Proffessional
Meg raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? See whom?”
He pursed his lips together, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he could tell her. “I mean a specific sort of doctor who specializes in this sort of thing.”
Her other eyebrow shot up. “You mean… a psychiatrist?”
He nodded. “I know it might sound desperate. It’s only… I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want anyone to think I’m crazy….”
“A psychiatrist would be the one to say that, though, wouldn’t he?”
“Possibly,” Charlie shrugged. “I think I’m sane enough to stay out of an institution. I hope I am anyway. But I’ve been reading, and some of the techniques these doctors have come up with might help me. Have you read anything by Freud? Or Jung?”
She had heard of Freud but not that other person. “I don’t know much about psychiatry,” she admitted.
“They both have several theories, and they’re both quite different. But perhaps if I see a psychiatrist, they might be able to help me better understand what is going on in my mind and why I am hearing voices that aren’t there.”
Meg opened her mouth and closed it again. She didn’t know what to say.
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“No!” She said it quickly, turning to face him. “Not at all.”
“Then why are you against me seeking help?”
“I’m not,” she reassured him. “I’m not. Charlie, if that’s what you need to do, I’ll support you. I suppose… I just wish I could be enough to fix it for you, that’s all.”
“Oh, Meg,” he said, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “You are enough. Believe me, you’re more than I ever expected. But… this has nothing to do with you. That’s the problem. I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. From what I’ve read, I have to sort out why it’s happening in order to be able to stop it.”
She wanted to understand what he was saying, but she couldn’t. She had her own ghosts, her own voices, and they all fit nicely into the little box in the back of her mind. They were there just now. Why couldn’t he simply do that—build a fortress to keep them inside so they couldn’t surface? She didn’t ask. “Charlie, I love you, and if you want to see a specialist, I will do whatever I can to support you.”
“Thank you,” he smiled at her and then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead before pulling her head to rest on his shoulder. He held her in silence for a long time before he finally said, “You know, Meg, you’ve been through an awful lot as well. Perhaps, if this method works for me, you could consider seeing a psychiatrist, too..”
Meg’s head shot up off of his shoulder. “Do you think I’m mad?”
“No, I don’t. I didn’t mean that. Not at all, Meg. I only meant, surely with all you’ve been through, you must have difficulty sleeping. I know you don’t eat as well as you should. I just thought… perhaps it could help you feel better about what’s happened. That’s all.”
She pursed her lips together. “I don’t need a psychiatrist, Charlie. I need answers.” She squinted her eyes for a moment, contemplating whether or not she should say what was on her mind. He looked at her expectantly. “Perhaps a gun.”
“A gun?” he repeated. “Is that why you asked what would happen if one of them was deceased?”
“Possibly,” she admitted with a shrug.
“Meg, you can’t be serious. You couldn’t kill your uncle.”
“No, of course not,” she said. The words came out easily. The thought did not fade as quickly. It hadn’t been the first time killing him had crossed her mind.
“Meg, darling, don’t be silly. You know he’ll never hurt you again, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know.” She rested her head back on his shoulder. She didn’t want to kill Bertram so that he would never hurt her again. She wanted to kill him for what he’d already done.
“We’ll go over there and tell the police all that we know, and they will lock him up for a very long time. He’ll get what he deserves.”
“You’re right,” she said quietly. But she knew there was no possible way Bertram could ever get what he deserved until he was burning in hell. She hoped one way or another he’d be there soon enough.
Meg’s eyes fell on the window upstairs where they’d seen Jonathan watching them the night before. He wasn’t there tonight. She assumed he was likely passed out on the bed. Her stomach tightened at the thought. He was certainly having trouble dealing with the memories as well.
“I’m rather surprised not to see Jonathan there,” Charlie said quietly, as if he had been reading her mind.
Without raising her head, Meg said, “I’m not.”
“Why is that?”
She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “He was a bit… tipsy when he walked me home earlier.”
“Tipsy?” Charlie asked, clearly surprised. “Jonathan?”
“I’m afraid so. I think he may be trying to drown his sorrows in a different sort of ocean, one that consists mostly of Johnny Walker Red.”
Charlie pulled back so that she was forced to remove her head from his shoulder and look at him. “Meg, what are you talking about? I’ve never known Jonathan to drink excessively. In fact, there’s been more than a few times when he’s had to pull a bottle of brandy out of my hand.”
While that information was less than appealing, she wasn’t about to get into a discussion of why she hoped her fiancé wouldn’t drink anymore. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I only mention it because I’m worried. I’m sure you haven’t noticed anything, but Jonathan has smelled of liquor frequently of late. I realize he assumed he was off-duty this evening when you asked him to bring me home, but clearly he wasn’t himself. I’m afraid he’s not dealing with all this as well as he’s letting on.”
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