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Scene #39
Bridget entered the makeshift hospital room/prison cell, set a
covered breakfast tray on the built-in. She raised the head of the
bed, bracing the strapped-in woman in a position conducive to
eating. She unlocked the restraint holding down one arm belonging
to their prisoner, who cautiously sat a little straighter, scoping
out the newcomer. Bridget deposited the tray, loaded with steaming
protein, in front of the captive. "Ms. Levin?" "Please."
"Eban. Unusual name." "My father liked to think of himself
as a hippie. In reality, though, he wasn't all that
anti-establishment. However—and I'm surprised my file doesn't
mention this—I much prefer you call me Em. And you are?"
"Bridget. Bridget Donegan." She would skip the honorific for
now. "Why Em?" Thus far, Levin had made no move toward the
tray, so Bridget uncovered steak and eggs, OJ, and steaming coffee.
"Bridget. Simple—concatenate my first two initials. Now, this
looks too good to be prison fare... Ah..." Inhalation of steaming
java. "I take it this is unleaded? Caffeine might increase the
patient's agitation, yes?" "You're correct, it's decaf."
"That's too bad. What's the point, then? The rest looks
delicious... Now, did you really intend to give me a steak knife?
Don't you realize yet what a phenomenally efficient killer I am,
even with reactions dulled from Clozapine?" Em began pondering the
problem posed by cutting steak with only one free hand. Bridget
helped out by pinning the steak down with a fork while the other
woman began slicing precise cubes. "Assistance is only a few
seconds away. I'm not too worried." "Oh, I know about the
security camera—I can hear it. Nasty ultrasonic whine... Kathleen
used to say I had the ears of a wolf." Em traded implements and
started spearing steak and ravenously devouring. "Hmmm. Delicious."
"Your patronymic means 'lightning,' right? From the Middle
English?" "Yes. Linguistics must be your specialty, then. Not
too many people with a command of Middle English." "No,"
Bridget said. "I'm no linguist, but working here, I've picked up a
few things." "Ah. That's how it goes in our line of work." Em
chuckled, as though she found something in that statement
especially amusing. Bridget waited for a particularly large
morsel before asking: "Does your back still hurt? As resident
physician, I could get you something for pain if necessary."
The pace of chewing slowed dramatically but at the same time
also became more vicious. "No, thank you, Doctor Donegan."
Levin made much emphasis of the title, gesturing with her fork.
"There is no pain any longer, at least not in the physiological
sense." "I'm glad to hear that. I must also offer my services
as counselor..." "Those services are not required either." Em
interrupted. The steak was gone, so she proceeded to her next
target, eggs. "Ok," Bridget answered, shifting gears.
"Obviously you are unaware of your current situation. I'm not
offering you anything. I'm telling you what'll be going down. As
of right now, you are my patient." Em slammed the silverware
down on the tray. "Of all the things I do not need right now,
that most certainly tops the list." She wiped her lips with a
furious swipe of the napkin and shoved the table-tray away from
her. "I thank you for the meal, but I've now had quite enough of
you." This attitude is really getting my back up... "While
the Artemis Foundation erased this chapter from the public record,
there will still be an investigation, and that includes a
mandatory psych eval, to be followed, possibly—make that probably—by some long-term hospitalization. So you're stuck with me, I'm
afraid..." Em's voice dropped to a menacing snarl. "And I'm
afraid I don't much care for your bedside manner..." "I've read
your file," Bridget informed her, making an effort to keep her
voice cool and level. "You could have killed those highway patrol
officers—simply by leaving the Emergency Perimeter Defense
engaged and letting them fry—or several of the Bellevue orderlies
for that matter, if you'd wanted to. But you didn't, why?" Em's
expression shifted, going abruptly, deceptively languid. "Maybe I
just got tired. An axe gets heavy after a while." This wasn't
the first of Bridget's patients to attempt shock tactics to keep
her off-balance and off-topic. "You charged one of the Highway
Patrol officers... The one carrying a shotgun. And you were shot,
what, fourteen times with bean-bags? That had to hurt."
"You're undermining your own argument, Doctor. So I missed the
Discovery Channel special on non-lethal weapons, so what?" "I
think my argument's sound. I think you had good reason for doing—or not doing—what you did." "Ah. And what might that be,
doctor? In your learned opinion?" Em affected the expression of a
student eager to be enlightened by her mentor. Brushing aside
the deliberate provocation, "I'd prefer you tell me," Bridget
began, leaning over to retrieve one of the recent digital photos
from the desk. She held it up for easy viewing. "How you got these
wounds," she finished. Em's eyes narrowed, like a wolf who'd
just spotted a vulnerable young fawn. She tilted her head, sizing
up the doctor and the picture she held. She proffered her free hand
so Bridget would give her the picture. Misjudging the danger she
was in, Bridget moved to hand it over. Faster than a striking
serpent, Em latched onto, not the picture, but Bridget's wrist. A
sharp tug pulled Bridget off balance and into Em's grip, and
suddenly the knife Bridget thought was on the tray just out of
reach was at her throat. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Bridget
watched the fallen picture seesaw through the air until it finally
came to rest face down on the floor. Em cocked her head as if
listening for some distant response to this action. "Hmmm... It
would appear help is a few more seconds away than you led me to
believe. Tsk. Now how are we to build a trusting doctor-patient
relationship if you're not completely honest with me?" Bridget
struggled to maintain her composure. "You didn't kill those cops,
and you're not going to kill me." "Oh, you seem so certain of
that. Why?" The demand for an answer was punctuated by a painful
tightening of Em's stranglehold. "Because they weren't
responsible for what was done to you." Bridget answered with a
confidence she didn't feel. "Ah, but some in the Artemis
Foundation's employ—like you are, no?—were responsible. Do
you still feel safe, somehow?" Such an immediate and intense
negative transference reaction could well point to chronic
schizophrenia... It should be noted that, while the basis for this
reaction is a very real emotional response, typically anger or
fear, it is directed inappropriately at the counselor. As you will
recall from our discussion of the psychological mechanism of
projection... As though she were back in class listening to the
steady recitation of facts kept well-insulated from messy reality,
Bridget felt she heard rather than thought the words. This sense of
dislocation helped Bridget compose her thoughts and steady her
voice as she bargained for her life. "If that's the truth—if
that's what really happened... I promise you I will do the best I
can to get you past the experience, and see that you are not
punished beyond what you've already endured." "I'm not
inquiring what you will do for me, doctor. I want to know...
Do you still feel safe?" The same cool detachment that
somehow separated Bridget's analytical mind from her terrified,
acutely mortal self prevailed once more. It's as if, being very
much aware of the transference / counter-transference dynamic, the
patient is deliberately trying to reinforce the therapist's
feelings of fear and vulnerability... Earlier, we made the link
between transference and projection; here the counselor's emotional
responses may be likened to a form of projective identification...
"No." Bridget swallowed painfully. She could feel the hum of
her pulse against the pressure of the blade. "Not as safe as I did
before breakfast." The strange sense of duality Bridget was
experiencing ended with an abrupt shock, like the snap of a rubber
band pulled too taut. She felt almost surprised by her own reply.
Bridget's honesty elicited a wry chuckle from her captor, and
the slightest easing of the pressure on her throat as Levin shifted
the blade to a more shallow angle. "Then you have had just a
taste of what I brought with me here. Remember this—not one of
you is safe as long as I'm alive." Em dropped her voice so that
Bridget had to strain to hear past the rush of her
adrenaline-jazzed pulse. "Sorry, doc—our time's up. That'll
have to do it for this session." Just below the cool slickness
of the metal at her throat, Bridget felt a sudden warm liquid gush.
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