Greywalker - Kat Richardson [5]
He looked at me with a crooked smile. “Nobody said anything to you?”
“No.”
He shook his head. “Jeez . . . no wonder you’re confused. There’s supposed to be counseling for this sort of thing. I guess they all just forgot about it, what with the police and all. OK, I guess it’s a little late to break this gently, so I’ll just give you the condensed version. According to your records, you were dead for a little less than two minutes, about the time the Medic One team arrived. They pulled you back, stabilized you, and got you to the hospital. No other incident occurred. This kind of thing happens with head injuries. Some people have a little trouble . . . adjusting, sometimes, and some people have some pretty strange experiences, but this is getting into that mysterious and creepy unknown territory medicine isn’t very good with. There are psychological counseling services for this, if you’re interested. . . .”
I shook my head too fast and felt woozy. I winced.
Skelleher frowned at me. “Would you come into my office for a moment?”
I shrugged and followed him out of the examining room and into an afterthought of an office cramped with a desk and two chairs. He told me to leave the door open if I preferred. I swung it closed and sat down.
He sat back and rubbed a knuckle over his lower lip for a few moments, then raised his eyes back to mine. He took a deep breath and leaned forward again. “I’m going to crawl out on a very narrow professional limb here, because I think there’s something more than medical about this situation.
“I have some friends who . . . have had experience with similar things to what you’re describing. And—I don’t like to say this, because it sounds unprofessional—but you might get some benefit out of talking to them. Ben and Mara Danziger. They’re friends, not patients. I know him professionally also, and he’s a good guy, even if some of his ideas sound like they’re straight out of the Twilight Zone. If nothing else, they might at least help you determine if what you’re experiencing are legitimate phenomena, or something that ought to be addressed by a counselor.” He picked a card out of a desk drawer and offered it to me.
Suspicious, I asked, “You’re not sending me to a shrink, are you?”
“No,” he replied with a laugh. “Nothing like that. I think that you might be experiencing something that most people just can’t get in touch with. Not anything bad, just something from that mysterious edge of knowledge. And in keeping with my belief that a lighter touch is better, I’m going to let you make up your own mind. If you talk to Ben and Mara and then decide they’re from the land of the loonies and so am I, I’ll be glad to recommend a psychologist, a counselor, or even a change in meds, if that’s what it takes.”
I looked at him sideways.
His smile limped with exhaustion. “I don’t think there’s anything medically wrong with you or your pills. I think you’d be just fine without them, to be honest. I can’t do anything else for you except make some suggestions and tell you to be sure to go to your follow-up exams. Whatever’s causing you these problems seems to be outside my purview.”
I took the card, skeptical, and dropped it into my bag. He watched me hitch the bag onto my shoulder and stand.
“You probably should switch to a backpack if you always carry that much stuff,” he commented. “A load like that can hurt your back if you carry it on one side.”
“I don’t like backpacks. Too casual, and they’re hard to get into in a hurry.”
Skelleher shrugged. “You have to make choices. But be good to yourself, you know? Try to sleep. Eat red meat to restore your blood count and proteins. Put wet tea bags on your eyes to reduce the discoloration. Get some regular stretching and exercise. You’ll heal faster and feel better. And call me if you have any more trouble.”
I said I would and he gave me another crooked, coffee-deprived smile as I left.
Dead. Except for a few family funerals, a required course in forensic science,