The Writing on the Wall

By Susan King

“Checking in for Lace Russell,” she advised in a soft tone to the mousy looking brunette eying her expectantly.

            As she stood in the waiting room for ‘Truly You Psychiatric Care,’ Lace noticed the elegant floral paintings on canvas that framed the check-in window on either side. The entire waiting room screamed upper-middle class and reminded her of how far she’d come from the roach infested row home in Baltimore City. As she anxiously adjusted her tweed mini dress in the back to make sure it was covering everything, she reminded herself that the disguise was good. These people couldn’t tell how many nights she’d slept with four blankets because the heat barely worked or that she’d learned to make eggs at the age of nine when it was the only thing in the house to feed her baby sister. They only see what you want them to see, she told herself as she approached the glass.

“Is this your first appointment with us?” she asked, thumbing through what Lace could only assume were current client files in a drawer to her right.

            “It is,” she replied neutrally, putting the poor girl out of her misery. “I’m seeing Dr. Hayes.”

            At that, she closed the drawer and instead grabbed a stapled packet of “new client” paperwork from the stack on the desk to her left and slid them swiftly through the hole in the bottom of the glass.  It occurred to Lace, then, that while the office may appear untouchably suburban, they still had to take precautions. I guess the impoverished don’t corner the market in mental illness, after all, she thought, mentally chastising herself for judging the woman in her office for needing weekly therapy. It was difficult to believe that someone who’d grown up in the kind of neighborhood she’d always coveted could possibly experience anything that required therapy to process. She was only just now learning that money did not, in fact, fix all her problems.

            “Thank you for putting yourself first today, Lace,” she said, looking up into Lace’s eyes deliberately. The canned attempt to manufacture warmth was not lost on Lace, but she smiled politely none the less, playing her part. “Fill these out and the doctor will be right with you.”

            She sat in one of the wider chairs, partly out of intention, to give herself more space, and partly out of habit, to make herself seem smaller and less assuming. She no longer needed to do so, as she was in fact much smaller than she’d ever been in adulthood, but the fear of not fitting had never quite gone away. She placed her brand name purse in the chair at her hip and crossed her legs to create a makeshift desk with her thigh. As she rushed to complete the paperwork, she became more and more annoyed at the young receptionist for not providing a clipboard.

Age- 38

Are you married? Yes.

Would you describe your marriage as happy? Yes

How did you hear about us? Google

As if on a timer, her name was called within seconds of scribbling her delicate signature at the bottom as consent to treatment. A young man took her vitals, height, and weight for reference in the event medication needed to be prescribed. He clarified when she gave him an incredulous look after being asked to step on the scale. She supposed that made sense and conceded to his request, looking away as he adjusted the weights for good measure. Once he’d completed his bridge exam, he escorted her cordially into an office with a large desk in front of an even larger window and a chaise lounge in the corner.

            Dr. Hayes’ office walls were crowded with framed writings all too small to be legible, unless standing up close. Once left alone in the room, she wandered towards one to get a better look. It was a poem, written in a child’s handwriting. Curious, she glanced at another and then another and realized they were all poems and letters in different children’s handwritings.

A collector, she thought.

            “Good afternoon,” said Dr. Hayes, startling her as he entered the room. She turned to face him head on. She was taken aback by his appearance. He was more attractive than she’d expected and well put together. She let her eyes follow him as he took a seat behind his desk, “Have a seat, Lace.”

            When he said her name, she felt herself wake up a little. It was as if she’d been outside herself, just watching, and then something snapped her back into her body. It was jarring. Lace’s stomach began to turn, and she was suddenly much warmer than she’d been only a few seconds before. Why am I here? she asked herself. This isn’t worth it.

She’d imagined the whole scene a million times. Telling him off, showing him everything he’d missed out on and making him regret it all. Now, standing in his office and looking into his eyes, she wondered what she’d thought she was going to show him exactly. The fact that she’d managed to marry up and made the career move from food service to non-profit work seemed insignificant all of the sudden. Big deal, she thought, he’s a doctor for Christ’s sake.

            “I shouldn’t be here,” she said, looking back and forth from the door to him. Would he try to stop me, she wondered.

            He didn’t move, just stared quizzically at her. “I won’t stop you, Lace,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts. She wondered what it would have been like growing up with a father like him. “But I think you should have a seat.”

