Chapter 3 #2
“Can’t I?” Elaine chuckled. “I not only can, I have the full support of Steve Sundstrom. You’re to receive counseling, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t like it!” The words burst out of her, and she hated that there was a petulant note to them.
“Yes, we are all aware.” Looking thoughtful, Elaine checked her computer. “I’ll let you off the hook this afternoon, but I want you in Dr. Monroe’s office first thing tomorrow morning, Dr. Ellis.” Back to formality. “She has a nine AM slot free.”
“I don’t, I have a pacemaker installation then,” she protested.
“No, I’ve gone ahead and reassigned that to Dr. Proctor,” Elaine replied absently, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “You’re all set.”
The phone in Victoria’s pocket chimed, and she knew it would be a notification from her healthcare portal with the new appointment. She didn’t even bother to check it. Getting to her feet, she stalked over to the office door.
“Dr. Ellis,” Elaine called after her. “You know it’s not a cardinal sin to accept help every once in a while?”
“Of course I know that,” she snapped as she yanked the door open. “But I do not need help, damn it all.”
Without another word, Victoria whipped out into the hallway and slammed the office door shut behind her.
This is unforgivable.
But at 9 AM sharp, she was back in the Staff Wellness clinic.
Furious, of course. And undercaffeinated; in her haste to get to the hospital and get this over with, she’d forgotten to make her morning flask of tea.
So there was nothing in her bloodstream or stomach to help her cope with the appearance of Dr. Anna Monroe, who was once again in a long, floral skirt—this time big pink peonies, inappropriately springlike in October—and a sweater over her cream silk blouse.
A goddamn cardigan, in fact, as shabby as the previous day’s pullover, in a nondescript mauve with unfortunate bobbled cables.
And matching ballet flats, of course. Mauve leather.
Did the woman have a fresh pair of the things for every outfit?
What did she do on winter days? Or in summer? Did she even own a pair of sandals?
Anna’s pleasant attitude only riled up Victoria’s foul temper further. “I see you don’t have your flask today,” she observed as they walked to her office. “I know my tea collection isn’t up to your standards, but I’d like to offer you the chance to pick something from it for yourself.”
Victoria tried to repress a shudder. The aforementioned collection was a far cry from her beautifully aromatic Fortnum Victoria could still see the steam curling up off of it.
Another silence filled the room. Victoria hated it. “Well?”
Anna’s big brown eyes widened over the rim of her cup, and she blinked. “Well, what?” she asked, lowering the cup without taking a sip.
“Get on with it!” Victoria exploded. “I don’t appreciate this manipulative tactic of yours, letting this horrid silence go on and on and on, holding it over my head like some sort of Sword of Damocles.”
“Silence doesn’t bother me,” Anna replied quietly. “And I don’t use it as any sort of tactic. If you want to talk to me, you’ll talk. If you don’t, you won’t. If I attempt to force or cajole you into spilling your guts, that’s counterproductive.”
Does she really mean that? Victoria pressed her lips tight together, determined to test the therapist’s assertion. She did not want to talk to Anna, so she would not. See how you like it.
To her chagrin, Anna really did seem to be comfortable with silence. She sipped at her tea and gazed out of the window, and somehow seemed completely content with her view of the Oakridge parking garage.
Victoria, on the other hand, found herself mortifyingly restless.
She tapped her fingers against her cup of tea, making the delicate liquid ripple.
Her balance on the edge of the sofa cushions was slightly precarious, so she had to make adjustments while trying not to get too comfortable in its plush green depths.
Though she wasn’t usually a jewelry fidgeter, Victoria found her fingers wandering more than once to toy with the jade pendant she wore around her neck on a slender golden chain.
She couldn’t stop moving. Meanwhile, Anna, the picture of serenity, hardly moved at all except to drink her tea and once, to scratch the tip of her pert little nose.
Then, to Victoria’s horror, the most revolting possible thing in the world happened: in the charged silence of Anna Monroe’s office, Victoria’s stomach growled. Loudly.
She wanted to sink through the floor. Down through Physical Therapy, the ER, through the hospital cafeteria, right down into the morgue where she would be so very glad to simply lay down on the polished cement floor and die along with the rest of the corpses.
Victoria felt her cheeks flush a piping-hot red.
Anna, in her chair, didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. She simply stood up and crossed over to the tea and coffee station. “Forgive me,” she said gently. “It was rude of me not to offer before. Would you like a croissant?”
When she turned around to face Victoria again, she was holding a white box in her hand, stamped with the whimsical blue-violet ink logo of Patisserie Rêverie, a bakery Victoria adored. Opening it, Anna extended it out.
Croissants. Half a dozen tall, glossy, croissants au beurre, a treat Victoria hadn’t allowed herself in months. She could all but taste the rich salted butter dough, and her mouth watered. Somehow, she found the strength to resist. “No, thank you.”