“Three weeks ago. What’s with that chair?”
Dr. Ewing turned slightly in the huge leather chair. “My father was excited to have a doctor in the family. I’d get rid of it but I’m always afraid he’ll just drop in.”
Caroline looked down at the textbook in her hand, which was open to a page on kleptomania. She looked around the office and smiled. “Professional services. That’s funny. Anyone ever come in to get their taxes done? Or to get a wart removed?”
Dr. Ewing smiled. “No.”
“So the only service you provide is brain repair. That’s just one service. Shouldn’t it be called professional service ?”
“I consult with various law enforcement agencies on criminal behavior and victim anxiety…and I repair a brain or two on the side. I think that qualifies as plural. Now, please. Sit down.”
Caroline did, and the session went faster than she would have guessed, the doctor more easygoing and funnier than she expected. They talked about Caroline’s terrible month of April. Thick Jay was becoming a minor pain in the ass, claiming he’d had vision problems and dizziness ever since “the attack.” In the newspaper, the police chief characterized what happened as “a suspect becoming entangled with a detective,” but Jay’s lawyer was talking about filing a claim against the city. The prosecutor was hoping to package a light plea bargain of his drug-dealing charge with the dropping of any potential claim. Thankfully for Caroline, the prosecutor was refusing to deal on the child abuse charge at all, so even if Thick Jay got a deal on the drug case he’d still do time.
Caroline had been suspended for a week—time she used to mourn her mother anyway—and had received a letter of reprimandin her file indicating she violated the department’s “use of force policy.” She got the sense that if her mother hadn’t died that day, they might simply have fired her. But in all honesty, her mother’s death had nothing to do with her rough treatment of Thick Jay.
“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Ewing asked.
Caroline suddenly felt sleepy. Twenty-one days since her mother’s death and still she had trouble sleeping for more than an hour or two at a time, as if she were still trying to reach out, to catch her mom in the act of dying. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “If it was someone else, I’d assume the two things were related. But all I was thinking about was how that guy hurt that baby. I just wanted to hurt him.”
“Any children yourself?”
“No.”
“You talked about a boyfriend…”
“He’s a little younger than me, but I wouldn’t call him a child.”
Dr. Ewing laughed. “That’s not what I meant…how much younger is he?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with my mental health.”
“Five years younger?”
Caroline shrugged and smiled at the floor.
“Ten years younger?”
“Okay,” Caroline said. “My boyfriend is six. He’s in first grade.”
Dr. Ewing checked her watch and looked up genially. “We’re five minutes over. We’ll talk about your boyfriend next time.”
“We’re having a next time?”
“You don’t want to come back?”
“If they wanna pay me to come in here and girl-talk with you…well, fine. But quite honestly, I don’t know what the point is. I mean, no offense…”
“No. Of course not.”
“…but I don’t need it. I had a tough month at work and my mother died. That’s it. End of story. You want to know if I resent my father for leaving my mom? You bet. Do I worry that I’m getting older and will never get married and have kids? Every day. Am I burned out busting kids with dime bags of pot? Like you can’t believe. But I’d be crazy if I didn’t feel those things. Don’t you think?”
For a long minute, Dr. Ewing stared with a half smile. “You went after a suspect who was handcuffed and lying on the floor. You hit his head against a brick fireplace. That’s not the kind of thing police officers
Dr. Ewing turned slightly in the huge leather chair. “My father was excited to have a doctor in the family. I’d get rid of it but I’m always afraid he’ll just drop in.”
Caroline looked down at the textbook in her hand, which was open to a page on kleptomania. She looked around the office and smiled. “Professional services. That’s funny. Anyone ever come in to get their taxes done? Or to get a wart removed?”
Dr. Ewing smiled. “No.”
“So the only service you provide is brain repair. That’s just one service. Shouldn’t it be called professional service ?”
“I consult with various law enforcement agencies on criminal behavior and victim anxiety…and I repair a brain or two on the side. I think that qualifies as plural. Now, please. Sit down.”
Caroline did, and the session went faster than she would have guessed, the doctor more easygoing and funnier than she expected. They talked about Caroline’s terrible month of April. Thick Jay was becoming a minor pain in the ass, claiming he’d had vision problems and dizziness ever since “the attack.” In the newspaper, the police chief characterized what happened as “a suspect becoming entangled with a detective,” but Jay’s lawyer was talking about filing a claim against the city. The prosecutor was hoping to package a light plea bargain of his drug-dealing charge with the dropping of any potential claim. Thankfully for Caroline, the prosecutor was refusing to deal on the child abuse charge at all, so even if Thick Jay got a deal on the drug case he’d still do time.
Caroline had been suspended for a week—time she used to mourn her mother anyway—and had received a letter of reprimandin her file indicating she violated the department’s “use of force policy.” She got the sense that if her mother hadn’t died that day, they might simply have fired her. But in all honesty, her mother’s death had nothing to do with her rough treatment of Thick Jay.
“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Ewing asked.
Caroline suddenly felt sleepy. Twenty-one days since her mother’s death and still she had trouble sleeping for more than an hour or two at a time, as if she were still trying to reach out, to catch her mom in the act of dying. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “If it was someone else, I’d assume the two things were related. But all I was thinking about was how that guy hurt that baby. I just wanted to hurt him.”
“Any children yourself?”
“No.”
“You talked about a boyfriend…”
“He’s a little younger than me, but I wouldn’t call him a child.”
Dr. Ewing laughed. “That’s not what I meant…how much younger is he?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with my mental health.”
“Five years younger?”
Caroline shrugged and smiled at the floor.
“Ten years younger?”
“Okay,” Caroline said. “My boyfriend is six. He’s in first grade.”
Dr. Ewing checked her watch and looked up genially. “We’re five minutes over. We’ll talk about your boyfriend next time.”
“We’re having a next time?”
“You don’t want to come back?”
“If they wanna pay me to come in here and girl-talk with you…well, fine. But quite honestly, I don’t know what the point is. I mean, no offense…”
“No. Of course not.”
“…but I don’t need it. I had a tough month at work and my mother died. That’s it. End of story. You want to know if I resent my father for leaving my mom? You bet. Do I worry that I’m getting older and will never get married and have kids? Every day. Am I burned out busting kids with dime bags of pot? Like you can’t believe. But I’d be crazy if I didn’t feel those things. Don’t you think?”
For a long minute, Dr. Ewing stared with a half smile. “You went after a suspect who was handcuffed and lying on the floor. You hit his head against a brick fireplace. That’s not the kind of thing police officers
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