“Well, it’s up to you, Charlotte. There are no set rules or strict guidelines we have to follow. But the things that are causing you the most trouble would be a good place to begin.”

“Oh,” I say, and find myself looking around this light-gray office. It ain’t quite Cuckoo’s Nest, but you can tell a white person work in here. Everything is so nice and neat. Too nice. Ain’t no papers on her big maple desk, except for that questionnaire I gave her that she’s reading over right now. There’s one of them black blotter things, a fancy gold pen sticking up out of a marble holder that I bet ain’t got no ink in it, a burgundy stapler and Scotch-tape dispenser, and a yellow pad with lines on it right next to a sharpened number-two pencil like my kids use at school. Things is just a little too perfect in here for my taste. I can’t even smell nothing.

And where’s the couch? I don’t see no couch. Just a window seat, and it’s full of stuffed animals. The walls is lined with all these weird pictures that look like some kids just scribbled crayons or markers on some paper, and since they probably her kids, she felt obligated to frame ’em and hang ’em here instead of at home, where nobody she know gotta look at ’em, just people like me: complete strangers. Wait a minute. She ain’t wearing no wedding ring, so I betcha she ain’t even got no kids. I’ll tell the truth: if I was a man and I passed her on the street, she ain’t nothing I’d do a double take for. But if somebody was to do her makeup—at least put some on her—and if she got rid of that mousy brown hair and maybe highlighted it or at least added some blond streaks, she could maybe halfway pass for attractive.

But she’s a psychologist. She should know this shit already. Maybe she like the way she look. And, plus, I know she’s rich, so I wouldn’t be surprised if these pictures wasn’t painted by some famous artists and she probably spent a fortune on this shit. White people sure know how to waste money.

But. Belinda, the very nice white girl I still work with at the post office (since I found out just how fast a hundred thousand dollars can last), told me that last year, after a divorce and losing custody of her kids, she took a three-month leave of absence and spent quite a bit of time with a psychologist who helped her get her head back on straight. She found some confidence, too, which Belinda said she never really had much of in the first place. I could relate to that, ’cause you can fake having confidence. I’m real good at it.

Last week I just came out and told her that ever since my mama passed away I got too much on my mind these days, and could I get that woman’s number. I didn’t feel like telling her all the details when I knew I’d just have to repeat the shit to the doctor. So. I saved it all for this white lady in this navy-blue suit that look like it could be Ellen Tracy, but with the kind of money she making, she wouldn’t be wearing Ellen, but, then again, some rich white people is stingy and spend all their money on silly art and drive cheap cars but got investments all over the world, so it could even be a knock-off. She coulda got it at Loehmann’s, Marshall’s, or even Ross, but, hell, who cares?