Part 2 (1/2)
He looked at her fixedly.
”I'm fine,” she repeated. She hoped he wouldn't start on the whole ”insomnia thing” again.
”Hmmm,” her father mumbled, sounding unconvinced. He brought a forkful of potato to his mouth and stared through the placemat as he chewed. Something was on his mind. Les Vanderwall rarely made such observations as light conversation. It wasn't his style. Perhaps it was because he had conducted too many interrogations, but the ex-detective inspector had a knack for pointed statements and loaded questions. As casual as he made it sound, the topic was not about to go away without being discussed further.
They ate for a few minutes in silence, but Mak sensed that there was a question her father wanted to ask. It made her tense. Finally she took the bull by the horns and asked, ”What's up?”
”I was talking with a friend of mine recently about the way people react to stress, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and so on...we saw a lot of it in the police force...”
Oh, here we go.
”Yes, I'm familiar with it. And?”
”And, Makedde, I'm worried. I was wondering if you had considered seeing someone about the incident in Sydney?”
The ”incident in Sydney”. That's how everyone referred to it.
”Considered seeing someone? I believe 'psychological therapy' is the term you're looking for.”
”Just to talk it out with someone. Someone unbiased and experienced in these areas. You said yourself that you probably should.” The furrow in his brow formed twin exclamation marks and his eyes were filled with real concern.
”That was an off-hand comment I made a year ago, but I didn't end up needing therapy, and I still don't. Nothing has changed. I'm fine. There's no need to worry, Dad. I a.s.sure you, I'm totally fine.” She looked at the food cooling on her plate. ”I just can't see the point of rehas.h.i.+ng all that stuff unnecessarily, especially now. I went over it with the police G.o.d knows how many times. Besides, there was that counsellor in Sydney as you may recall. I talked about it with her. That was enough...”
Her appet.i.te performed a Houdini and she was left staring at a dinner of half-eaten dead flesh. From the recesses of her memory she got a flash of a mutilated corpse and immediately felt the hot sensation that precedes a fever. She blinked the vision away and concentrated on sipping from her gla.s.s of water. The gla.s.s felt refres.h.i.+ngly cold against her fingertips and the water she poured down her throat settled her down. Her right big toe began to tingle, exactly where the microsurgeon had sewn it back on. She ignored it.
”Mak, you talked with that counsellor for a whole hour.”
That was true.
She changed her focus, pus.h.i.+ng any thoughts of Sydney back into a dark box and slamming the lid shut.
”Who is this friend of yours you were talking to about this stuff?”
Les Vanderwall caught his daughter's eye and held it. ”Don't worry, I'm not using you as some kind of conversation piece. Remember how I told you I ran into that lady in the Starbucks on Robson several months back? Dr Ann Morgan? Was married to Sergeant Morgan with the Vancouver PD?”
Mak recalled some mention of the chance meeting early in the spring. Her father was visiting Mak in Vancouver at the time and had been wandering around the shops on Robson Street killing time while she finished up a fas.h.i.+on shoot. He recognised Dr Morgan in the coffee line. They had met before at a reception she attended with her husband. She'd heard about Jane Vanderwall's death and sent a card. They struck up a conversation.
Mak had met the husband, Sergeant Morgan, once, perhaps twice. Never much liked him, though. ”Was married to”...hmmm. Interesting choice of words.
”Anyway, I was talking with her the other day,” he went on. ”She's visiting some friends on the island at the moment. Ann has some idea of your situation. No specifics, of course...”
Makedde felt her throat tighten. Her temporal artery pulsed. ”And what precisely would she know about my situation, specific or otherwise?” she asked. ”What is my situation, exactly?” She knew she sounded defensive, but didn't care.
”Dr Morgan is involved in this sort of area,” he said in a cautious, soothing tone. ”She's a psychiatrist. I may have mentioned it before.”
He hadn't. In fact, this was the first time Makedde had ever heard her father talk about any psychiatrist in a particularly positive light. Many in the police force, particularly the older generation of officers, tended to view psychiatrists and psychologists with suspicion. The cynics regarded them as the thorns in their sides who would excuse criminals on the grounds of legal insanity or diminished responsibility.
Her father had protested when she announced her desire to pursue psychology as a career. Was he now suggesting that his own daughter ought to be seeing a shrink? If that were true, times had certainly changed. It threw her for a loop.
”Don't tell me you think I need to see a psychiatrist, of all things? Next you'll be saying I should be on antidepressants.” She spat the words out. Mak felt that many psychiatric drugs were over-prescribed because of the influence of pushy drug companies. Her father knew very well about her reservations.
”Just relax. No one's talking about drugs. You've been under a lot of stress with your thesis and everything. You're not sleeping properly. Don't think I can't tell.”
That stung. He could see right through her petty protests. She couldn't keep anything from him. She fought the urge to push her plate away and leave the table. Instead, she pursed her lips, staring again at her half-eaten meal. Her father meant well. In fact, if anything, he was too well-meaning sometimes.
And besides, he was right.
”Just think about it. It might help to see someone.”
Mak knew he was waiting for a response but she simply stared at her gla.s.s of water. A bead of moisture rolled off the lip, trickled down the length of the gla.s.s and stained the tablecloth with a small damp dot.
”Just think about it,” he repeated.
She didn't say anything.
He changed the subject, knowing he'd hit his mark. He had her thinking about it.
”Theresa and Ben will be coming over for dinner tomorrow with little Breanna.”
”Oh?” she managed. Oh joy.
”I hope you'll stick around this time. You and your sister haven't seen much of each other lately.”
That was also true.
”And Ann might swing by at some point. It'd be nice if you were here to meet her.”
If this is a set-up, I'll snap.
Makedde nodded and said nothing. If her dad had a new friend who wanted to visit, that was great. It was more than great, actually. But if he was meddling with her life again, and he had a shrink that wanted to corner her, that was a different matter altogether.
Mak reached for her gla.s.s and brought it to her lips. She sipped while he ate. She thought about how, after so many years of travel, being close to home seemed to both comfort her and give her an odd feeling of claustrophobia.
He's right, you know. You're starting to slip.
”By the way,” her father said, ”you got a call this evening.”
”Mmm?” Mak mumbled. She was thankful he wasn't commenting on her lack of appet.i.te.
”It was Detective Flynn.”
Suddenly Makedde couldn't breathe. After a moment she somehow managed to say, ”Oh,” in a reasonably steady voice. She paled and then her fair complexion turned the colour of fresh beets.