Free The Dog Year by Ann Wertz Garvin

counselor’s office. Before doing so, she pulled a business card out of her purse and said to her waiting-room companion, sitting on what had to be incredibly uncomfortable pelvic bones, “If you want to come over some time and not eat . . .” She left the sentence unfinished. The woman’s spider-like fingers unfolded and grasped the card. She nodded, offered a brittle smile, and said, “Okay, thanks. I’ll bring something you don’t need.”
    *   *   *
    Lucy’s therapist didn’t look like anyone she’d met in her short-term experience with grief counselors. Historically, she found therapists to be overly personal people prone to making generalizations and wearing clogs. But this one, Dr. Tig Monohan, wore
normal
around her shoulders like a shawl. She didn’t have the kind of eyebrows that Lucy associated with therapists, the ones that conveyed sympathy or disapproval with a twitch, but she did have glossy brown hair and she wore nice pants.
    â€œSo this is how it works, Dr. Peterman. We start here with an evaluation. I’ll ask you some questions. Please answer as honestly as you can and then we’ll decide what kind of therapy would be the best for you.”
    She sat with her hands in her lap. The little girl in the principal’s office. The bad girl from the playground. She’d worn black pants and a cashmere turtleneck to show how seriously she took her situation.
    â€œHere’s the thing,” she said as she glanced around. “How am I going to get here every week for therapy without running into everyone I know asking unanswerable questions? Yes, I stole a bunch of incontinence pads. No, I don’t want to come to the Christmas party. No, those two things are not related.”
    â€œThat’s part of the deal. You have to own this. No more denial.”
    â€œI don’t deny that I did it. That would be hard to do, given the video surveillance camera and amount of stuff in my bedroom.”
    â€œDenial comes in many forms. But we’ll get to that.” Dr. Monohan riffled through the papers on her desk.
    â€œI don’t know why I do it.” Lucy’s stomach did a flip. “I mean, I’m not so far gone that I don’t know it’s wrong. I’m actually a pretty good person. I just want to go back to work.”
    Tig stopped shuffling papers and trained her gaze on Lucy. “Your status as a good person isn’t at issue here, Dr. Peterman.”
    â€œStealing is bad.”
    A smile flashed across Tig’s face and she nodded. “Stealing
is
bad,” she said with measured humor and raised eyebrows. “The bible tells me so. Shame on you.”
    Lucy met Tig’s eyes. Nonjudgmental acceptance. She felt her throat close with gratitude.
    â€œMay I call you Lucy?”
    Lucy nodded.
    â€œLook, Lucy, I’ve got people in here who can’t live without multiple addictions to pain pills, alcohol, and weed. One of my doctor patients smells women’s feet while they are under anesthesia. Yesterday, one of our higher-ups admitted to asking strange women to lick his balls. You’re the light at the end of a long week.”
    â€œSeriously?”
    â€œSerious as a breast lift. That’s plastic surgery humor,” she added. “I thought you’d appreciate it. Being a therapist is all about knowing your audience.”
    Lucy blinked. “So are you saying this is just a formality?”
    â€œHa! Don’t you wish. No. You’ve got issues, Lucy. We’re gonna check those issues out, hopefully get you to stop taking IV bags, and reinstate you into medicine where you belong. Make no mistake, though: You’ve got some work to do.”
    â€œOkay. But I think I can stop stealing anytime.”
    â€œOh, I’m sure you do,” Tig said kindly. “I’ve been an alcohol and other drugs therapist for ten years; I know intention is a