Sam shakes her head. She hasn’t had one of those since that day six months earlier, when her colleagues dialed 999 thinking she was experiencing a cardiac arrest.
“Good,” he says. “Headaches? Yes. We know those are an issue. Taking your medication at the same time each day might help there. Occasional tinnitus when you feel stressed. The usual suspects as far as physical symptoms go, really, but remember that you might experience new symptoms you aren’t expecting, and you might feel or do things that are out of character. When that happens, just remember it’s OK and be kind to yourself…”
Sam glances at the clock. Their session is nearing its close. The chocolate ball pops and the creamy interior floods her mouth. Maybe she should mention the salt she tastes sometimes. Perhaps that’s something the doctor could help with.
“Samantha?”
“Mmm?”
“I asked how you feel about going back to work?” She shifts restlessly as he brings up their most debated topic of late. “Your BDI scores are better than ever, you’ve established a good routine, your symptoms are under control. I really think it could be in your best interest to consider a phased return. Even one or two days per week could be—”
“Is this you asking?” The melted chocolate muffles her words. “Or Harry?”
“Samantha…” Dr. Thomson rubs his forehead in a rare gesture of frustration. “Yes, Harry is my golf buddy,” the doctor concedes, “but he is also your godfather. He is your oldest friend, not to mention your Chief Inspector. He only wants what’s best for—”
“Andyou’remy doctor,” Sam says, hating that she sounds so petulant. “You shouldn’t try to persuade me to go back to work just because Harry thinks I should be there.” It’s the same thing she says each time the conversation comes up, which is weekly.
“Samantha,” the doctor says again, and she fights the sudden urge to throw a chocolate ball at his face, hard. “It would be unethical of me to do that. I am your doctor first and foremost, and in that capacity, I care about you. In that capacity, I also wantto challenge you to continue to progress. I fear we’ve reached a plateau, and you’re ready to take the next step in your recovery, which is to return to work. At some point, you have to face what you’re so determined to avoid. A phased return really can be beneficial to—”
“No.” Sam pulls both ends of another plastic wrapper and watches the sweet spin open. She palms the ball into her mouth and chews.
“How are you coping financially, Samantha?” Dr. Thomson asks. “Last session you mentioned that you were about to have your sick pay reduced to half salary? You seemed concerned that—”
“I manage,” she says, and it’s the truth—her savings are holding out, but she knows that won’t be the case for much longer.
“How about two, maybe three, days a week?” Dr. Thomson says, raising his voice slightly. “That would be a good starting point?”
Sam does some quick mental maths. If she worked two days per week, she’d qualify for full pay again, instead of the half salary she is now receiving. She could afford to fix the washing machine or replace the torn lino in the kitchen. She could hire someone to deep-clean the house; it’d be nice to see the surfaces again, and perhaps they’d discover the source of the smell in the fridge. She swallows and tries to picture herself walking back into the grand New Scotland Yard building.
“I’m just not ready yet,” Sam says to herself, and the doctor nods. He leans back, scratching his head as if digging for a new angle of attack.
Sam reaches out to take another chocolate, but seeing that there’s only one left in the bowl she hesitates, her hand hovering. She pulls back reluctantly, leaving the gleaming treat for the next patient.
“We’ve talked a lot about your colleague DS Lowry in these sessions,” the doctor starts again. “Obviously, Harry called in every favor he could to get Lowry out of the Metropolitan Police and faraway from you, so you’ll never have to see him again. It’s a shame he’s still in the police at all, but—”
A loud ringing sound starts up in Sam’s ears. She closes her eyes but she can still see Lowry’s pudgy fingers sliding along her inner thigh; his dull wedding ring, his bitten fingernails spidering up between her legs. Despite the fact that the man was trying to touch her without her consent, Sam can still remember the sudden rush of self-consciousness that her tights and underwear might be sweaty from a day’s work. She tastes a familiar salty flavor in her mouth.
“We had no evidence,” Sam says, her tongue thick. “It was my word against his. The only option was for Harry to persuade Lowry to leave our team of his own volition. I’m grateful, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready to go back there.” Sam looks at the clock again. Still another hour before she can take a tablet to subdue the headache that stalks her through her days.
“I know you and Harry did the best you could under the circumstances,” Dr. Thomson says. “My point is that—”
“Doc, this is all too much. Let’s go back to the days when you used to witter on about journaling, or meditation. We once did a whole session on the benefits of walking barefoot on grass. Now, every week you just push me. And so does Harry.”
“We both want what’s best for you, Samantha. Especially Harry. He just wants to help you put this episode in the past and get back to solving crimes. You make this city a safer—”
“Give me a sick note for another month, Doc,” Sam says, standing. The doctor sighs and scribbles illegibly on a scrap of paper, then holds out the note.
“Same time next week, Samantha,” Dr. Thomson sighs. “I’ll have to let Harry know, since he’s footing the bill.”
“Fine,” Sam snaps, snatching the note from him and letting the door slam behind her.
The waiting room beyond the doctor’s office is eerily silentdespite being full of people. A couple clings nervously to each other in the corner, a pensioner stares out of the window while twisting clumps of her hair, and a young man in a smart suit reads a book—How to Get… Sam can’t make out the rest of the title.How to Get Richor something equally desperate, she supposes. Once upon a time, she’d have lingered to catch a glimpse of the cover before googling it and seeing how many stars it had. Now, Sam simply doesn’t have the energy to be curious. She descends the stairs and drags open the enormous front door, squinting into the day.
Outside, the May sunshine washes the gray sky with a hint of yellow. There’s a cool, light breeze, but Sam is hot from her session and from the oversized Nordic sweater she now wears every day, taking comfort in its bulk. With a ten-minute walk to the nearest bus stop—a real hike by London standards—Sam plugs in her headphones and navigates to her favorite playlist, full of Slipknot and Metallica, guaranteed to shut out the world entirely and not leave her crying like the Bob Dylan albums that used to be her go-to.
As she walks south toward Holland Park, she decides that she’ll treat herself to a cuppa and a pastry beside the ornate pond that is located at the center of what is, in her opinion, London’s best attempt at bringing the countryside into the city. Sam loves the huge oaks, overgrown walkways and the way the tiny park manages to feel like a small slice of the Lake District or the Durham Dales, right here in the UK’s capital.
A visit to Holland Park will clear her head of the so-called therapy session and help the tightness in her chest dissipate. No doubt Dr. Thomson has phoned Harry—DCI Harry Blakelaw, her boss—immediately, to update him. Harry insists on being kept in the loop. He calls Sam every Monday lunchtime, without fail, to see how she is doing. Sam always answers Harry’s calls when theycome; she knows that if she doesn’t, her godfather will turn up at her door with a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and a concerned look on his face. The mess her house is in right now, she certainly wants to avoid any home visits from him.
