The Fixer by T E Woods Page B

pointed to the stack of files and binders overwhelming the coffee table. “Look at this stuff. You’ve been trying to understand yourself for years.”
    Mary nodded. “I’ve been in therapy since I was 22.”
    “Then let’s stop doing what hasn’t been working.” Lydia tossed the folders off the coffee table, leaned back, and replaced them with her feet. “Now tell me. Are you afraid of water, Mary?”
    “But my mother used to..”
    Lydia interrupted again. “We’re not talking about your mother today. Answer my question. Are you afraid of water?”
    “No. No, it’s my lack of motivation. My mother always said…”
    “Soap?” Lydia tilted her head to one side. “Shampoo? Deodorant? Afraid of those?”
    Mary shook her head. “Of course not. I have lots of potions and lotions.”
    “Great.” Lydia swung her feet off the table and grabbed her notebook. “Then let’s set up a schedule for the rest of your morning.” She smiled at her confused patient. “Mary, you’re going to take a shower today. And you’re going to call me when you’re done.”
    “But my mother…” Mary’s voice lost its volume.
    Lydia interrupted with a gentle insistence. “Your mother’s not here. And you’re about to lose your job.” She leaned closer. “I will never lie to you. Nor will I sugarcoat things. Mary, you stink. And we’re going to fix that today.”
    “Just like that?” Mary’s smile was tentative.
    Lydia held her gaze. “Just like that. Now I know you’re on suspension. So,” Lydia began writing. “If you left here at nine and drove straight home…”
    “With my internal combustion engine.” Mary interjected.
    “That’s right.” Lydia gave her a big smile. “What time would you get home?”
    “About nine forty, I assume.” Mary’s voice hinted at co-conspiracy.
    “Great.” Lydia allowed her enthusiasm to build. “You go straight to your bathroom. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Strip off your clothes and you’re in the shower by ten til ten.” She glanced up at her patient. “Your bathroom’s clean enough for this?”
    Mary nodded. “It’s just me who’s dirty.”
    “Bingo. We’re going to fix this, Mary.” Lydia returned her attention to the notebook. “First you’ll shampoo. And when the bottle says ‘lather, rinse, repeat’, I want you to do that twice, okay?”
    Mary smiled again. “You’re not the typical shrink, are you?”
    Lydia winked. “Mary, you’re not going to talk your way out of this pickle. You’re not going to think your way out or understand your way out. You’re going to do your way out of this. Right?”
    Mary stared at Lydia for several heartbeats. Lydia held her gaze. Mary let out a hearty laugh.
    “No one’s ever done this,” she said. “Do you know how many doctors I’ve been to? Not one of them has told me I stink and need to go home and take a bath.”
    Lydia leaned back and smiled. “I don’t like to dally, Mary. If there’s a way to fix something, I don’t like to waste time. Are you with me?”
    Mary chuckled and a boa of fat jiggled beneath her dingy sweatshirt. “I’ve got some really fancy face cleanser I’ve been dying to try,”
    “Brilliant. Next comes the body wash….”
     
    Lydia’s day marched forward in one hour segments. John McKenna wanted help finding meaning in the recent cancer death of his nineteen year old son. Alexander Quinton couldn’t shake his conviction he would die in an airplane crash before his fiftieth birthday. Marilyn Martinella discovered when her youngest daughter left for college that she hated her husband.
    Her four o’clock was Jackie Vincent, a single mother of a 17 year-old gangster wanna-be. This was her second visit. She came saying she needed to develop skills for coping with what she described as her “headstrong and spirited” child.
    “He called me a mother-fucking bitch last night.” Jackie sobbed into her lace handkerchief. “Why would he do that, Dr.