Slender Bones

Monday, October 12th, 1992

Monday morning came and swept me up. I found myself back at the offices, tired, overwhelmed, and in need of some seriously infernal roast. I barreled in through the front door and booked it to my office, setting my bag on the table and rushing back out the way that I came, towards the front office.

"Kathy," I said, urgently, as I filled the coffee maker with fresh grounds. She looked up from her notebook.

"Yes?"

"What time are the Cobains supposed to be in?" I asked, looking up at the clock as the black liquid started to drip into its container. It was nine in the morning. Drip, drip, drip. The smell of bitter coffee began to fill the room.

"They should be here any minute," she replied, looking up at me and raising an eyebrow. She was somewhat plain, but pretty. Straight sandy hair framed her square face, brown eyes peered out from beneath her bangs. Freckles were spattered across her face. "You're going to get me their autographs, right? I brought Nevermind with me. They can sign that."

"Courtney Love isn't in Nirvana. Don't you think that might offend her a little bit?" I poured some coffee into my mug and turned to face Kathy, leaning against the counter.

"Maybe," she shrugged sheepishly. "But it's so worth it. And how would you know the difference?" She raised her other eyebrow. "You've been researching, haven't you?"

"Maybe," I imitated her sheepish grin. "It never hurts to get ahead."

She smiled knowingly and glanced up as a few patients came through the door. Unfortunately, they were not the Cobains.

"Those look like Dr. Ford's nine thirties," Kathy said, glancing at her notebook. "I better call him and let him know. And you better tell me how it goes when they get here."

I smiled at her raised eyebrow and turned away, mug in hand, to walk back to my office and close the door. Once I was in private, I opened my bag and retrieved my spiral notebook. It contained over three pages of notes I could dig up at the library yesterday; I had searched magazines and newspaper articles, along with the tapes of video performances that they had in storage. Nirvana had played at the MTV awards a few months ago, and fans were in anticipation of their third album, which critics estimated would be out by the beginning of next year.

There was also an insurmountable buzz of attention around Love and Cobain. Last month, Vanity Fair had released a damning article, implying that Love has used heroin during her pregnancy. The couple was currently engaged in a series of custody battles with the State of California. Why they would be back up in Seattle at such a time was a mystery to me.

I also wondered why they chose me as their doctor. There were plenty of other far more experienced doctors around Seattle; it was a hub of depression and suicidal behavior, due to the constantly dreary weather. But I suppose my reviews in the papers had earned me what little (but growing) respect I had from my colleagues. If anything, most of my patients had high praise for my "skills", to anyone that would listen.

Reputation is everything in the world of medicine. Especially psychiatry.

I had been compulsively sipping at my steaming black mug, flipping through my notes, when the phone rang. I nearly fucking jumped out of my skin. I had to figure out how to change the damn ringer.

"Dr. Albrecht speaking," I said, mopping up some coffee from my desk with the dark sleeve of my blazer, before it could stain the wood.

"The Cobains are here," Kathy's voice came through. She was almost whispering, her excitement must've been through the roof. "Everyone in the lobby is freaking out. Should I send them back?"