Karen George

Slipping Through the Cracks
​
              I pushed open the front door, wondering whether I'd smell spearmint or chamomile tea. My
psychiatrist Dr. Linwood alternated between the two. My mind reeled when the only scent I
detected was musty couches and a metallic hint of disinfectant.
              "Dr. Linwood?" No answer.
              I was forty-five minutes early. I’d dawdled, tried on several sets of clothes and matching
jewelry before I left my apartment, drove as slowly as I could without pissing off too many
motorists, pulled over twice to check Facebook and my voice mail. There's nothing wrong with
allowing plenty of time to get somewhere. I could be delayed by a chemical spill, mudslide, bridge
collapse, or an Elvis sighting.
              It took me a year to get Dr. Linwood's 9:00 AM appointment slot every two weeks. I hated
waiting with other patients, lowering their eyes, glancing at people peripherally, or nonchalantly
sweeping the room.
              ​Three large aquariums burbled in the room's center. I sat close to one of the motors because
I liked the low humming sound, how the vibration calmed me. I envied fish—suspended their
entire life in water, to glide or just hang there, buoyed up, assimilating fluid through their gills.
Even before I began seeing Dr. Linwood, I studied fish—breathtakingly lovely ones, odd ones, to
downright ugly ones. Dr. Linwood had a fair representation of each.
              I touched the glass close to a species I hadn’t seen before, pale pink body with a red
protrusion on top of its head like an exposed brain. A paper-thin silver hatchet fish whizzed by with
its drop belly and fins pooched out like ears. Their translucent bodies intrigued and disgusted me.
Internal organs right there for the seeing.
              When I thought I heard movement in one of the rooms, I approached the hallway leading to
what I called the inner sanctum. Was the doctor spying on me?
              “Dr. Linwood, are you here?” No answer. Did she forget to lock up last night?
              She owned her own small practice. Employed no nurse, no office manager. She’d converted
an old house to her needs: a series of consult rooms, a bathroom, and waiting room.
              Back at the aquariums, I watched two black and white marbled gouramis glide side-by-side,
one the shadow of the other. When their long whiskers brushed the shell of a hermit crab, making it
skitter alongside a stone gargoyle, my stomach lurched. Crabs I did not like.
              Dr. Linwood reminded me of the sexy amber-haired older woman played by Cate Blanchett
in the Woody Allen movie, Carol. I often imagined myself as the young woman Mara Rooney
played, who falls in love with Carol.
              As I watched a neon tetra, half blue, half yellow, I envisioned three scenarios involving Dr.
Linwood: a male patient mounting her; her pleasuring herself; her spanking a female patient.
              Again, I walked to the hallway leading to the consult rooms, listened for sounds of pleasure.
"Dr. Linwood?" My heart raced; my lungs kicked into overdrive. I wanted to turn and run out the
front door, drive away and never come back. Every first Friday I want to slip through the cracks
and not look back. But an equal feeling pulled me down the hall, a similar adrenaline rush as when
I contemplated, or was in the middle of, a theft.
              I followed the path of worn carpet the color of oatmeal. I asked myself the same question
every time I entered Dr. Linwood's hallway. Who would want carpet the color and lumpiness of
oatmeal? The doors to the two consult rooms were open. With no lights, I could only see a few feet
in front of me. Such a gloomy place. Why didn't the doctor brighten it up, paint the walls a cheery
tint like tangerine or sea-green, replace the carpets with a warm walnut or whitewashed luxury
vinyl plank flooring?
              I walked into the room on my right like a cat, all ears and nose. While my eyes adjusted to
the semi-darkness, I pulled a wad of tissues from my pocket, peeled one off. It helped me to hold
something soft. During my visits, I hold a plush taupe pillow, soft and soothing as rabbit's fur,
stroke it as if petting my dog Codger. He's a mix between a Pekingese and a pug. Ugly as a dirty
old man, always in my face with his terrible breath. I give him milk bones, take him for regular
teeth cleanings. Nothing helps. I guess dogs contract halitosis the same as humans.
              Breathing deeply, I scanned the room. Someone could be wedged between the couch and
wall, behind the chair, or wrapped in the folds of the heavy mud-brown drapes.
              Were my breaths echoed by another fainter rhythm in the far corner behind the tall chest? I
picked up a stuffed teddy bear from the couch, smacked it hard against the chest. A small vintage
Chinese glass snuff bottle teetered and fell against the chest’s marble top, breaking into three
chunks.
              From my oversized purse I snatched a plastic bag, filled it with the broken pieces, with my
tissue gathered any remaining glass slivers, and tied the bag securely closed. Maybe I’d attempt the
Japanese practice called kintsugi, of gluing the fragments together, seaming them with gold to
highlight the broken parts.
