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Dr. Niles Crane looked up from his tablet to taken in the patient across from him. The athletic blonde had a hard, determined look about her eyes, and an aura of weariness. Her plaid shirt and jeans looked well-worn, but not scrappy; a small pride pin in her lapel and the heavy messenger bag carrying a Pear tablet, a couple of protruding Fat Cakes, and textbooks suggested a student.
“You must be Ms Puckett? Or, might I ask your pronouns?”
“She/they. But just call me Sam, Doc.”
“Of course. What brings you in to see me today?”
Sam ruffled her hair, an undercut peeking through on the left side of her head. “Okay, listen. So you saw the email I sent your office, right?”
Dr. Crane thought for a moment. He felt foolish for a moment. Of course—she was that Sam Puckett. “Ah! Yes, indeed.”
“So like—no offense, but don’t talk to me like this is a formal consult. I need to ease into this.” She leaned forward, hands clasped together, their full, determined mouth turning downward in a grim line.
Dr. Crane patted his thinning hair and adjusted, straightening his posture. He had never been terribly comfortable with clients from a lower socio-economic class and background—but he had become more aware of that limitation over the years. At the moment, he could tell the young woman across from him was the sort of person Roz might have gotten along with far better. But still, it was his job—his calling—to help people, and she had come to him, after all.
“Of course. I’ll do my best,” he said primly, offering a small but reassuring smile.
They gave him a sardonically raised eyebrow.
Sam ran a hand over her face. “So…I had this friend. Carly Shay. We went to school together, ran this web show—you um, you might have heard of it a few years back.”
Niles shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not very well acquainted with popular culture.”
Sam gave him a look of disbelief. Then, an odd sort of relief washed over her face. “Huh. Well, it um, it had millions of watchers. Like, everywhere. We were an international phenomenon. Didn’t make any money from it, or not much—that’s what you get for being a stupid kid, I guess, with no managers—but it was a big deal.” She exhaled. “And it kind of ruined my life. Not that I didn’t have a shitty life to begin with.”
“A shitty life? Can you tell me what that meant for you?” solicited Dr. Crane.
Sam gave him another sardonic look. He had the impression she didn’t open up to people much, or that she wasn’t very comfortable with her feelings. She eyeballed his pen and pad of paper. “Can I draw while we talk? Calms me down.”
“Certainly,” Dr. Crane said, dipping his chin in acknowledgement.
“Okay, so, with the shitty life thing? It’s kind of a long story and I don’t want to talk about my mom right now. Aren’t you shrinks supposed to ask me if things remind me of my mother?” she shot back with a smirk.
Dr. Crane noticed her hands flexing. Her plaid sleeves were rolled up, and her forearm muscles were prominent, twitching with tension as she clenched her fists. “My brother is more influenced by Freudian techniques, but I personally lean towards a different theraupeutic modality,” he said dryly.
They snorted. “Yeah. Your brother. How is that guy doing, anyway?”
After the usual pang of sadness at the mention of Frasier, he had a moment of surprise that she might be familiar with his work. “Were you familiar with the show?”
“I grew up here in Seattle, Doc. Of course I am. I used to listen, sometimes.” She scratched her head again. “The weirdos made me feel a little less weird. And that’s why I looked for you. I figured you might understand what it was like to have a famous washed up person suddenly busting back onto the scene and making everything all…weird in your life.”
Niles concealed his flinch. Yes, he did know. Ms Puckett was certainly not a delicate communicator, however. But then, she couldn’t possibly know what it was like to have an older brother crashing from marriage to divorce and between substances, bellowing about the directionlessness of his life over the phone, and sometimes showing up to seek help or complain bitterly at the most inconvenient intervals. It was all very well and good for Frasier to go through his patterns, refuting any of Niles’ gently-articulated suggestions of seeking help—but Daphne and David didn’t need to see that. He had a bitter moment of nearly being glad that their dad wasn’t having to watch all of this.
