18. Olly #2
Dr. Bell’s office was all of twenty feet from where I had been sitting, so I waddled alongside The Organization spy, putting almost all my mental efforts into keeping myself shielded from an unexpected invasion of my thoughts as we stepped into Dr. Bell’s office.
Relax, I thought. Just treat her as a stranger, keep your shields up, and you should make it through this without her turning your brain into pudding.
She smiled, and it somehow made her look like an anime villain, gesturing to the padded chair across from her.
I kept my expression neutral and sat in the chair, not defying her in any way until it was over something important and not petty.
“I’ve been told you have expressed interest in your diagnosis and treatment plan.
And that you’d like real clothes, and to start integrating into life here on the unit instead of lazing in your room all day.
Is this correct?” I swore her voice was like imagining little ants running all over your body.
“Yes, Doctor,” I replied, closing my eyes to collect myself and regulate my breathing as if I was preparing for a deep free dive in the actual ocean, rather than the one inside me which somehow just suspended the need for oxygen.
“Well, if we can keep you on a regimen that works, I don’t see why we can’t discuss it.
You’ve asked for clothes, and the removal of your IVs.
I think those are both reasonable requests, as long as you can commit to taking your medication orally and keeping yourself hydrated, and eating more like a woman in her fifth month of pregnancy ought to be eating, and not henpecking your food.
” I nodded along, my arm curling protectively around my bump.
“You also need to participate in therapy while you are here. I will be conducting that myself, as we have no available therapists at the moment, and you are a particularly special patient, Olive. You have certain gifts that shouldn’t be allowed to atrophy, and should instead be drawn out and encouraged.
Speaking of which…” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a paper bag, which she placed on the desk close to me.
“Open it,” she said, and it was not a suggestion.
Inside were high-quality artist markers and a blank sketchbook full of thick, creamy paper.
I didn’t know what to say, so I simply nodded and placed the items back in the bag.
“I’ve been waiting for the day when you would want to wake up, pull your socks up, and get moving on your future.
These may seem like small gifts, but in your case, they are vital tools to achieve that end.
I’d like to see new material in that book at every therapy session, three times a week.
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Today marks your third week with us, and it is a Friday,” she tacked on, likely picking up my confusion with dates and times.
I’d have to start filling in the calendar on my Kindle to keep track of when I would meet with the witch.
I made my mind shut up and listen to what she was saying because obviously somewhere down the line I was going to get a Kindle?
I didn’t bother to ask her how she knew about my drawings, but I did remember that she was the first person to use the word “foresight” around me, when I’d been far younger, and my parents had been alive. I think she either had foresight herself or was cozy with someone who did.
“We’ll swap you to oral medications for tonight, and I believe ‘Nurse Nice’ Elizabeth has been gathering some donated clothing for you from the thrift store across the parking lot.
It’s a bit difficult considering you are pregnant, but I’m sure she’s found some proper sizes.
You are free to walk around the unit and use the common areas, and we would prefer that to you staying in your room all the time.
I also understand you have a love of reading, so you may use a donated Kindle Fire loaded with plenty of reading material.
I’m sure you can make good use of it. This place isn’t a prison, Olive.
We really do want you to get to a place of feeling good and making positive decisions, especially since you will soon be a mother. Do you have any other questions?”
Did I dare? Heck yeah, I did. “What’s wrong with me? My diagnosis, I mean?” Dr. Bell shut my file and leaned forward just a bit in her chair, her mouth making that broad smile that was scary as hell and made me think she was going to devour me in a single bite.
“Why, you’re psychic, Olly. A true Seer into the future, with the ability to relay that to others through art.
Your talent is quite exciting. And you have discovered that gender is a spectrum, but we can discuss that in therapy.
” I was so caught off guard that I didn’t know what to say.
I stayed perfectly still, and she laughed as my skin crawled.
“Oh, you’re wondering what’s actually written on these charts.
You’re Bipolar 1 with a history of psychosis, suffering from PTSD following the loss of your family, and have permanent damage to your brain after a severe concussion twenty-one years ago, causing hallucinations.
See, Olly. The best part of a good lie is to sprinkle in enough of the truth to make it convincing.
Consider that as a bit of free advice before I see you Monday morning.
Now, go and get yourself fixed up in some suitable clothing. ”
I managed not to tremble as I rose, took the paper bag with the art supplies in it, and walked to the office door, wanting to be out of this room like a caged animal wanted to breathe the free air.
I opened the heavy office door using the wheelchair button and entered the hall, the door closing quietly behind me.
There stood the kind nurse, Elizabeth, with her arms full of things.
“Hello, Olive,” she said with a smile, and I almost hated to correct her use of my name.
“Now, let’s pop down to your room, and we will take those lines out of your arm, unwrap your right arm, and get you dressed.
Showered too, if you like. Don’t look so glum.
It’s not that bad. We have generous benefactors from time to time, and today is your lucky day—we’re down to our last useable Kindle.
You know, Olive, you’re going to get better, and Dr. Bell has a wonderful way with patients.
All you have to focus on now is yourself, and that cute little bean growing inside you. ”