Songs in Ordinary Time by Mary Mcgarry Morris

Author:Mary Mcgarry Morris [Morris, Mary Mcgarry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-07-21T10:16:00+00:00

“Miss Lanette feels she’s made quite an emotional investment in you, and now your absence is a personal affront to her, Sam.”

“Miss Lanette is a personal affront, Doc. And Miss Lanette can take a flying shit for herself.” He coughed hoarsely.

Litchfield’s eyes narrowed. Miss Lanette, Sam knew, was a prize patient, SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 269

a hospital pet, who had managed to turn instability into a calling. She knew all the jargon. She was a group leader. She was LaSalle’s right-hand loony.

“Perhaps, Sam, these headaches are merely another manifestation of your frustration and hostility.” Litchfield lowered his voice. “Miss Lanette says you spit on her in leatherwork.”

Sam began to laugh. Raging through his cells was this hysteria that threatened to turn what was a battle with the bottle into a battle for his own sanity.

Litchfield’s face reddened. He swallowed hard. “Miss Lanette is one of our best group-therapy people. She’s been with our sessions for five years now and she’s topnotch at spotting hostility and frustration in a patient.

But today she refused to come to therapy, and when Dr. LaSalle went looking for her, he found her hiding in her closet. She said she couldn’t stand being spit on by someone she was trying to help.”

“I never spit at her,” Sam groaned, closing his eyes.

“I’ve never known her to lie, Sam. At least not about another patient. She takes therapy very, very seriously.”

“Then why the hell is she still here after five years of it?” he countered, disgusted with himself for continuing this bizarre debate. He knew why. It was all so seductive that here even conflict was safe.

“Some patients take longer than others. Even Miss Lanette has a few problems left to resolve,” Litchfield conceded with a nod.

“A few problems! One of which is imagining that I like to spit on her.

Come on, Litchfield, cut the shit!”

Litchfield stared at him. “Sam, what do you think Miss Lanette’s problems are?” He came closer. “Really, now. In your own opinion.”

“Uh-uh.” He smiled wanly. “I can’t come out and play with you, Doc.

Sorry.”

“Think about her a minute, Sam, how she picks the skin off her calluses, how she squeezes that wart on her neck until it bleeds, how she’s always bumping into tables, knocking her elbows against the walls, tripping when there’s nothing to trip over. What does that tell you?” Litchfield’s eyes were dancing.

“I don’t know. How the hell should I know.” He sighed.

“Try, Sam. The first thing into your head, whatever it is.”

“She hates herself because she knows what a beast she really is. Who cares?” he added hastily, seeing the eagerness flood Litchfield’s eyes.

“Exactly, Sam. I knew it!” he cried. “At long last I’ve got a group member who can spot self-negation. You don’t know how very valuable you’re going to be to me from now on, Sam. You have no idea,” he said through clenched teeth. He patted Sam’s shoulder.

“Shit,” he sighed.

“Tomorrow afternoon we begin,” Litchfield cried. “You know I haven’t had a good self-negation sleuth in…ooooh…let me see, six or eight months, anyway.

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