Bee xFrom: tesshemming@hotmail.co.uk To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone
I wasn’t avoiding you, I was just in a meeting that ran on. Don’t read anything into this shrink business. It’s just a case of when in New York, do as New Yorkers … It must be past midnight in London so go home and get some sleep.
lol Bee XFrom: tesshemming@hotmail.co.uk To: Beatrice Hemming’s iPhone
The receptionist looked up at me from her desk. “Dr. Nichols can see you now.”
As I walked to his room, I remembered our phone call that evening (my time; two in the morning your time). I still didn’t tell you why I wanted to see a psychiatrist, but you explained why you didn’t think it was useful.
I was getting a little embarrassed by your earnestness, but you continued,
I opened the door to Dr. Nichols’s consulting room and went in.
When you saw Dr. Nichols in his NHS clinic, he would have worn a white coat, but in his private consulting room he was in faded corduroys and an old lambswool sweater, looking scruffy against the regency striped wallpaper. I put him in his late thirties; do you think that’s about right?
He got up from his chair and I thought I saw compassion in his rumpled face.
“Miss Hemming? I am so very sorry about your sister.”
I heard the sound of thumping from beneath his desk and saw an ancient Labrador dozily chasing rabbits in her sleep, tail wagging onto the floor. I realized that his office smelled slightly of dog, which I liked more than the lilies of the waiting room. I imagined the receptionist dashing in between patients with air freshener.
He gestured to a chair near his own. “Please take a seat.”
As I sat down, I saw a photo of a little girl in a wheelchair prominently displayed and I liked Dr. Nichols for being unconditionally proud.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“Did Tess tell you who was frightening her?”
Clearly taken aback by my question, he shook his head.
“But she did tell you that she was getting threatening phone calls?” I asked.
“Distressing phone calls, yes.”
“Did she tell you who made them? Or what the person said to her?”
“No. She was reluctant to tell me about them and I didn’t think it helpful to pursue it. At the time, I assumed they were most likely a cold caller or someone phoning a wrong number, and it was because of her depressed state of mind that she felt victimized by them.”
“Did you tell Tess that?”
“I suggested to her that might be the case, yes.”
“And she cried?”
He looked surprised that I knew. But I’ve known you all your life. At four years old you could have grazes on your knees and a bloody nose, but you never cried—unless someone didn’t believe you when you were telling the truth and then your streaming tears would express your outraged indignation.
“You said that
“Yes. Later I realized that Tess wasn’t depressed, as I’d first thought, but was suffering from puerperal psychosis, more commonly called postpartum psychosis.”
I nodded. I’d done my homework. I knew that puerperal psychosis simply means it occurs during the six weeks after the birth.
