I slump down into a chair in an isolated corner, by the room's only window. I stare past my reflection and study the street below. The rapidly expanding shadows cool into a dozen different shades of blue. A long, winding line of brake lights dots the settling darkness like red stars. I trace them down the main road, around corners, drawing crosses where the side streets intersect. I try to imagine where every driver is going, or if they're going anywhere at all. How many of them have ever had to see a shrink? I wonder bitterly, chewing on the edge of my thumb. If I squint, I can make out the distant freeway ramp, guiding the leftover rush hour traffic in a climb to the clouds.
My nerves tingle and spark to life when the waiting room door opens, but it isn't my mother. A pissed-off man and his red-nosed son enter instead. Both of them look as though they've just finished an epic screaming match. The dad's tie hangs loose - either he needed some air or was debating whether or not to strangle his unruly offspring. Maybe both.
I paw through the pathetic selection of magazines on the rack next to my chair. Condé Nast Traveler, AARP, Sports Illustrated, Ladies' Home Journal, more Newsweek. Someone has taken a black marker and scribbled out the delivery addresses. My need to draw intensifies from a bothersome itch into a legitimate pain.
I gnaw at my thumb like a rabid creature, and taste metal. My pulse hammers into my wound. I leap to my feet. I'm going to look for the water fountain, and if I just happen to pass by Dr. Fox's office, I'll stop and try to listen for any juicy secrets spilling into the hall from the crack under his door.
The receptionist glances up from her chaos of ringing phones, open folders, and stained coffee mugs, sees me, and immediately jumps out of her swivel chair.
I hesitantly reach for the door handle.
"Excuse me, do you need something?" the lady says, her smile forced past the expected level of cheer required to be a successful mental health clinic receptionist.
Crap. No eavesdropping. "Um...water fountain."
The receptionist squeezes past me and opens the door. "I'll show you, honey."
I follow her halfway down the hall, which now looks significantly dingier without the winter sunlight filtering in through the bay windows. We walk by Dr. Fox's office. I hear nothing, but there is a rectangle of light glowing around the edges of his door.
The water fountain is tucked in a small alcove just past the staircase, but I could have easily found it if the receptionist had told me where to look. Maybe she thinks I am too much of a psycho to even find my way out of a paper bag. While I drink, she stands off to one side and pretends to pick a piece of lint off of her sweater. We return to the waiting room in awkward silence.
I retreat to my chair and window. The evening has arrived quickly even for winter, smothering the world in darkness. Pinpricks of light appear in patterns, mapping out the city in a constellation of buildings and avenues. I'm hungry, irritable, and exhausted. How long are they going to talk? I lick the crusts of blood from my thumb and index fingers, and hug my legs to my chest. Who cares if my boots are on the chair?
The red-nosed boy abandons his father, who seems a bit deflated, and asks the receptionist for directions to the water fountain.
She beams at him. "Straight down the hall, just past the stairs. You can't miss it."
He leaves. She doesn't go after him. What, is his strain of craziness less serious than mine?
The door bangs open again. It's another freaked-out parent leading a parade of wild kids. I sigh, release a leg, and restlessly jab at the floor with the toe of my boot. I've never wanted to see my mother this much in my life.
As the harried mom checks in at the desk, her smallest child shrieks at the sight of the toy table and all but falls onto it. He grabs some plastic trucks and colored blocks, and begins acting out the opening scene of what promises to be a very violent, live-action thriller. I'm not a mental health professional, but I would bet some serious cash that he's here for an Adderall refill.
His mother and very sullen older sister traipse over to a row of nearby chairs and passively observe the show, which now includes toppling Lego skyscrapers, explosive sound effects, and a generous mist of spit. The tired mom, makeup smeared around her defeated eyes, buries her face in a 2006 issue of Good Housekeeping. Her daughter shoves a pair of earbuds up under her wool hat and shuts her eyes. This is a battle not worth fighting.
Despite the mayhem, I find myself drifting off during an elaborate blitzkrieg. The kid races around the table, pounding the floor with his light-up sneakers, whooshing a pair of toy trucks through the air. Outside, someone's car alarm goes off.
I need noise to fall asleep. Silence is worse. Silence is dangerous. Silence is when my bad thoughts, my anxieties, the what-ifs - come wandering out to play.
***
"Shiloh." A hesitant hand on my shoulder sucks me back into the waiting room. "Wake up."
Dr. Fox anxiously hovers over me. He's wearing a dark tweed jacket instead of his lab coat.
I stretch, glance around, and am startled to see that the room is vacant, devoid of people, of significant sounds. Even the receptionist has left. It feels like a cage this way, empty and dead. My mom's Newsweek is still on her chair; toys are scattered across the carpet. Someone put the universe on -pause- and removed all of the people. "Where's my mother?" I say.
Dr. Fox runs a hand through his hair. "Let's go talk in my office."
Something about the tone of his smooth voice makes my stomach clench. I trail after the doctor, who keeps glancing over his shoulder to ensure that I'm behind him. All of the office doors are shut, the clinic barren.
We arrive at Dr. Fox's unlocked door, which he opens with a gentle push. The lights are on, and his desk is piled high with freshly printed papers. I smell warm ink and something indecipherable, but serious.
"Have a seat, please," the psychiatrist instructs.
My muscles don't want to work. I am frozen in the room's icy, clinical glow.
Dr. Fox sighs. "Please? Just sit down and take some deep breaths."
I slowly back away from him, my knees feeling like jelly. The couch reaches out to grab me. "What's going on?" I whimper, not sounding at all like myself. "Is my mom okay? Did something happen?"
He holds his hands up. "No, no, everything's fine, your mother's fine, and you're not in any trouble. I need you to listen to me very carefully, though."
"You're putting me on pills, aren't you?" I say, frantic. "You think I'm crazy, right?"
Dr. Fox closes his eyes. "No. Please just listen, Shiloh." He pauses, tensely shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Are you listening?"
I nod.
"Okay." He claps his hands together. His mouth is tense, and his eyes have me locked in a steady, determined stare. "Shiloh, your mother and I agree that you're in need of further evaluation, and that a higher level of care is appropriate at this time."
A surge of terror passes through me, raking against my bones. My torn fishnet stockings and the studded suspenders hanging in a rebellious way from my cutoff trousers seem so offensive now. I reach for the multiple metal trinkets winding up the edge of my ear, from the soft lobe to the supple cartilage, and suddenly want to undo everything I have ever given my identity. "I... I can't..." My mouth doesn't want to form words. My mind explores all sorts of paranoid conclusions as I squirm in pain, feeling my fearful insides liquefy.
