Stephanie+A

– Exposed
– Dr. Michael Long’s office is painted beige. The sun is setting on the ocean view outside; you can see it through the cream curtains. It comes in deep orange. Dust flakes rise up and settle back down every time something is disturbed from its place. One could almost mistake it for snow, save the temperature. – He’s not old; he just turned fifty-six last March. His face would leave you to believe otherwise. His forehead his creased with worry, his eyes ache from the same situation every day. The vigor that once held his eyes now can’t hold onto anything anymore. – His lips set around the stem of his pipe. He lets his glasses fall down the bridge of his nose to read her chart. – Cate Clemenson doesn’t belong here. It’s dingy. It smells. The trash barge resting outside doesn’t help, either. The bricks of the building are covered in big patches of moss and ivy. She’s trying to wriggle free from the two orderlies; they’re not letting go. She stops, turning to one of them. – “C’mon. I can give you anything, you know that? You’ll never have to work again.” She presses her body up against his. “//Anything.//” She raises her eyebrows, perfectly plucked into two slim black arches. – “Keep moving.” – Her voice gets louder and louder. She wants somebody to hear her. Maybe someone will recognize her and convince the staff otherwise. Maybe someone will tell them she’s not a crazy person; she just did too much in one night. – The Doctor hears someone screaming. Outside of his window, there’s a girl with brown hair and a pillbox hat, struggling away from three, now four, orderlies. He clears his throat in the entrance of his hospital and would like to know what’s going on. – “Well, just thank God Alm//i//ghty.” She flips her hair, fixes her hat, and walks. “These people, these awful…//people//, they just won’t listen to me. But now,” she smiles, a row of white meeting his eyes. – “Now, here’s a man of books, and learning, someone who can be reasoned with.” She links her right arm with his left, patting him, walking inside. “Could I possibly get a Sanka?” – “Cate – may I call you that?” – “I don’t mind.” They’re sitting in his office. Dr. Long convinced the orderlies to let them talk for a while first. He wants her to be fully aware. – She leans her head back, exhales a single stream of smoke, through tightly pursed lips, above her. Virginia Slims. She’s been smoking them since she was twelve in prep school. She holds the mug tightly with both hands. She sits, one leg crossed over the other, showing a little more of her thigh than necessary. She tosses her hair and smiles. “What can I help you with, Dr. Long?” – “Cate, I think you know why you’re here.” – She doesn’t answer. – “Your parents want you here. They’re concerned about you, Cate. About your well-being.” She crushes her cigarette into the empty ashtray on his desk. – “Cate, you don’t have to hide how you really feel here. It’s just you and me. No one will know anything you say to me.” She’s still silent. “How does it feel like when you’re having a panic attack?” – “I don’t have panic attacks.” She jostles her leg. – “Do you ever get fidgety? Do you feel like you can’t breathe? Like you can’t see–” – “My chest starts to close up. I need something…I need a smoke.” She puts the cup to her mouth to drink. She’s shaking; the liquid sloshes on her skirt and the floor. She drops the mug. She tries to light another cigarette. It falls on the floor. She puts her hands in her face. Her breathing is choppy, stalled. The Doctor is studying her. It’s been a minute. She regains herself. – “I’m so sorry.” She looks up at him and smiles. “What were we saying?"