A Tragic Kind of Wonderful

I need to swing by your house today.

Bizarre. Must be a mistake. I saw her phone’s address book once and there was no one between Hannigan, Mel and Lewis, Connor. I consider texting Connor about it, but no. They’ll figure it out.

An hour later I find Dr. Jordan sitting by a window with a mug of coffee. The direct sun on his face makes it glow almost as white as his hair.

I sit across from him. “Hey.”

He’s a resident and wants me to call him Piers. It feels too weird, though, so I rarely call him anything directly. He’s a retired psychiatrist but won’t let me call him Dr. Jordan because he’s not my real doctor. Except he kind of is.

“How are you today?” he says.

“Are you asking, or are you asking? If you’re asking, I’m not a danger to myself or others.”

Dr. Jordan watches me over his coffee, amused.

“What?” I say.

“I do so enjoy our time together. You’re like the daughter I never had.”

“Granddaughter.”

He salutes me with his mug.

None of the other ears nearby work very well. I’m free to talk.

“I think my meds need a little adjusting.”

“Feeling mixed? For how long?”

“Today. Right now, at least. I don’t know. I’m revving up but also losing energy.”

“An off day isn’t a cocktail issue. Anything stressing you out at school, or with friends?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want it to be about any of those things. That should count for something.”

He sips his coffee.

“I know,” I say. “I can’t choose how I feel, but I can choose how I think about how I feel.”

“That’s not quite what I said, although I suppose it’s an adequate enough street version.”

I sneer.

“Seriously,” he says. “You need to talk to your doctor. About everything. Not just the meds. I’m not—”

“Not my doctor, I know.”

“I was going to say I’m not going to be around forever.”

He watches me. Usually it’s other people who get uncomfortable with how much I hold eye contact. Now I get a glimpse of how they feel.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” I say and stand up. “That would’ve been a shitty thing to say.”

In the two years I’ve worked here, first as a volunteer and now as an employee, I’ve seen half a dozen residents leave the permanent way—through the roof, as Judith says—including Grandma Cece. I miss her, of course, and all the others who’ve left through the roof, but I really don’t know what I’d do without Dr. Jordan.

I sit back down.

“Sorry.”

“You’ve come a long way, Mel. And in a very short time.”

“Thanks to you.”

“In spite of me. I promised Cece I’d help with life coaching, but we talk so much, it relieves the emotional pressure to engage with your therapist. More proof I was right to give up my practice. If I were doing this properly, I wouldn’t let sentiment and a promise to Cece stop me from cutting you off, to push you into a more productive relationship with your doctor. I shouldn’t be—”

“Your ‘life coaching’ saved me, Dr. Jordan. I’m sorry if you regret that—”

His look stops me. It’s a subtle expression but I know it.

“I mean … my real doctor thought your life coaching was wrong! I wrote down his exact words …” I get my phone and thumb open the notebook app. “He said I was fetishizing the personification of my symptoms. He also said my bipolar disorder couldn’t be cycling as fast as I claimed, not at my age.”

Dr. Jordan’s eyes narrow. “He thought it was wrong? Don’t you mean he thinks it’s wrong?”

Oops.

“I mean back when we talked about it,” I say.

“You never told me.”

“You just said I talk to you too much! And there’s plenty I don’t tell you! He said I should stop talking to you so I stopped talking to him!”

Dr. Jordan sips his coffee. He once made the mistake of telling me Winston Churchill would relight his cigar to give him time to think or compose pithy, articulate statements. Now I know what Dr. Jordan’s coffee is really for.

“I thought you said something last week about your doctor being a woman.”

Shit. “Yeah. That other guy moved away. My new doctor, she just wants me to fill out questionnaires and talk about the meds. As long as I say I’m fine, I’m out the door.”

“So you haven’t given her a chance.”

“I answer all her questions.”

“Mel, some doctors push you and divine meaning from what you say when pushed. Others wait to hear what you say on your own and divine meaning from what you offer up. Offer something up. Give her a chance.”

I don’t say anything.

Dr. Jordan sets his mug down. “Tell her what’s going on in your life. And if you feel strongly about something, say so. Stand your ground; defend your feelings. Be honest and hold nothing back. A good therapist will help you understand and process, not argue. Try her out this afternoon and see. It can only help.”

Hold nothing back? How could I possibly tell that quiet woman in her sterile little office things I’m not willing to tell Dr. Jordan? Things I don’t even let cross my own mind? It’s inconceivable.