Page 37 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Jason

I sit outside Peter’s office, waiting for the renowned Dr. Melanie Steel to arrive.

She’s a well-respected psychiatrist. I have to think of her that way. I have to separate her from what I think of the field of psychiatry.

Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll be able to contain my anger at the world.

I also have to separate her from Angie.

A few moments later, she arrives, her cheeks red from the chill of the outside air. Her silvery blond hair is pulled up in a loose bun, and her green eyes sparkle.

“Dr. Lansing,” she says. “I apologize for being a little bit late. I was having breakfast with my niece, and she seemed a little troubled, so I wanted to give her as much time as I could.”

Dr. Steel has many nieces, but she can only be talking about Angie. I assume the rest of them live out west.

“Peter gave me his keys.” She unlocks the door to Peter’s office swiftly. “Come on in. Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

Dr. Steel’s voice is gentle, soothing. It’s a stark contrast to the icy weather outside and, in a way, the turbulence inside me. She’s comforting? a quality that I suppose is essential to her profession. If I believed in her profession, that is. I still think it’s all BS.

I follow her into the office. I’ve been in Pete’s office many times, but still I gaze at the shelves lined with hardback books, his medical degrees and awards on the walls.

The office is huge. He’s the chief of surgery, of course.

A plush sofa sits in one corner while two armchairs flank a mahogany coffee table in the center of the room.

Next to the window is Peter’s desk, neat as a pin.

“It’s Sunday, so the staff aren’t here,” Dr. Steel says. “I apologize that I can’t offer you any coffee.”

“I’m good,” I say.

“Okay.” She smiles. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the chairs facing the desk and takes Peter’s chair behind the desk. “As you know, we’re here for me to assess your mental health with regard to the experimental nerve graft to restore full function to your right hand.”

I simply nod.

“It’s important that you’re honest with me, Dr. Lansing.”

“Of course.”

“The reason the board is concerned is because of the trauma you’ve been through. The accident that took your daughter’s life and resulted in the injury to your hand, and your wife’s subsequent suicide.”

I try not to wince. “That all happened nearly three years ago,” I say.

“Yes, I understand that,” Dr. Steel replies, her voice steady and empathetic. “But as you know, the ripples of such traumatic events can linger for a long time. It is crucial to make sure you are emotionally stable before undergoing such an experimental procedure.”

I nod again, clenching my good hand into a fist. This woman in front of me isn’t wrong, but underlining each tragedy is like reliving them all over again. I try to force myself to relax.

I’m unsuccessful.

“Dr. Lansing,” she says. “I think it would be beneficial to further discuss these past traumatic experiences. To understand your coping mechanisms.”

“I’ve coped,” I insist. “It’s not like I had any choice in the matter.”

She studies me with a soft yet probing gaze.

“Coping and healing are two different things, Dr. Lansing,” she says gently.

“You’re a well-respected surgeon, and I admire your resilience.

But sometimes, even the strongest among us need assistance with mending the parts of ourselves that aren’t visible to the naked eye. ”

I glance at the framed pictures on Peter’s desk, his family’s cheery faces mocking my internal turmoil. His wife. His children.

Those things I no longer have.

I swallow hard and nod.

“Let’s start from the beginning.” She leans back in Peter’s chair. “The accident with your daughter, Julia. Can you tell me about that day?”

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over me. It’s like wounds being reopened. Here we go.

Again.

“Dr. Lansing…”

“I had a big surgery scheduled—a Whipple with a high-risk patient—and Lindsay had parent-teacher conferences. I was supposed to take Julia to her grandmother’s for the day instead of to daycare. It was raining. Raining really hard.”

She nods, keeping her expression impassive.

That’s what shrinks do. They force you to talk about things while they have no feelings themselves.

But if I want this surgery at this hospital, I have to jump through the fucking hoops.

“A car was coming through a red light and T-boned me.” My heart starts to accelerate. “I tried to stop. Tried to…”

The words get stuck in my throat.

“It’s okay. Go as slowly as you need to go.”

I close my eyes again and take a deep breath. “My airbag deployed, and I screamed for Julia. But she… She was forced out of her car seat and…”

Forced out because I had neglected to make sure she was secure.

No. I buckled her in. I remember.

The click. I heard the click.

Or did I?

Dr. Steel nods. “Go on.”

I open my eyes. “Why? Why do I have to relive this? Therapy didn’t work for me. It didn’t work for Lindsay. I’m sure you’ve seen Dr. Morgan’s records.”

“You know I can’t look at Dr. Morgan’s records without your consent.”

“But you’re consulting.”

“It’s not the same thing. I’m consulting at the request of the hospital board. Not at Dr. Morgan’s request. You’re no longer her patient.”

“Right,” I mutter. “So is this what it comes down to? Rehashing my grief as a form of penance? Some sort of toll I have to pay to fix my hand?”