            She let her breath steady and shifted her glance from the door back to the chaise lounge.

            “You did come all this way, after all.” His tone hadn’t changed at all, but something about the statement made her wary.

            “You’re right,” she said, taking a seat right in the curve of the tufted green seat. Once settled in with her purse securely at her side, ready to grab and go at the hint of any need, she raised her eyes back up to his and stared unblinkingly. “I did.”

            They were both silent for a moment, staring at one another. Lace refused to give herself away, revealing nothing in her expression, as did he. After several long seconds, her gaze drifted to the window. The sunshine would dim soon, she thought, remembering that she’d heard on the radio there was a solar eclipse happening within the hour.

“What brings you in today, Lace?” he asked, breaking the silence. Her heartbeat had slowed, and Lace was glad she’d stayed. She took her eyes intentionally off the window and let them slide back to his face and narrow. She could tell he had no idea who she really was, and suddenly she was even more comfortable. She had all the power.

            “My mother died,” she said, casually. “I haven’t been the same since.”

            His bushy brows furrowed at that, appearing sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, then scribbled something down in his notebook on the table. “Tell me what you mean, exactly.”

            She shifted in her seat, and swept her eyes across her lap, feigning discomfort. “I think I’m depressed,” she replied after a moment.

            “I see,” he said, putting his pen down and sitting back in his too-big leather armchair. “Why don’t you tell me what your relationship with her was like.”

            She took her time choosing her words, deciding carefully with which colors to paint the picture of her life. “It was difficult, I guess. She was a single mom, and we weren’t exactly well off when I was younger.” Truth, she thought proudly.

            “What did that mean for you?” he asked, still watching her intently.

            “I had two younger siblings and she worked several jobs. So, it meant that I took care of them.” Also, the truth, she marked internally.

“So, you didn’t really get to be a child, yourself,” he said.

            “Is that a question?” she shot back, without any calculation at all. Her pulse had spiked at the question, he’d hit a nerve. Don’t let him see you sweat, Lace reminded herself, he doesn’t deserve it. Leaning back on one hand and staring out the window again, she attempted to regain her composure. There was less light shining through than there had been before, and she wondered if the eclipse was starting or if it was just cloudy.

            “Did you have any outlets?” he asked, ignoring her snarky response.

            “I used to read, and write, actually,” she responded, tilting her head a bit. If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is, she thought. “I thought I was going to become a famous author.”

            “That’s interesting.” He leaned forward in his chair to write something down again and then looked back up. “Do you still write?”

            At that, her stomach turned again as the room continued to darken. In the back of Lace’s mind, flashed an older man’s red sweaty face, looming above her, breathing heavily. Mr. Reynolds, her high school writing teacher. She instinctively rubbed her lower back, remembering the bruise she had following their third encounter, from the stapler on his desk that had been pinned beneath her. She’d worn it like a hickey in the days following, so honored to be chosen.

When he’d first begun to show her special attention, she didn’t know how to respond. It was different than when her mother’s boyfriends leered at her across the dinner table. Mr. Reynolds had admired her writing and encouraged her dreams. No one else had ever done that, much less a man. It wasn’t until years later watching a daytime TV movie about statutory rape that she realized he’d only ever been a clever predator. Thinking about it after that made her feel sick.

“No, I stopped writing in my teens,” she sighed, attempting to disguise her discomfort with boredom.

            “And why was that?” Dr. Hayes asked.

            She took another deep breath and moved her purse from the lounge chair to the floor, lying back in a reclined position as an excuse to turn away from him. “I’m not sure,” she lied.

            “Would you describe your mother as nurturing?” he asked, changing the subject.

            “What do you mean,” she asked, stalling as she struggled to remember a time when she felt nurtured by anything other than food.

            “Did she care for you or spend time making you feel safe and loved?” he rephrased for clarity.

            “She didn’t really have much time for nurturing, I guess,” she responded, dismissively. “She worked two, sometimes three jobs. She barely had time to go to the grocery store. So, I didn’t see her much, but she was always grateful when I did things around the house and cared for my younger brother and sister.”

            “Did she say that?” he asked. In her peripheral, Lace could see him lift his pen as if to write something down, but instead he waited.

            “Say what?” she asked, confused, and raised her head from the chaise to look at him head on. He held her gaze.