              I’d wanted to steal the bottle since I spotted it on my first visit. It’s three inches tall, painted
with an intricate scene of exotic white birds perched in a blooming cherry tree. I’d adored similar
snuff bottles at the art museum where I worked until I lost my job after my arrest for shoplifting.
I’d never stolen anything from the museum. I loved working there—all that beauty free for the
viewing.
              Twenty minutes had passed since I entered the building. Again, I thought I heard someone
breathing nearby. Was Dr. Linwood in a hidden room, watching me on a surveillance camera?
Feverish, I removed my sweater, folded it over the arm of the couch. Still a half hour before my
appointment.
              I pulled the center drawer of Dr Linwood’s desk half-open, heart racing. Gold and silver
pens gleamed side by side in the front compartment. I touched the gold pen Dr. Linwood wrote
with during our sessions. Slim barrel etched with lengthwise stripes which caught the light as she
moved her hand, like the facets of her diamond ring. I hope she’s happy. I've never asked about her
marital status or sexual preference. She knows I’ve never married, rarely even dated.
              I ran my fingernail along the stripe of the pen's barrel and picked it up. It fit my hand. Mm,
the pleasure of a good pen. I clicked the ballpoint down, swirled a few blue loops on the note pad.
The flow of the nib across the paper reminded me of the way fish glide after one flip of their tail--
luxuriously, effortlessly.
              I retracted the gold pen's tip and slid it inside the front pocket of my purse. I considered
stealing the silver pen as well, but decided against it. Dr. Linwood might believe she had misplaced
one pen, but not two from the same drawer. She knew my propensity for stealing. That’s how I
wound up as her patient, court-ordered to get help as part of my probation for successive
shoplifting charges.
              Mostly I steal reproductions of vintage Chinese snuff bottles, only the ones I believe I can’t
live without owning. They’re between one-and-a-half and three inches tall, made to fit in the palm
of your hand. Some of my favorites are an underwater scene of fish on a coral reef; intricate,
gorgeous, terraced gardens; two fire-breathing dragons battling each other; and the Great Wall of
China with mountains in the background. When I hold one of my snuff bottles in my palm, I’m
taken back to the antique store of my thievery, and I relive the adrenaline rush that mirrors an
orgasm.
              ​A scraping sound came from somewhere in the office. Was she videotaping me? Would she
refuse to treat me anymore? Report me to the police?
              I held my breath. Heard nothing more. My body hummed, vibrating with the irresistible lust
to snoop. I creaked open the desk’s top side drawer, catalogued the contents: ruler, staple gun, tape
dispenser, stack of note pads. In the back I found a jar of Vaseline, a red silk scarf, and a paddle
hairbrush. I tied the scarf over my eyes, fantasized how she might use the three objects.
              Dr. Linwood wears solid-colored slacks and tops—black, navy, deep burgundy, camel--
along with exotic silk scarves, loosely knotted around her neck or tied around her long golden
ponytail, puddling on her shoulders. One favorite of mine had a blood-red background glutted with
lounging big cats: lions, tigers, leopards, jaguars, panthers. Another was van Gogh’s The Starry
Night, sumptuous midnight-blue and gold. I was most intrigued by her opulent purple scarf with
two snakes striped iridescent blue, green, silver, and bronze, entwined in an orgasm. That scarf
featured in many of my reveries about her.
              In the very bottom desk drawer, I found an oblong trinket box. Inside was a small diamond
ring, an engagement ring I decided, two ticket stubs from a performance of Madame Butterfly, and
a man's watch, the face badly scratched. When I held it up to my ear, it still ticked, strong and
steady. Had Dr. Linwood's husband or lover worn it? Between my fingers I squeezed a tiny purple
velvet drawstring pouch. The sifting sound told me it contained a thick lock of hair. I didn’t open
the pouch. Saving hair freaks me out.
              When I returned the trinket box to its original place, I saw a fat envelope pressed against the
back of the drawer. To dislodge it, I had to pull hard. It felt as if the paper had begun to merge with
the wood. It was addressed to Sophia Linwood, postmarked fifteen years ago.
              I took a few deep breaths, glanced around the room, before opening it. Twelve handwritten
pages on lined loose-leaf. The letter began, "Dear Sophia, I don't expect you to ever forgive me, but
I want you to understand why I did what I did.”
              Goosebumps rose on my arms. I scanned the closing, "Love, Gerald," carefully replaced the
letter in the envelope, and buried it in my purse. Sliding the drawer shut, I heard a howling noise
outside.
              I ran to the window facing the woods. Trees dense enough to hide a body. Dr. Linwood's
building stood alone at the end of a long driveway that dead-ended at the bottom of a hill. I strained
my eyes to see into the tangle of trees—emerging green of leaves interspersed with purple balls of
redbud blooms. No sign of Dr. Linwood's spaniel, Cocky. Her chain remained attached to the
clothesline by a ring, so she had free run of the grass edging the woods. I worried about ticks.