Dr. Steel holds my gaze. “The process is not meant to be punitive, Dr. Lansing. You know that. It’s about understanding your emotional state and ensuring that you are in the best place for a positive outcome, whether the surgery is successful or not.”

“I’m not the same man who was in therapy three years ago,” I say. “I’ve learned to live with my grief. I’ve accepted that life is cruelly unpredictable.”

She nods. “Trauma has a way of changing us. How we come out on the other side can often speak more about us than the traumas themselves.”

I exhale slowly, absorbing her words. She has a point, but it still irks me. It feels like my worth, my competency, is being determined by how well I’ve healed, how well I’ve adapted to the unexpected blows life has dealt me.

“All right,” I say finally. “What do you need to know?”

“I’d like to understand how you’ve coped. Particularly on the more difficult days.”

I contemplate her words, mulling over the ways grief has become a part of my everyday life. “Some days are harder than others,” I admit.

Though the last few days have been less difficult.

Because of Angie.

But I can’t say that.

But damn… That day after the meeting with Louisa and Gita, when I felt hope.

I was almost happy that day.

Until the powers that be decided I might not be mentally fit for the surgery.

Dr. Steel simply nods, patiently waiting for me to continue.

“I sleep less on those days,” I say. “I tend to throw myself into work or research. I find it easier to cope when my mind is occupied.”

“And when you’re not working?”

“It varies,” I respond honestly. “Sometimes it’s just…quiet reflection.”

Or more accurately lately…fucking her niece.

But nope. Can’t say that.

“And what about your support system, Dr. Lansing?” she asks. “Family, friends?”

Right.

No family to speak of.

And any friendships Lindsay and I had have dried up. My own fault. I just didn’t want to deal with the questions, the pitying looks.

“I have colleagues,” I reply.

She presses her lips together. “Colleagues can be a form of support too, but it’s not quite the same as having a close friendship. Do you have anyone you trust, someone you can confide in when things get tough?”

The question hangs heavily between us, an unwanted reminder of the isolation I’ve found myself in these past years.

Except…now I have Angie. Sort of. But a couple of good fucks isn’t a support system.

Shit. For a second I actually understand why the board is insisting on this.

Then it fades.

“Dr. Lansing?” Dr. Steel prompts.

“No,” I admit, a bitter taste in my mouth. “There isn’t anyone.”

She is silent a moment, her pen tapping lightly against the notepad in her lap. “What about hobbies? Anything that brings you joy or at least some form of distraction?”

“I run. Go to the gym.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah. I used to run with Lindsay.”

Dr. Steel lifts her gaze from the notepad and gives me an attentive nod.

“We’d go for runs in the park every Sunday,” I explain, staring past her at the bookshelves. My voice is distant, as if it belongs to someone else. “It helped us unwind. I’ve tried to keep up the habit. It’s one of the few things that still makes sense.”

“And do you think it has helped? This routine?”

I shrug. “To some degree, I suppose. There’s comfort in the physical exertion, in the constancy. It’s like, if I can keep going one more mile, then I can keep going through everything else.”

“You’ve built a routine around your resilience,” she says, scribbling something down on her notepad. “That speaks volumes to your strength, Dr. Lansing.”

Strength. I huff out a laugh. “Then I’m strong enough for this surgery, wouldn’t you say? Regardless of the outcome?”

She sighs. “If I said yes at this point, I’d be doing you a disservice, as well as a disservice to the hospital board who asked me to do this evaluation.”

I furrow my brow, unable to hold back the frustration that bubbles to the surface. “You think I’m not fit for the surgery,” I state, more as an accusation than a question.

Dr. Steel looks at me, her gaze unreadable. “I think,” she says slowly, “that there are still some unresolved issues you need to deal with. These are not disqualifications, Dr. Lansing, but they are obstacles.”

“Obstacles,” I repeat, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Call it whatever you like,” she says calmly.

“But the fact remains that emotional well-being is just as crucial as physical capability when it comes to an experimental surgery that may give you back something crucial that you’ve lost. Or it may not.

It may make things worse. And that, Dr. Lansing, is my concern.

If the surgery works, I feel certain that you’ll be fine. If it doesn’t…”

Her words are left hanging in the air, echoing with unspoken implications.

I’m silent, unable to respond immediately. It’s a scenario that I’ve considered many times, but hearing it from her adds a new layer of weight to it.

“If it doesn’t,” I finally echo, forcing a neutral tone. “You’re worried about my reaction.”

Or more precisely, she’s worried I may do what Lindsay resorted to. I may take my own life.

She nods. “That’s right, Dr. Lansing. It’s my job to ensure the hospital that you can handle whatever outcome you’ll face. Especially since you don’t seem to have an adequate support system.”

Anger boils up inside me, and for the first time in our monotonous conversation, I feel my control slip. “So what do you propose, Dr. Steel?” I snap. “Another round of therapy? More digging into my past?”

“I’m not proposing anything yet,” she says, seemingly unfazed by my outburst. “I am, however, suggesting we continue this conversation.”