            “That she was grateful,” he answered.

            “What do you mean? Of course, she did!” she snapped back at him. Though she couldn’t remember a specific time, she was sure it was true.

He raised his hands in a surrendering motion, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to imply…”

            “She did the best she could, given her circumstances,” she said with finality, dropping her head back on the lounge once more. 

            “I see,” he replied, writing as he spoke. “And what were those?”

            She stared back at the bland eggshell colored ceiling that she now felt was spectating in on her distress and allowed the image of her mother crying into her own hands to float into her memory. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and Lace remembered being so worried. “What’s wrong, mommy?” she’d asked.

            “Nothing, I’m fine. Go in the other room,” she’d replied, pushing her away. Lace couldn’t have been more than three years old at the time.

            “It’s okay, mommy,” she’d insisted, trying to console her. “Don’t cry.”

All while trying not to cry herself.

            Lace had learned later that it was the day her father ended their years-long affair, never having claimed the little family he’d created to begin with. She’d seen her mother cry many times after that, over each of her siblings’ fathers and many other less consequential men, but none of the other times had made her feel quite so helpless.

            Through the office window, it almost appeared to be nighttime. The eclipse was in full force, then. The room itself was being entirely lit by two lamps placed in opposite corners and facing the center of the room.

            “She was a single mom with three kids,” Lace responded, simply.

            “I’m sure that’s incredibly difficult,” Dr. Hayes conceded, nodding his head in empathy. “But do you think that in her difficulty, she could have also caused you emotional harm?”

            At that, her stomach immediately began to burn with anger. “Do you have kids, Doctor?” she snapped, turning to him once more. The hypocrisy of this man, she thought.

            His expression didn’t change at all when he answered, “I do actually.”

            The room fell silent. She waited for him to continue, wanting to hear him say it. That he wasn’t in her life, that he’d abandoned her, all those years ago.

            “I have two stepdaughters,” he said simply. “Both in their twenties.”

            With that statement, all the air in Lace’s lungs seemed to disappear. She stared at him, in disbelief. Her mind was racing; how had she not found that in her google search? He had stepdaughters!

            “Are you surprised by that?” he asked.

            “And what about the writings?” she demanded, ignoring his idiotic question, and standing to point at the wall to her right. “They’re from children you’ve treated. Children that aren’t yours?”

            The expression on his face finally changed from stoic to surprised. “Yes, Lace, I volunteer at rec centers in the city. Does that bother you?”

            When she could no longer stand to look at the oblivion in his eyes, she turned to look at the wall she’d been pointing at before. Despite her best attempts at indifference, her eyes were too blurred with past-due tears to focus on any one frame.

            After a moment, and without turning back to him she spoke without answering his question.

“I changed my name to Lace, five years ago, along with my last name, when I got married.” She didn’t check for a sign of awareness in his expression this time. “I’d only ever heard the name Lace once, but I knew immediately, that it was right.”

            Dr. Hayes continued to stare at her, now, with genuine concern. “I see,” he said in a soft tone that would have comforted anyone else. “What made you want to change your name?”

            One of the tears she’d been storing slid hastily down her face and she wiped it away quickly, thankful that it wasn’t on the side facing him. “I wanted to start all over,” she answered, honestly. “Can you understand that impulse, Doctor?”

            “I can, actually,” he responded.

            As a few more tears freed themselves from the prison of her cold blue eyes, her view of one of the framed letters sharpened up.

Dr. Hayes,

            Thank you for making me feel safe.

Lace turned to face him again, taking in his features with new eyes. His ice blue eyes matched hers but were kinder, with smile lines that were softened with concern for her in that moment. She imagined being treated by him as a child, and wondered if she would have felt safe, too. There must have been hundreds of small notes like this on the walls around her, all lives he had helped to make better in some way.

“It seems like it was worth it,” she observed, aloud, of the life he’d built after abandoning her.

The view through the window behind him was already beginning to brighten and she could see daffodils in a planter on the opposite side of the sidewalk by the office.

            “What was your name before?” he asked, with a furrowed brow, finally appearing to connect the dots. At that, Lace decided the session was complete. He couldn’t offer her anything now, and she owed him nothing.

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Hayes,” she said with the utmost sincerity. Then she grabbed her purse and strode out the door, ignoring his bumbling protests behind her.