Read Online My Life in Black and White by Natasha Friend - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Natasha Friend
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shrink.
“Why do I need a psychologist?” I demanded when my parents told me. “I’m not psycho.”
“Of course you’re not, baby,” my mother soothed. And my father explained that this wasn’t a judgment on me personally; it was hospital procedure. Following a traumatic injury—particularly a traumatic facial injury—all patients are required to undergo a psychiatric evaluation to ensure their blah blah blah…
“Well,” I said, “I’m not doing it.”
I wanted my dad to tell me this was fine, I didn’t have to—that he would plead my case to the hospital board, find some loophole in the system. But here he was, shaking his head.
“If you don’t do the psych consult,” he said, “you can’t come home. These aren’t my rules, Beans. They’re the hospital’s. They have to cover their bases, legally speaking.”
While I knew he was right, I couldn’t bring myself to agree. And, anyway, the tin of shortbread cookies on the table next to my bed was calling to me. Eat us, they commanded. Eat one, eat ten, keep going. As I stuffed my face, my mother stared at me with barely disguised horror.
“Why don’t I take these down to the nurses’ station,” she said briskly, lifting the tin out of my lap. “And get you an apple?”
Why don’t you get an apple and stuff it in your pie hole? I wanted to say. During the past week my mother had been bugging me worse than ever. First, it was Ryan: Why won’t you take his calls? Why won’t you let him visit? Why won’t you give him a chance to make up? Then, it was Taylor: Why won’t you take her calls? Why did you throw ice cream at the wall when she was here?
Now, it was my diet. “This hospital food is pure starch!” she informed me. “Why don’t I run out to D’Angelo’s and get you a salad? A yogurt? A protein bar?”
What’s the point?! I wanted to scream. I would never be a model. I knew that. Even without looking in a mirror, I knew. I could tell by the way my mother glanced away every time one of the doctors or nurses checked under the gauze. By her overly chipper comments. Things are really healing nicely, Alexa! You’ll be back to your old self before you know it! I wanted to grab a cookie and bean my mother in the head.
But what good would that do? It wouldn’t change anything. Short of building a time machine to transport me back to kindergarten, where I could tell Taylor to shove her offer of friendship up her fickle, treacherous ass—which would then, obviously, set my life on a completely different track—I was stuck. And if I was going to be stuck, I might as well be home. In my own bed. In my own room, which didn’t reek of disinfectant and canned peas.
So I agreed to the psych consult.
The pediatric psychiatrist was a woman, which I didn’t expect. All of the other doctors I’d seen had been men. She was also the first one without a lab coat. Instead, she wore a yam-colored sari and jeans. Her shiny black hair was center parted, pulled back in a bun.
“Hello, Alexa,” she said, rising from her desk to greet me. “I’m Dr. Kamath.”
“Hello,” I said. My voice sounded high and flimsy in the fluorescent-lit office, like Tinkerbell’s. If Tinkerbell had a voice … Did she? I couldn’t remember now. Did she talk or just tinkle?
“Alexa?”
“Yeah.”
Dr. Kamath smiled. She gestured to several chairs and told me to sit wherever I’d like. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.
Comfortable . Right.
How comfortable could I be, sitting on one side of my butt? When the other side was covered in gauze so thick I felt lopsided? This was my first time venturing out of my bed and into another wing of the hospital. I’d been wearing a johnny for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to have on real clothes, to sit in a chair like a normal person.
Normal. There’s a funny word. No one in their right mind would be using normal to describe me now.
“Alexa?”
“Hmm?”
Dr. Kamath was looking at me
“Why do I need a psychologist?” I demanded when my parents told me. “I’m not psycho.”
“Of course you’re not, baby,” my mother soothed. And my father explained that this wasn’t a judgment on me personally; it was hospital procedure. Following a traumatic injury—particularly a traumatic facial injury—all patients are required to undergo a psychiatric evaluation to ensure their blah blah blah…
“Well,” I said, “I’m not doing it.”
I wanted my dad to tell me this was fine, I didn’t have to—that he would plead my case to the hospital board, find some loophole in the system. But here he was, shaking his head.
“If you don’t do the psych consult,” he said, “you can’t come home. These aren’t my rules, Beans. They’re the hospital’s. They have to cover their bases, legally speaking.”
While I knew he was right, I couldn’t bring myself to agree. And, anyway, the tin of shortbread cookies on the table next to my bed was calling to me. Eat us, they commanded. Eat one, eat ten, keep going. As I stuffed my face, my mother stared at me with barely disguised horror.
“Why don’t I take these down to the nurses’ station,” she said briskly, lifting the tin out of my lap. “And get you an apple?”
Why don’t you get an apple and stuff it in your pie hole? I wanted to say. During the past week my mother had been bugging me worse than ever. First, it was Ryan: Why won’t you take his calls? Why won’t you let him visit? Why won’t you give him a chance to make up? Then, it was Taylor: Why won’t you take her calls? Why did you throw ice cream at the wall when she was here?
Now, it was my diet. “This hospital food is pure starch!” she informed me. “Why don’t I run out to D’Angelo’s and get you a salad? A yogurt? A protein bar?”
What’s the point?! I wanted to scream. I would never be a model. I knew that. Even without looking in a mirror, I knew. I could tell by the way my mother glanced away every time one of the doctors or nurses checked under the gauze. By her overly chipper comments. Things are really healing nicely, Alexa! You’ll be back to your old self before you know it! I wanted to grab a cookie and bean my mother in the head.
But what good would that do? It wouldn’t change anything. Short of building a time machine to transport me back to kindergarten, where I could tell Taylor to shove her offer of friendship up her fickle, treacherous ass—which would then, obviously, set my life on a completely different track—I was stuck. And if I was going to be stuck, I might as well be home. In my own bed. In my own room, which didn’t reek of disinfectant and canned peas.
So I agreed to the psych consult.
The pediatric psychiatrist was a woman, which I didn’t expect. All of the other doctors I’d seen had been men. She was also the first one without a lab coat. Instead, she wore a yam-colored sari and jeans. Her shiny black hair was center parted, pulled back in a bun.
“Hello, Alexa,” she said, rising from her desk to greet me. “I’m Dr. Kamath.”
“Hello,” I said. My voice sounded high and flimsy in the fluorescent-lit office, like Tinkerbell’s. If Tinkerbell had a voice … Did she? I couldn’t remember now. Did she talk or just tinkle?
“Alexa?”
“Yeah.”
Dr. Kamath smiled. She gestured to several chairs and told me to sit wherever I’d like. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.
Comfortable . Right.
How comfortable could I be, sitting on one side of my butt? When the other side was covered in gauze so thick I felt lopsided? This was my first time venturing out of my bed and into another wing of the hospital. I’d been wearing a johnny for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to have on real clothes, to sit in a chair like a normal person.
Normal. There’s a funny word. No one in their right mind would be using normal to describe me now.
“Alexa?”
“Hmm?”
Dr. Kamath was looking at me
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