Chapter Thirty-Three — The Evaluation
1129 Words
The room was painted in soft cream, meant to be calming. It wasn’t. Calming colors only worked when you didn’t know why they were chosen. To Emily, the beige walls screamed containment, not comfort. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, stacked with untouched volumes on trauma, PTSD, resilience. A couch and two chairs formed the heart of the room. The blinds were half-open, letting in thin daylight that fell too sharply across the table.
Emily sat in one of the chairs, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture military-straight. She could feel the weight of the uniform even when she wasn’t wearing it.
The door opened.
He walked in without ceremony. Mid-forties, glasses perched on the end of his nose, hair neat in the way of someone who scheduled his barber two months in advance. His tie was loosened, as if to suggest warmth, but his eyes behind the lenses were clinical, already dissecting. He carried a clipboard.
“Emily Clarke,” he said, confirming rather than greeting. He gestured at her. “Sergeant. Please, sit. We’ll keep this straightforward.”
“I’m already sitting,” she replied quietly.
He didn’t smile. Just lowered himself into the opposite chair, angled the clipboard on his knee, and began to write.
“Date,” he muttered, then glanced up at her. “All right. Let’s begin. I’m Doctor Lang.”
Emily gave the smallest nod.
He clicked his pen, looked at her fully. “I understand you lost your husband in the field. And that you recently suffered a miscarriage connected to that stress. Correct?”
The words were sharp, delivered like bullets on a range. Emily inhaled slowly. “Correct.”
He scribbled. “How have you been sleeping since then?”
Her shoulders lifted faintly. “I sleep. No problems.”
More scribbling. He didn’t look at her as he wrote. “Any nightmares?”
“No.”
“Flashbacks?”
“No.”
“Panic episodes?”
Emily’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Lang finally looked up. His expression was neutral, but the silence stretched long enough to force tension. “You answer quickly.”
“I know myself,” Emily said.
“Do you?” His pen hovered above the page. “You’re a widow. A bereaved mother. Still working in a high-stress surgical environment. Quick answers aren’t always the most honest answers.”
Her hands tightened in her lap, but her voice was even. “With respect, Doctor, I don’t need time to invent anything. My reality is simple: I sleep, I eat, I work.”
He wrote again.
Emily studied the motion. Pen scratching, never stopping. It reminded her of reports being written in real time during interrogations. Her chest hollowed. This isn’t therapy. This is assessment. This is evidence against me.
Lang leaned back. “Tell me about your husband.”
The question hit harder than expected. Emily blinked. “Daniel?”
“Yes. Daniel Clarke. What was your marriage like?”
Emily drew in a steadying breath. “He was… dependable. A soldier. A good man.”
Lang’s brow arched. “That sounds like an obituary. I asked what your marriage was like.”
Her throat tightened. “It was… steady. We were good together. We argued sometimes, but nothing serious. We made it work.”
“Made it work,” he repeated, pen moving. “So not natural. Not easy. Something that had to be… managed.”
Emily’s voice sharpened. “Marriage is work, Doctor.”
“True.” His gaze flicked up. “But when you lost him, did you feel you lost your partner in life—or a fellow officer you lived with?”
Her nails dug into her palm. She forced her voice to stay calm. “I lost my husband.”
“Did you love him?”
The question lingered. Too blunt. Too simple.
Emily’s breath caught. Images rose unbidden: evenings filled with routine arguments, long deployments that felt like relief as much as loneliness, the realization at the cemetery that what she lost was shock more than half of herself.
“Yes,” she answered finally. “In my way.”
Lang studied her face as if testing the weight of the words. He jotted a line. “And the baby. How far along were you when you miscarried?”
The air froze in her lungs. Her lips pressed thin. “Eight weeks.”
“Do you think the stress caused it?”
Her chest ached. “I think losing Daniel caused it. Everything else followed.”
“Do you ever feel guilty?”
She almost laughed. “All the time. Isn’t that the natural state of survivors?”
The psychologist paused. For the first time, his pen stilled. “Survivor’s guilt, then. Not uncommon. It can manifest in dangerous ways if left unchecked.”
“I’m not dangerous.”
His pen scratched again. “That’s exactly what someone unstable would say.”
Emily’s jaw set. “That’s exactly what someone not listening would say.”
For the first time, their eyes locked and stayed. His clinical detachment met her quiet fury. Neither looked away.
Lang leaned back. “I could prescribe you something. Mild sleep aids, perhaps. Might help you—”
“I told you I don’t have trouble sleeping,” she cut in.
He didn’t stop. “Sometimes patients don’t recognize their own symptoms. Pills can help smooth rough edges.”
Emily’s voice cooled into steel. “Doctor. I do not need pills. I do not need smoothing. I need to keep working. That’s what keeps me upright.”
He scribbled again, ignoring her words.
She felt the heat rise in her chest, but she forced herself still. If I flare, I prove them right. If I stay calm, I win.
Lang looked up again. “Do you feel anger toward the institution? The Army, command, leadership?”
Emily breathed slowly, carefully. “I feel anger that I don’t have answers.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the only answer I’ll give.”
Lang studied her, silent. Then finally clicked his pen shut.
“This is a preliminary session. We’ll meet again.” He stacked his notes neatly, as though her life could be summarized in bullet points. “For now… keep yourself steady, Sergeant. And I’ll see if you’re fit to return.”
Emily rose slowly. Her hands trembled once as she gripped the chair. She forced them still. She looked him in the eye.
“You see ink and paper,” she said softly. “I live with the weight. Don’t confuse the two.”
Lang didn’t reply. He simply gestured to the door.
Emily walked out, spine straight, every step echoing in the quiet hall.
- Writer