              Dr. Linwood brought Cocky to work in every season but winter. Sometimes she got tangled
up and barked, and the doctor's shoulders tensed higher and higher, until she went to untangle
Cocky. After my sessions, I played with Cocky. Her name fit. She had a strut, tail held high, that
taunted, Look at me, bitch.
              A murder of crows swooped past the window, cawing. I ran from the office. The last time
crows crossed my path, my ferret died.
              ​Sitting behind the steering wheel, I decided to wait until ten minutes before my appointment
to re-enter the office. I used the stolen pen to draw a zebra fish on my palm. The ballpoint skimmed
across my skin, ink a rich purplish-blue. I twirled the shaft in my hand. Sunlight glinted off the
etched lines, swirled diamond patterns on the windshield, dashboard, my arms. I closed my eyes,
imagined myself a blue tang whisking to the ocean's surface, sunlight glittering off my scales.
              When I put Dr. Linwood's pen back in my purse, I removed the envelope. The return
address read "Gerald Kaeseler, 2021 Hobart Ln, Jacinta, Alaska.” I quickly slid it back inside my
purse, zipped it closed. I could wait to read the letter. I'm a patient person.
              The crows flew past the windshield of my car. What if I never went back inside, never saw
Dr. Linwood again? I could wait and see if the courts got hold of me. My probation wasn't up yet,
but you never know. Sometimes people fall through the cracks. I might get lucky.
              I re-entered the waiting room. Still no aroma of brewing tea. The only sound was the low
hum of the aquarium motors, the faint gurgle of water. I sat at the center aquarium, watched the
cherry barb wiggle in and out of a skull's eyes and mouth, flipping its filmy tail.
              I had lists of my favorite fish categorized by size, color, species I wanted to own, ones that
gave me the creeps like Dr. Linwood's lionfish—six inches long, all dangling whiskers and
tentacles. Or her dwarf spotted frog, her albino frog, and the pink anemone that resembled
disemboweled intestines.
              Dr. Linwood said I should get some fish; pets are therapeutic. But I already had Codger and
his bad breath. Would I be satisfied with a few goldfish in a tank? I did not have Dr. Linwood's
money. I could barely afford Codger.
              A noise sounded below, creaking followed by huffing. A rattle, as of chains. Hair on my
arms rose. I forgot there was a basement to the office. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs toward
me. "Cocky, you stay down there for a while. Chase bugs and mice."
              ​Sophia peeked into the waiting room. "Olivia, have you been here long?"
              "No, I just got here."
              ​"Sorry. Cocky insisted on a long walk. Come on back."
              ​I followed her down the hall. She wore caramel-colored slacks, a fluid V-neck blouse, and a
sheer scarf of red, yellow, orange, pink, and violet dahlia flowers. I’d longed to steal one of her
scarves. This one made my mouth water. Observing the way her slacks cupped her firm bottom, I
pictured her body veiled with only the translucent dahlia scarf, imagined speaking aloud her
beautiful, fluid first name.
              ​We entered the room where I broke the painted snuff bottle. My eyes traveled to the chest's
marble top. Along the way I saw the sweater I'd laid across the couch arm. My heart raced. I
quickly lowered myself onto the couch, snatched the sweater, folded it across my lap. As I watched
Dr. Linwood open the center drawer, roll the pens back and forth, a puzzled look on her face, I
fingered the seed pearls around my sweater’s neckline.
              ​Her hand surfaced with a pen I hadn't seen, one with a cloisonné barrel. Her eyes moved to
the window, hesitated on the chest’s marble top, before examining my face. Had it all been a setup,
a test to see if I'd steal? How long would it be before she missed the letter from Gerald? Did she
read it daily, weekly, monthly, only on holidays, anniversaries?
              ​If she demanded to search my purse, I could run for the door. Maybe she'd prosecute me,
maybe not. There's always the chance I'd slip through the cracks.
              ​I’d been in tight spots before. I’d wiggle out of this one too. Like Sophia’s black-velvet
molly, wriggling in and out of the skull, barely fitting through the eyes, I would emerge into clear
cool water that buoyed me up and carried me away.
--
Karen George is author of the poetry collections Swim Your Way Back (2014), A Map and One Year (2018), Where Wind Tastes Like Pears (2021), and forthcoming Caught in the Trembling Net (2024). She won Slippery Elm’s 2022 Poetry Contest, and her short story collection, How We Fracture, which won the Rosemary Daniell Fiction Prize, was released by Minerva Rising Press January 2024. Her prose appears in Adirondack Review, Valparaiso Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Louisville Review, and NonBinary Review.