from the breadboard. There was blood everywhere.
She wrapped her hand in a kitchen towel, got out the first-aid tin, stuck a couple of large plasters over the cut, then cleaned up and threw the broken knife away.
She was obviously not going to get any sleep. The bed meant lying next to Ray. And the sofa meant admitting defeat.
Did she love Ray?
Did she not love him?
She hadn’t eaten since four. She put the kettle on. She took down a packet of Maryland Chocolate Chip Cookies, ate six standing up, felt slightly sick and put the remainder back into the cupboard.
How could Ray sleep at times like this?
Had she ever loved him? Or was it just gratitude? Because