Whisper to Me(112)

“Uh, yes, I guess.”

“However … he was surprised to learn that you had made a decision on your own to stop your medication.”

I stiffened.

“I mean, Cassie … I’m trying to help you here. He wrote me, did you know that? To tell me that the two of you were meeting.”

I looked down at the floor. “Um, yeah, he mentioned it.”

“And you didn’t think you might therefore be able to talk to me about it? To discuss it? And to talk about your drugs? I was waiting to see if you would bring it up, and you never did.”

“I don’t know.”

She made an exasperated sound. “Listen, Cassie … I want you to tell me how you feel about the drugs you’re taking.”

“What?”

“Please. Indulge me. Tell me honestly. You can look at me too. I won’t bite.”

I met her eyes. They were open, interested—clear. “I … I hate them. They make me too tired and I can’t think properly and … they make me not me.”

“And you believe you function better without them?”

“Yes.”

“Your father believes otherwise.”

“He’s just pissed because I met a boy.”

“Hmm,” said Dr. Rezwari.

A pause.

“Look … You have to work with me, Cassie. Has it occurred to you that these drugs, paroxetine especially, have withdrawal effects? That stopping abruptly may have been extremely dangerous?”

“Uh … no.”

“Evidently not. And has it occurred to you, too, that you never actually told me you didn’t like taking them?”

Oh.

No, it hadn’t occurred to me.

“Okay, so. Let’s start over. I’m Dr. Rezwari. And you are?”

“What?”

“You are …?”

“Cassie.”

She smiled, and reached out to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you, Cassie.”

“Uh … Nice to meet you too,” I said. My head was all fuzzy.

“You hear voices. You are currently pursuing a therapeutic approach to dealing with those voices, under the care of Dr. Lewis.”

“Yes …”

“And this has led to your being able to”—she flipped open the single note pad on her desk, lined up neatly with the edge—“schedule times when the voice can speak to you? Challenge the voice’s power?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Very good. And you are currently supposed to be taking risperidone and paroxetine?”

“Yes, you prescribed them to me.”

“I know that.” Another sigh. “So here’s the thing, Cassie. I’m not some monster. I don’t live to turn you into a robot. I want you to be a fulfilled, absorbed, contented person. But you’re also someone who hears voices. That can be very dangerous. For you and, frankly, for other people. Do you see that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I mean, the voice had done some ****ed-up stuff to me. And had wanted me to hurt other people too. “But I wouldn’t hurt him. The boy. My dad thinks I might, but I would never do that.”

“I believe that you believe that. Nevertheless, we have a duty to protect you, and to protect others. Do you agree?”

“Yes …”

“Having said that, I am aware of the progress being made by people like Dr. Lewis. There have been some promising studies. So—”

I opened my mouth and stared at her. “I can stop the—”

She raised her finger. “Wait. We are taking this one step at a time. I want regular meetings with you and Dr. Lewis. I want to involve your father. No, listen, don’t look at me like that; you’re under eighteen. And I want, for now, to keep you on risperidone, albeit a slightly lower dose. I also feel that long term you will truly benefit from the medication. You are at major risk of depression otherwise. But …”

“Yes?”

“But I’m prepared, if I’m satisfied with what I see, to look at your drug regimen with you. To empower you, in your own recovery and ongoing … you know … life.”

I smiled—it was funny, to see an adult, a psychiatrist at that, struggle for the word they were looking for.

Dr. Rezwari laughed. “Brain not quite operating on full power today. Anyway. Does that sound good to you?”

I was still a little in shock. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“This is with the condition that you continue taking the drugs—no, wait—that you continue taking them for now. Until we can all make a proper appraisal. Together. Is that okay?”

I took a breath. “Yeah, okay.”

She smiled and smoothed her dress. It looked expensive—Chanel, maybe? “Now, you have never taken me up on my offer of a book, to borrow. But I always see you looking at them. Please, take one when you leave.”

“I don’t …”

“Really, any book. Any book you like.”

“Okay …”

I stood and glanced down the shelves. A name popped out at me: Haruki Murakami. I loved the one Jane had given me. It was weird, but amazing. This one was called A Wild Sheep Chase. I pulled it from the shelf—it shushed against the book next to it, a soft, velvety sound. “Can I take this one?”