CLAIRE MCFALL - The Last Witness

Now

Waiting. My fingers drum out an uneven rhythm on the hard, plastic armrest of my chair. The noise jars against the light, methodical patter of the receptionist on her ergonomic keyboard. I see her wince and know Im rubbing her the wrong way, like nails down a chalkboard.

Good.

My nonverbal protest is the only complaint I can make because waiting is a privilege. It means Ive moved up one rung on Dr. Petersens ladder of trust. One rung on a ladder that stretches all the way up to the cloud-covered sky. Im at the bottom. And I have no intention of climbing to the top. Still, my small ascent has its advantages. Im wearing my own clothes, for a start. My hands are free, and I can continue my discreet torture of the snooty-faced secretary. Smiling serenely at her, I increase the volume of my tapping.

The door opens. Both the receptionist and I look toward the rectangle of space, but no one appears. Through the doorway I can just make out the cream-colored wall, covered with certificates, and the plush shag of the crimson-red carpet. At no sign that I can see, the receptionist takes her cue.

Dr. Petersen will see you now.

Shes perfected that sickly sweet voice. Professional, polite, and dripping with disdain. I avoid looking at her as I rise out of my seat. The rubber soles of my slippersreal shoes are at least another six rungsmake no sound on the cheap laminate. Instead, slightly out of step with me, the heavy tread of my escort announces my presence loud enough for Dr. Petersen to know Im coming. Loud enough for him to look up and greet me.

He doesnt.

How are you today, Heather? he asks the piece of paper in front of him.

It doesnt answer. There are at least eight seconds of silence before he deigns to lift his eyes to me.

Hmmm? He raises his eyebrows, his expression open, pleasant. As if were friends. Confidants.

Were not.

I hold his gaze as I ease myself into the plush leather chair facing his desk. No ugly molded plastic in this room. He drops his eyes first, and I allow myself a small smirk of victory as I watch him go through the rigmarole of shuffling the papers on his desk, clicking his engraved silver pen several times, and adjusting his tie, his shirt. Then he clears his throat and fixes me with a piercing look.

Now were really playing.

Are you ready to talk today, Heather?

To you? No.

He reads it in my face and sighs. Leaning forward over the desk, he drops the pen and presses the fingers of both hands together into a steeple. The soft yellow spotlights on the ceiling make the signet ring on his right little finger sparkle. I cant see whats imprinted on the circular face, just the hint of etchings rubbed worn with age. Like the lines around his eyes, the repugnant folds of his jowls surrounding a mouth puckered by dislikethe expression he wears every time he looks at me. The feeling is mutual.

I have a report to make to the court, you know.

I lift one eyebrow disdainfully. Do you?

The judge wants an update on your progress, your state of mind. Heather, I cant do that if you wont engage with me.

Written down, these words seem considerate, the rhetoric of a doctor who cares about his patient, about her welfare. When this is transcribed by the receptionist outsideand I know Im being recorded, even if I cant see the equipmentIm sure that is how it will read. Only I can hear the razor edge of threat.

I have the power to send you somewhere where there will be bars on your window instead of straps on your bed. Thats what hes really saying. Play nice, open up to me, let me inside your mind, and you can climb up the ladder until one day, blue sky and blazing sun will be the only things hanging over your head.

What Dr. Petersen doesnt understand is that Im not safe. Whether Im here or in prison, not even if Im free. It doesnt matter where I am. Im not safe. A darkness infinitely more potent than his bureaucratic intimidation hovers. Makes this puppetry a ludicrous sideshow.

And he just wouldnt understand. So why the hell should I play his game?

He sees the thought shining clear as day from my eyes and grimaces. Momentarily defeated, he flicks through the sheaves of paper about mereports, medical notes, facts and figuresand scans for something, anything, to fill the minutes. Hes not quite as comfortable with silence as I am. Suddenly, his eyes light up. In response, mine narrow to slits. What has he found?

I have a release form here, he says, waving a single piece of blue paper in the air for a brief moment. Before I can focus on it, he returns it to the pile. Release form? He has my interest now. Theres no hiding it. Victory number two goes to him, and he is not above preening. I have to sign to say that you are stable enough to be allowed out of this establishment temporarily for the surgery on your right hand to be performed

My hand. I look down at where its folded in my lap, unconsciously shielded from view by my unblemished left. I cant see it, but I can still feel it: the puckered rivets, the rough unevenness of the scars. Slowly I shift position and lightly place a hand on each knee. Stare at the difference.

Left: pale, white skin, fingers long and thin, nails bare and unvarnished but as long as theyll let me keep them. They could be a weapon, after all. They have been, when Ive had the chance.

Right: ravaged, red, misshapen, nails missing or twisted. More a claw than a hand. Ugly. Monstrous.

I feel my eyes tear up, and Im helpless to stop it. My hand.

Petersens still talking, but I cant hear him. Heather? Heather, are you listening?

No.

For me to sign this, you need to show that you can communicate. That youre rational enough to be allowed out of this establishment for the procedure. You have to talk to me today. Its important. He lifts another document. This one is thick, its multiple pages straining the staple that holds it together. Were going to go over your statement to the police. What you told them. He pauses as if hes waiting for me to say something, give him permission to go right ahead. Your own words, Heather. Exactly as you said them. Lets start at the beginning.