‘Ellie, please come in.’
His cheerful voice says this like he’s an old friend, an acquaintance from the past, from a happy time. But I don’t know him, I only know of him. He is the new doctor, the one who is reviewing my file. This I understand, because this much, at least, they have told me.
I sit on the patient side of the desk. I don’t mind being the patient; the chair is comfortable enough. I have sat in it many times before. I am happy to say nothing, might as well enjoy it while I can. He is sure to intrude soon, sure to ask his questions and try to get a response – that is what they do, that is what they all do. But I don’t have a response, I have nothing. In nothing I feel safe, for now.
The doctor is tall and graceful in his movements. I notice this as he walks across the room, but I can tell this even when he is seated. The elegant way his arms move as he turns over the case notes, the slow, delicate indentation of forehead lines as he concentrates. When I walked in, he held the door open for me, as if I was some kind of lady. He has an air of gentle confidence, which must help him to control proceedings. I wonder if he is this way out in the real world. Does his disposition change when he is not dealing with lunatics like me? There is already a wooden plaque on the desk with his name on it: ‘Dr Samuel Ebbs’. It is followed by a string of letters. I have learned that the number of letters adds to their importance, but importance to whom? Certainly not to me. To me, he is of no importance; to me, he is simply here.
To the side of the case notes lies a jotter and he writes in it from time to time, even before we start to talk properly. His head is bent and his eyes move constantly from the case notes to his jotter, looking up briefly to smile every now and then. I notice the beginning of baldness, just a slight thinning out in the centre of the crown. His hair is black and his suit expensive, neat. The skin on his face and hands tanned, as if painted by a different climate. He has a sharp nose, but it suits him, gives him an air of intelligence. The wedding band on his finger tells me he is married. His enthusiastic scribbling confirms to me that he is new.
Raising his head, he lays the pen down on the desk without making a sound. These are all indicators that he is now ready to move our proceedings forward.
‘Well, Ellie, thank you for seeing me today.’
Stupid statement – like I have a choice. I say nothing. He looks at me, my silence causing an upward movement of his right eyebrow.
‘You’ve been here a long time?’ He knows this from my file. ‘I would like to help you, Ellie, if I can.’
He waits. So do I.
‘Perhaps we could spend some time together over the next while. I am here to listen and of course to help you any way I can.’
He pauses then, like I’m going to respond. I don’t, not even a blink.
‘Maybe, Ellie, we could aim to have our chats in the afternoon? How would you feel about that?’
‘Fine.’
He can have as many chats as he likes, but I won’t be saying anything. It has all been said before, dragged up and dissected, mulled backwards and forwards. It doesn’t change anything, nothing can.
I lean farther back in my chair and he stares at me like he knows I am about to say something. I suddenly like this about him, noticing the small things probably makes him a good judge of people.
‘Do you have children, Dr Ebbs?’ I ask this as I turn away from the framed photograph of his children on the desk. They look about eight and ten years old. The girl is the younger one. I know he has caught me looking. I don’t care.
‘Yes. I have two, a boy and a girl.’
‘A gentleman’s family. You should mind them well, they won’t always be around, you know.’
‘Indeed.’
I can tell he feels uncomfortable with someone else setting the agenda. He says nothing about me looking at the photograph. He is being polite, no point in upsetting the lunatic too soon. Perhaps I should feel guilty about taking advantage of our meeting, of him wanting to put me at my ease, but there are always pros and cons on both sides. I know the protocol better than most. He will talk to me on first name terms, but if I were to call him Samuel, it would be overly familiar. He knows he is in charge of the questions and that it is my expected duty to answer them. He will try to make me better, but I don’t want to be better. I am fine as I am, history-less.
‘Your bouts of depression, it says here, Ellie, they started not long into your marriage?’
Picking up his pen, he clicks down the top, like he’s pressing the Play button on a tape recorder, as if now I should open my mouth and speak so that he, being the good doctor, can write it all down diligently. The fact that I remain silent does not unnerve him, merely initiates a change of tactics.