And knowing that, after the talk show and the controversy and the franchising had fallen apart, he was going to be back in the celebrity spotlight? What was that going to do?
But then, Dr Crane knew he shouldn’t think about his own familial struggles; not now, with a patient.
Sam was now staring him down. She tensed her jaw. “You know what it’s like,” they said again.
“Perhaps, but it’s more important to make sure that I understand what it was like from your perspective,” he said carefully. “How would you describe your childhood experiences while working on the web show?”
“Fucking terrible,” they said, without hesitation. “Like okay, there were fun times, but…” she looked down again, hands flexing, then sat up and started to scribble on the pad, drawing abstract shapes. To his surprise, the pen flowed with confidence and assurance, sketching a caricature of a pretty girl: wide mouth, wavy dark locks, but cynical eyes. “For one thing, I hate the person I used to be.”
A sharp inward breath, eyes averting from his. “I had a crush on one of my best friends, and I used to beat the crap out of him.”
“Assault is only a misdemeanor,” said Dr. Crane mildly.
They snorted. “Doc, don’t talk to me about the legal system. I spent a lot of time in juvy.” She patted her bag. “When I walk out that door, I’m going back to a pilot program with a bike gang to help them and new recruits transition out of the gang and into normal-er jobs.” A look of pride spread across their face before she slouched forward again, that defensive wariness slouching her shoulders.
“My apologies,” said Dr. Crane again. “However, it does sound like you made the most of your adverse background to help others. How do you feel about that?”
A flicker of surprise in her eyes. Then defeat again. “I used to hurt people. Something good like that is the least I could do.”
He could work with that. “So it sounds like you feel a sense of debt, or owing people?”
A pause, then a slight nod. “I guess. I mean, I’ve been such a shitty person.”
“Do you still feel you’re a shitty person?” he said gently.
A little gasp, her shoulders drawing in. Tears beading her eyes for just a second; then they shook their head. “Doc. I still am a shitty person. I was born shitty and I always will be shitty. I’m just doing something less shitty now.” She gritted her teeth. “My sister’s the good one.”
Resentment, perhaps, but mostly just sadness. “Can you tell me more about what you mean by ‘the good one’?” he probed.
She looked like she wanted to argue, but then remembered where she was, and why they were here, and let out a sigh. “I guess. Just, she’s a really good person? She’s doing this work right now, in LA, with the housing crisis. We lived there for a few years…” Sam shook their head. “We saw some shit. I’m glad she’s doing it.” A little smile, a softness. “She’s an awesome lawyer. She got so many scholarships. And she helped me study for my stuff so I could do better, too.” A bitter laugh. “I wouldn’t be in school otherwise. My family couldn’t afford it, and it’s not like Carly was going to help me pay for shit. Even though her family is old money.”
Niles shifted a little, tugging at his collar. The affluent life of a very successful psychiatrist and the heedless comfort it afforded came with certain insulations from the world’s deprivations. But guilt or no, he had to focus on Ms. Puckett’s struggles—not himself.
“How would you describe your feelings about the lack of help from Carly?” he said carefully.
“I feel fucking betrayed. Listen, my mom was kind of okay money-wise because my father sent alimony payments, but there was never enough. Or it never felt like it. And I sure as shit didn’t see my ‘dad’ around. He sent money and never showed his stupid face.”
Fresh anger and bitterness, but also the clear resignation of long-term pain in her voice.
“Do you know much about your father?”
A sharp jerk of their head. “He was Italian. Did shady shit. When…when things started going bad for me, I considered going into his line of work, but…I didn’t want to end up like that. Like him.”
“It sounds as though you dealt with a lot of very difficult circumstances growing up. Have you continued to struggle with the law?”
A decisive shake of the head. “No.” Pride that time.
“Considering that, it sounds like your current situation is a real accomplishment. If my son had gone from struggles with the law to helping re-integrate criminals into society, I would be very proud.”
