Old Meg

"I think it's time we talk about the voices in your head."

She said it just like that, raising her eyebrows and pursuing her red, over-lined lips. She managed to say it matter-o-factly, as if she actually believed someone who heard multiple voices in their brain on a daily basis could be a reliable witness to their own insanity. When I didn't answer right away, the woman uncrossed her legs, then re-crossed them the opposite way. I saw she was wearing white panties underneath her skirt, but she acted like I hadn't looked.

"Charlie," she said, tapping her foot to an unknown beat. "Do you know where you are?"

I looked around the room. There was a large desk to my left, with an iron, a-frame base and a glass top. Half a dozen framed certificates hung behind it on the wall, situated between two floor- to-ceiling windows with closed blinds. A single lamp illuminated the room.

I realized I had no idea where I was or how I'd gotten there.

"I'm Dr. Megan Goldman." She pointed to the nametag on her white suit jacket. "I'm a psychiatrist. You've been seeing me for several weeks now. We've talked about your addiction to PCP and prescription opiates. About how you'd recently moved onto heroin. And how, for the last three weeks, you've been clean."

"Clean?" I choked. The words sounded hollow and strained. I didn't even have a job; how could I pay for a psychiatrist? And I certainly hadn't been clean a single day of the last eight months.

"Clean, Charlie," she repeated. "Look at your arms. What do you see?"

They were resting, upturned, on a simple wooden chair with arm rests that curled at the end like rams' horns. Like I was waiting on an IV. There were no track marks. I squeezed my fists and watched the muscles on my forearms bulge as the healthy veins filled with blood. I looked up at Dr. Goldman, who saw the confusion written on my face.

"You don't remember any of it, do you? Charlie, you need to answer."

I finally found my voice. "No, I don't. I'm sorry Dr. Goldman. I'm so sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry. Memory loss is a consequence of heavy drug use. I'm just disappointed that you've forgotten your recovery."

Recovery. The word echoed in my head, spoken from a different world. Had I really recovered? I placed my right hand on my chest, feeling the dull thump of my heart pumping exactly as it should, without flutter or hiccup. My fingers trembled.

"I'm extremely proud of you, Charlie."

I studied Dr. Goldman's face. She did look familiar somehow. Maybe I'd blacked out for the past several weeks. It'd happened many times before, but never for that long. I thought about my family, wondering how they'd react to hearing I was clean. I could feel my feet bouncing up and down, cushioned by the plush carpet beneath them. I wanted to call my sister. I hadn't talked to her in such a long time. Why had it been so long?

"Um, Dr. Goldman, is there a phone in here? I'd like to talk to Claire. Her number should be in the phone book."

"In time, Charlie. First, you need to take your medicine. And then you need to answer the question I first posed to you. About the voices."

I didn't remember telling her about them. Telling anyone, for that matter. Just thinking about them sucked all the moisture out of my mouth.

"Here you are," Dr. Goldman cooed. A single, blue pill sat in her outstretched palm. In the other hand she held a tall glass filled three quarters of the way up with water. No ice.