calls.
She'd seen Dr. Robicheck three times so far and she wasn't giving Chase queer looks despite her admission of burying road-kill so in death the poor rabbits and prairie dogs could have dignity instead of ending up in people's tires or being picked to pieces by the ever present crows that sat perched on telephone lines. Dr. Robicheck noted it down on her yellow legal pad, a look of complete stoicism on her face. This lack of expression concerned Chase. She wondered if Dr. Robicheck was really listening or only pretending to the way Chase did when she was bored, letting her mind wander to someplace more interesting.
She buttered the toast, putting peanut butter on hers and marmalade on Gitana's. Gitana's toast was usually cold by the time Chase brought it up, but she didn't seem to care. Chase always got up early. She was like the dogs. Three sets of eyes, one human, two canine popped open like a Jack-in-the-Box triggered by the morning light filtering in through the window. Day had arrived, time to get up. Gitana slept late by their standards. Chase let the dogs out and then fed them their breakfast.
Chase seemed to need less sleep than other people, excepting Lacey. Dr. Robicheck had asked about her sleeping pattern and she'd lied. Told her that she got a lot of exercise during the day and that she was very tired at night. She didn't tell her that she slept well at first, but then she'd wake up again in a couple of hours like the computer part of her brain had rebooted. Her thoughts would wind themselves around her until exhausted she fell back asleep again. Even then, her dreams would drift in and out and like a film director she ran parts over and over again, editing and rewriting until things turned out to her liking.
She didn't know why she felt she had to lie. It seemed like it was crucial to not let the doctor know about her most sacred place—the shrine of her imagination. Later she figured it out. She didn't want anyone tinkering with her mind. What if it screwed up her most precious possession—the ability to create? This was a room no one had the right to enter. It unnerved her that every shrink she'd met in her life was always very interested in her once they found out she was a writer, a real writer in their eyes because she was published. They were bigots. Being published was not the Holy Grail. She knew writers who deserved to be published more than she did.
A writer was a person who sat down, invented worlds and described what it was like using the best possible words they could find. She was not going to let Dr. Robicheck or anyone else into her fictional house of cards to forage. She invited people into this house and tried to put them at ease while she cooked up some surprises. She certainly didn't want that messed with. Now, the other parts of her life did need a little work and the good doctor was quite welcome to tinker with those.
She poured the coffee and put the toast on the tray and took it upstairs. Usually, the smell of coffee got Gitana's eyes open. She set the tray down and gathered up her medical instruments to give Gitana her morning exam. Gitana had insinuated that the daily blood pressure checking was not necessary, but Chase had ignored her.
Gitana opened her eyes. "Am I dreaming or is that real coffee?"
"Coffee is coffee. Decaf does not smell different."
She sat up and Chase puffed up the pillow behind her. "Ah, but there you are wrong. This is real coffee."
"It is. I looked it up on the Internet. Small doses of caffeine are not harmful," Chase said.
Gitana picked up the cup. She studied it. "It looks smaller."
"Oh, I hadn't noticed." She avoided her gaze. "Cream?"
"I never use cream." Gitana sniffed at the cup deeply and then took a sip.
"Dairy products build strong bones."
"I'm already taking prenatal vitamins." Gitana set her cup down and took a bite of toast.
Chase ignored her and added cream. Then she
She'd seen Dr. Robicheck three times so far and she wasn't giving Chase queer looks despite her admission of burying road-kill so in death the poor rabbits and prairie dogs could have dignity instead of ending up in people's tires or being picked to pieces by the ever present crows that sat perched on telephone lines. Dr. Robicheck noted it down on her yellow legal pad, a look of complete stoicism on her face. This lack of expression concerned Chase. She wondered if Dr. Robicheck was really listening or only pretending to the way Chase did when she was bored, letting her mind wander to someplace more interesting.
She buttered the toast, putting peanut butter on hers and marmalade on Gitana's. Gitana's toast was usually cold by the time Chase brought it up, but she didn't seem to care. Chase always got up early. She was like the dogs. Three sets of eyes, one human, two canine popped open like a Jack-in-the-Box triggered by the morning light filtering in through the window. Day had arrived, time to get up. Gitana slept late by their standards. Chase let the dogs out and then fed them their breakfast.
Chase seemed to need less sleep than other people, excepting Lacey. Dr. Robicheck had asked about her sleeping pattern and she'd lied. Told her that she got a lot of exercise during the day and that she was very tired at night. She didn't tell her that she slept well at first, but then she'd wake up again in a couple of hours like the computer part of her brain had rebooted. Her thoughts would wind themselves around her until exhausted she fell back asleep again. Even then, her dreams would drift in and out and like a film director she ran parts over and over again, editing and rewriting until things turned out to her liking.
She didn't know why she felt she had to lie. It seemed like it was crucial to not let the doctor know about her most sacred place—the shrine of her imagination. Later she figured it out. She didn't want anyone tinkering with her mind. What if it screwed up her most precious possession—the ability to create? This was a room no one had the right to enter. It unnerved her that every shrink she'd met in her life was always very interested in her once they found out she was a writer, a real writer in their eyes because she was published. They were bigots. Being published was not the Holy Grail. She knew writers who deserved to be published more than she did.
A writer was a person who sat down, invented worlds and described what it was like using the best possible words they could find. She was not going to let Dr. Robicheck or anyone else into her fictional house of cards to forage. She invited people into this house and tried to put them at ease while she cooked up some surprises. She certainly didn't want that messed with. Now, the other parts of her life did need a little work and the good doctor was quite welcome to tinker with those.
She poured the coffee and put the toast on the tray and took it upstairs. Usually, the smell of coffee got Gitana's eyes open. She set the tray down and gathered up her medical instruments to give Gitana her morning exam. Gitana had insinuated that the daily blood pressure checking was not necessary, but Chase had ignored her.
Gitana opened her eyes. "Am I dreaming or is that real coffee?"
"Coffee is coffee. Decaf does not smell different."
She sat up and Chase puffed up the pillow behind her. "Ah, but there you are wrong. This is real coffee."
"It is. I looked it up on the Internet. Small doses of caffeine are not harmful," Chase said.
Gitana picked up the cup. She studied it. "It looks smaller."
"Oh, I hadn't noticed." She avoided her gaze. "Cream?"
"I never use cream." Gitana sniffed at the cup deeply and then took a sip.
"Dairy products build strong bones."
"I'm already taking prenatal vitamins." Gitana set her cup down and took a bite of toast.
Chase ignored her and added cream. Then she
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