Freedom of Sketch

Danger to Self

I slump down into a chair in an isolated corner, by the room's only window. I stare past my reflection and study the street below. The rapidly expanding shadows cool into a dozen different shades of blue. A long, winding line of brake lights dots the settling darkness like red stars. I trace them down the main road, around corners, drawing crosses where the side streets intersect. I try to imagine where every driver is going, or if they're going anywhere at all. How many of them have ever had to see a shrink? I wonder bitterly, chewing on the edge of my thumb. If I squint, I can make out the distant freeway ramp, guiding the leftover rush hour traffic in a climb to the clouds.

My nerves tingle and spark to life when the waiting room door opens, but it isn't my mother. A pissed-off man and his red-nosed son enter instead. Both of them look as though they've just finished an epic screaming match. The dad's tie hangs loose - either he needed some air or was debating whether or not to strangle his unruly offspring. Maybe both.

I paw through the pathetic selection of magazines on the rack next to my chair. Condé Nast Traveler, AARP, Sports Illustrated, Ladies' Home Journal, more Newsweek. Someone has taken a black marker and scribbled out the delivery addresses. My need to draw intensifies from a bothersome itch into a legitimate pain.

I gnaw at my thumb like a rabid creature, and taste metal. My pulse hammers into my wound. I leap to my feet. I'm going to look for the water fountain, and if I just happen to pass by Dr. Fox's office, I'll stop and try to listen for any juicy secrets spilling into the hall from the crack under his door.

The receptionist glances up from her chaos of ringing phones, open folders, and stained coffee mugs, sees me, and immediately jumps out of her swivel chair.

I hesitantly reach for the door handle.

"Excuse me, do you need something?" the lady says, her smile forced past the expected level of cheer required to be a successful mental health clinic receptionist.

Crap. No eavesdropping. "Um...water fountain."

The receptionist squeezes past me and opens the door. "I'll show you, honey."

I follow her halfway down the hall, which now looks significantly dingier without the winter sunlight filtering in through the bay windows. We walk by Dr. Fox's office. I hear nothing, but there is a rectangle of light glowing around the edges of his door.

The water fountain is tucked in a small alcove just past the staircase, but I could have easily found it if the receptionist had told me where to look. Maybe she thinks I am too much of a psycho to even find my way out of a paper bag. While I drink, she stands off to one side and pretends to pick a piece of lint off of her sweater. We return to the waiting room in awkward silence.

I retreat to my chair and window. The evening has arrived quickly even for winter, smothering the world in darkness. Pinpricks of light appear in patterns, mapping out the city in a constellation of buildings and avenues. I'm hungry, irritable, and exhausted. How long are they going to talk? I lick the crusts of blood from my thumb and index fingers, and hug my legs to my chest. Who cares if my boots are on the chair?

The red-nosed boy abandons his father, who seems a bit deflated, and asks the receptionist for directions to the water fountain.

She beams at him. "Straight down the hall, just past the stairs. You can't miss it."

He leaves. She doesn't go after him. What, is his strain of craziness less serious than mine?

The door bangs open again. It's another freaked-out parent leading a parade of wild kids. I sigh, release a leg, and restlessly jab at the floor with the toe of my boot. I've never wanted to see my mother this much in my life.