The guard props me up against the wall. The brick is cold on my skin.
‘Is this cell five?’
There is a woman blocking the light by the cell door. She wears no uniform, has no baton.
The guard scowls at her. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The woman steps forward. Blonde hair snakes in a ponytail down her back. ‘I’m Dr Andersson,’ she says, her voice clipped, plum, like a newsreader. ‘Lauren Andersson, how do you do.’ She extends a neat little hand; the guard stands, ignores it.
Dropping her arm, Dr Andersson looks at me. ‘She needs to be out of here. Now.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ says the guard. ‘Who the hell put you in charge? I only want you to check her over.’
‘I’m responsible for the physical and psychiatric well-being of the inmates here,’ Dr Andersson says, side-stepping the vomit. She points to me. ‘This woman is Maria Martinez.’ She folds her arms. ‘And she has been assigned to me.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since today.’ She pushes past the guard, crouches down and takes my wrist. She looks to her watch, checks my pulse, releases my arm. ‘This inmate’s pulse is up. Get her out. Now.’ When the guard does nothing, Dr Andersson stands, her neck taut, voice raised. ‘I said, now.’
I am hauled up under the arms by two guards. Dr Andersson informs them that I am, under no circumstances, to be returned to the segregation cell.
‘I have the full backing of the Governor,’ she says. ‘Do you understand?’
The guards nod.
‘Good. Take her to my office.’
‘So, how are you feeling?’
I don’t know how to answer the question. I am in Dr Andersson’s office. She is sitting at her desk, staring at me. The room is cool, the light low. My pulse has dropped, but still my muscles tense, my fists clench. Everything is disorientating me.
Dr Andersson crosses her legs and her hem slips above her knee. Her cheeks are pink and she has eyes shaped like over-sized almonds.
‘My throat is sore,’ I say, touching my neck, avoiding eye contact.
‘That is to be expected, given the vomiting.’ She swivels to her right and picks up a blood pressure monitor. She opens the strap. ‘Can you roll up your sleeve?’
‘Why?’
‘Blood pressure. You know. Routine.’
I hesitate, then slowly pull up the arm of my jumpsuit to find an apple-sized bruise. I gasp.
‘You did that in the cell?’
‘I think so. I do not remember.’
She peers at it, then after slipping the strap around my bicep, begins pumping the pressure valve. The sound of wheezing fills the air.
‘That was a panic attack you had just now,’ she says, watching the valve. ‘Do you have them often?’
‘Yes.’ I watch the dial turn, try to breathe, remain calm. ‘You can stop now.’
Dr Andersson pauses then deflates the pressure valve and unstraps the band. ‘Your blood pressure is slightly high.’
I rub my arm were the strap has been. What is happening to my body?
Dr Andersson folds the monitor kit and sets it on a table to her left. ‘Do you have a headache?’
‘Yes.’
‘Front or b—’
‘Front.’
‘Light-headedness?’
I nod.
She picks up a notepad and pen. ‘Dizziness?’
I swallow. ‘All the symptoms of anxiety. Yes.’
I don’t want to believe it, but it has to be true. My high blood pressure means I am stressed. In here, in this prison. Anxiety. Worry. Trauma. None of them are good for me. But I do not know what to do, don’t know how to handle the feelings, how to curb them from taking over.
As Dr Andersson writes something down, I distract my thoughts by scanning the room. Boxes sit unpacked in the corner, medical books teeter, stacked next to her desk. There are no personal pictures on her table, no certificates on the wall.
‘Maria? Are you okay?’
I look down at myself. I am rocking. I had not even realised.
‘Here. Drink some water.’ She holds out a plastic cup.
I take it and sip. The water cools my throat.
‘So, do you want to tell me what happened in there, in the segregation cell?’
‘You already know. I had a panic attack.’ I put the cup on the desk, my heart rate rising again. Maybe if I change the subject. ‘You said in the cell that you are a psychiatrist.’
‘Oh, right, yes. That’s correct. I studied medicine at the University of Stockholm then specialised in psychiatry at King’s College, London.’
‘In what year did you qualify?’
She breathes out. ‘Look, Maria, I would love to give you details on my entire professional history, but to be frank—’
‘But I need you to tell me,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘It helps me to focus. The details, facts, they—’
‘But to be frank,’ she continues, louder, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘that’s not what we’re here for. We are here to talk about you. To help you. You just had a major panic attack back there. Your blood pressure is up. You are experiencing classic symptoms of anxiety. So why don’t you let me help to calm you down, see how you are and guide you through all this, hmmm?’
‘Are you Swedish?’
She shakes her head. ‘Sorry?’
‘Your name. Andersson. It is Swedish.’
A sigh. ‘Look, Maria, can we—’
‘Lauren is a French name meaning “crowned with laurel”,’ I say at speed, desperate to cling on to any detail I can. ‘It has a Latin root that means “bay” or “laurel plant”. Lauren is the feminine form of the male name Laurence. In 1945, the name Lauren appeared for the first time in the top one thousand baby names in the United States.’
Dr Andersson stares at me. ‘Maria,’ she says after a moment, ‘have you ever talked to anyone about your Asperger’s?’
‘Why do you ask?’
She reaches to her desk and opens a file. My name is on the cover. ‘Your father,’ she says, opening the folder. ‘He died when you were ten. Correct?’
That stops me immediately. I swallow, nod.
‘How?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
She smiles. ‘Because I am your therapist here. And I need to know.’
I dart my eyes around the room. ‘You are new?’
‘Yes.’
My gaze settles on the half-open boxes. I pick out Dr Andersson’s name scrawled in black ink on the side and concentrate on it, so that when I speak about him, when the pain of the memory hits, it won’t be as hard. ‘It was a car accident in Spain,’ I say, eyes dead ahead. ‘Papa died in a car accident. He was returning from work. He was a prosecution lawyer.’
‘Maria, can you look at me?’
‘No.’