acting as if she is in for the long haul. She’s resting her gray-whiskered face on her light tan paws, flipping her tail back and forth, and listening intently.
And Phyllis is getting an earful.
“These women are something,” Livie begins, grabbing the blue-, green-, and red-dotted files, where the first assignment reports are nestled. “Phyllis, I may be in over my head with this one, but I sure as hell am not going to surrender to any of them without a fight. I know I can do this.”
Phyllis blinks once but decides to stay.
Livie is quiet for a moment as she shuffles through the files and then settles in for a thirty-minute analysis. Her three charges have emailed her their thoughts, as assigned, but it’s obvious that there is still plenty of work to do. Jane gets an A; Livie is actually surprised that she managed so well. She seemed to have a series of experiences during and after the hike that made her think genuinely about what’s important. Grace gets a C. Sure, she rocked and needlepointed, but then she fell right back into thinking she had to run fast through the rest of her day and the one after it. Grace, shame on you . Kit will get a B if she really does go back and hang out with her new friend, but until that happens she gets a C, too. Kit got lost in the comic moments, but by the time she sat down to write she was dragging herself through her past yet again.
Girls, girls, girls. We must move forward!
Olivia sets down the files and rewards herself by reaching over to take a small sip from her glass of Jameson eighteen-year-old whiskey. Her nightly drink is her single dose of “medicine.” She has younger friends who gulp down pills for aches, pains, and a variety of suggested deficiencies—all of which, she constantly tells them, could be cured with a small drink every night.
Dr. Bayer is also smart enough to know that her nightly routine is as much a psychological tradition as it is a physical one. She has never been much of a drinker, and the splash or two of alcohol she allows herself does about the same thing a cup of warm milk or some chamomile tea would do to ease her into a good night of sleep.
Tonight she has left the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter for an extra visual dose of courage. She tells this to Phyllis as she shakes the files toward the floor, where her dog is now totally ignoring every single word that Livie says.
“It was my bright idea to put the three of them together like this, and not throw them into a larger anger group. Last week was tough, Phyllis. I took a risk handing them those white envelopes. But I’m determined. I think they want to change, I really do, and I think I can help them find their way home. They might think I’m crazy, but I have to try. Damn it, I do.”
Phyllis cocks her head. She is not fond of swearing, and Livie has tried hard for the past fifty years to wipe her father’s filthy-mouthed influence off her own lips. But sometimes there is absolutely nothing like a damn, shit , or hell to get your point across.
Livie sets down the files and grabs another folder that is resting on the table next to her. She’s gotten so used to working from this comfy old chair that five years ago she bought a larger side table to hold her files, notebooks, a mess of half-broken reading glasses, and her much-needed glass of whiskey.
The new folder is filled with police reports, photographs, witness statements, and a very bold note written across the top of the last page. It’s from her supervisor:
If you think you’re such a magician I suggest you take on this one as well, Dr. Know-It-All. You can have her for your Tuesday-night marauders. And no, you don’t have a choice .
Livie lets out a very heavy sigh. “This might be a good time to fall asleep,” she warns Phyllis.
Phyllis lifts her head for a moment, nods as if she completely understands, and then does exactly what Livie suggested.
The folder is very thick, which is always a bad sign.
And Phyllis is getting an earful.
“These women are something,” Livie begins, grabbing the blue-, green-, and red-dotted files, where the first assignment reports are nestled. “Phyllis, I may be in over my head with this one, but I sure as hell am not going to surrender to any of them without a fight. I know I can do this.”
Phyllis blinks once but decides to stay.
Livie is quiet for a moment as she shuffles through the files and then settles in for a thirty-minute analysis. Her three charges have emailed her their thoughts, as assigned, but it’s obvious that there is still plenty of work to do. Jane gets an A; Livie is actually surprised that she managed so well. She seemed to have a series of experiences during and after the hike that made her think genuinely about what’s important. Grace gets a C. Sure, she rocked and needlepointed, but then she fell right back into thinking she had to run fast through the rest of her day and the one after it. Grace, shame on you . Kit will get a B if she really does go back and hang out with her new friend, but until that happens she gets a C, too. Kit got lost in the comic moments, but by the time she sat down to write she was dragging herself through her past yet again.
Girls, girls, girls. We must move forward!
Olivia sets down the files and rewards herself by reaching over to take a small sip from her glass of Jameson eighteen-year-old whiskey. Her nightly drink is her single dose of “medicine.” She has younger friends who gulp down pills for aches, pains, and a variety of suggested deficiencies—all of which, she constantly tells them, could be cured with a small drink every night.
Dr. Bayer is also smart enough to know that her nightly routine is as much a psychological tradition as it is a physical one. She has never been much of a drinker, and the splash or two of alcohol she allows herself does about the same thing a cup of warm milk or some chamomile tea would do to ease her into a good night of sleep.
Tonight she has left the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter for an extra visual dose of courage. She tells this to Phyllis as she shakes the files toward the floor, where her dog is now totally ignoring every single word that Livie says.
“It was my bright idea to put the three of them together like this, and not throw them into a larger anger group. Last week was tough, Phyllis. I took a risk handing them those white envelopes. But I’m determined. I think they want to change, I really do, and I think I can help them find their way home. They might think I’m crazy, but I have to try. Damn it, I do.”
Phyllis cocks her head. She is not fond of swearing, and Livie has tried hard for the past fifty years to wipe her father’s filthy-mouthed influence off her own lips. But sometimes there is absolutely nothing like a damn, shit , or hell to get your point across.
Livie sets down the files and grabs another folder that is resting on the table next to her. She’s gotten so used to working from this comfy old chair that five years ago she bought a larger side table to hold her files, notebooks, a mess of half-broken reading glasses, and her much-needed glass of whiskey.
The new folder is filled with police reports, photographs, witness statements, and a very bold note written across the top of the last page. It’s from her supervisor:
If you think you’re such a magician I suggest you take on this one as well, Dr. Know-It-All. You can have her for your Tuesday-night marauders. And no, you don’t have a choice .
Livie lets out a very heavy sigh. “This might be a good time to fall asleep,” she warns Phyllis.
Phyllis lifts her head for a moment, nods as if she completely understands, and then does exactly what Livie suggested.
The folder is very thick, which is always a bad sign.
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