made it this far, partly by focusing on obsessively maintaining the precise same speed for as much of the journey as possible.
The street she had ended up on was familiar enough. Zoe knew these buildings, knew which one was a floor higher than the others, which had developed a slight five-degree lean as its foundations subsided, and what time it was by the angle of the sun across the sidewalk. She had been here enough times to have made all of those calculations many times before, and as she looked around, seeing them floating in front of her eyes again, she was just about able to push through them to remember why she was here in the first place.
She found a parking space just outside, which was a miracle in itself. Zoe paused to look at herself in the car’s rearview mirror, leaning forward to examine her own face. She was still pale and her eyes were still ringed with black, but at least it was a slight improvement from earlier. A shower and smarter clothing had made a difference, even if it was only on the outside.
The inside was another thing altogether. It couldn’t be scrubbed clean in a shower.
She found the will somehow to push herself up out of her seat, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk. Then she focused her gaze on the office building she was there for, keeping her eyes on the doorway and the dimensions that sprung out of nowhere into her sight, following them inside.
Dr. Lauren Monk’s office was on the third floor. She saw patients there, usually at set times, and though Zoe hadn’t booked an appointment for today, she had called ahead to make sure the doctor would be available.
Dr. Monk was sitting at her desk with the door open on the waiting room, showing that she was free. Zoe stepped through the brightly lit space, decorated in primary colors of red, yellow, and blue, and straight into the therapy room, where a familiar well-worn leather armchair beckoned. Zoe ignored it and remained standing, managing to drag her eyes up to meet Dr. Monk’s face as the doctor looked back.
If she was regarding her with any kind of expression, Zoe could not tell. All she could see was the dimensions: the distance between her eyes, the angle of her brows, the length of each individual hair, crowded throughout her vision so tightly that there was no room for Zoe to see the human face underneath. All she knew was that Dr. Monk had not changed anything about herself in the couple of months since Zoe had seen her last, when she’d been released from her regular appointment because she no longer needed it. She was still the same, with her dark bobbed hair cut in a pleasingly straight edge and the same beauty mark half an inch above the right side of her mouth.
“It’s good to see you again, Zoe,” Dr. Monk said, rising from behind her desk. She habitually sat opposite the leather armchair during sessions, facing the patient with nothing in between them. “It’s been weeks.”
“I did not want to make another appointment,” Zoe said, crossing her arms tightly across her own chest. “You told me I was doing better.”
“You were,” Dr. Monk said softly. She crossed around in front of the desk to stand directly facing Zoe. “But grief can derail even the most successful of rehabilitations. It can make our coping strategies seem ineffective, or that there’s no point in following them anymore. After the death of someone close to you, it’s normal to need a bit more help.”
Zoe tried to see past the numbers to read Dr. Monk’s expression again, but couldn’t. “I thought I had it under control.”
Dr. Monk’s posture softened and relaxed, the angles of her shoulders decreasing and smoothing out. “I want you to make another appointment, Zoe. Sometime very soon. As soon as you’re able to, in fact.”
“Okay.” Zoe took a breath. “That is not why I am here.”
Dr. Monk nodded slowly. “I can see that you’re experiencing something very difficult. Can you tell me how you’ve been sleeping?”
“Not much.” Zoe shrugged. “Late nights, late mornings. Alcohol helps. But then I feel tired. Nap during the day sometimes.”
Dr. Monk nodded again, faster this time. Four times, as if to herself. “I suspect that you are going through a major depressive episode,” she said. Zoe could do nothing but agree with the assessment; Dr. Monk knew her well enough. She