A moment of surprise. “Yeah, but I did so much to hurt people. I don’t deserve to be proud,” she spat back. “This is just what I owe the world.”
He sat back, giving her a little distance and room to defuse her feelings. “Do you remember why you were involved in so many violent altercations in your youth?”
She nodded. “I was just so fucking angry. Like—my mom was not okay, and I get that she was crazy, but it fucked me up. My sister did her best, but she just starved herself for a while instead of getting mad. And—and nobody was there to protect me. So I had my butter sock and I had my fists, and that was it.” A sad smirk. “And it felt like I was always under attack.”
“You say you felt that way. What helped you change that perspective? Or do you still feel that way?”
Another sarcastic look. “I mean, apart from the childhood crap, the fucking internet didn’t exactly help. You know what it’s like having millions of strangers tear you apart because, I don’t know, your nose is lopsided, right? It was awful. And like—I don’t think you understand what I got up to on that show.” A rake through her hair. “We were kids. We didn’t know there would be consequences for our actions. So yeah, I’m fucking angry that nobody protected me or told me no when I needed to hear it.” A sigh. “Except maybe Spencer. He was more of a dad than my own father.”
Dr. Crane perked up. “Spencer Shae? The Spencer Shae?”
Sam gave him a baffled look. “Wait, you know him?”
“I’ve always been passionate about and interested in the arts,” he said, enthusiasm leaking through. “I don’t always connect with the type of post-modern absurdist found object sculptures he produces, but some of them were entirely delightful. His recent show was—” he cleared his throat. “Regardless, it sounds like he was a positive influence on your life?”
“Spencer is probably the reason I didn’t end up in the bike gang I’m working with,” Sam said frankly. She laughed, embarrassed. “I had a crush on him, but it wasn’t a big thing. It was just…nice to have someone care for me without strings attached. Just be like, a good guy and help me with stuff, without expecting something gross or whatever. He still says I should’ve gone to art school.” Real warmth, though; clearly, despite her strong defensiveness, it was a fulfilling relationship that appeared to permit her safety—perhaps even vulnerability, Dr. Crane noted.
“Indeed. Were there other people who contributed to or nourished your emotional health in that period?”
Sam was quiet for a moment, and drew back in their chair. “I guess, yeah. My friend Gibby. And Freddie.” A pang of sadness, regret.
“What was your relationship with Freddie like?” he probed hesitantly.
Sam’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “Isn’t our time up for today?” they said, standing abruptly.
Dr. Crane exhaled. “Yes, we are getting closer to the end of the session,” he admitted. In truth, he had another half hour before the next client, but she appeared emotionally fatigued.
“Awesome. Then I’m gonna get out of here.”
“We don’t have to explore that previous topic today, but I would like to debrief a little before we schedule your next appointment.”
She grumbled, but sat down. “I guess, fine. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back, but this didn’t entirely suck as bad as I thought it would.”
He offered an encouraging smile. “I’m glad to hear it.” He checked his calendar quickly on the tablet. “I have an opening in two weeks, on Tuesday at three o’clock. Will that work?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she said. With defeat, they exhaled. “So, debrief me, or whatever.” They made a face at the phrasing.
“Indeed. Well, I would like to help you explore some of the adverse experiences you had in your teen years, and work on building a stronger sense of self-regard and self-esteem. It also sounds like you are still dealing with a lot of guilt regarding your actions. Does that sound accurate to your experiences?”
“Yeah, basically. Look, I hate myself and I feel shitty, and I want to stop that, and I want to be a better person. You think you can help me with that?”
Dr. Crane offered another warm smile. “I can certainly do my best. I can’t promise instant results, of course, but the first and hardest step is seeking help, and you’ve already overcome it.”
Sam sat back again. A hesitant, small grin crossed her face. “Cool.” It snapped away, but there was less tension in their shoulders. “See you in two weeks.”
They stood up, shook his hand with a firm grasp, then shouldered their bag. As they headed out, they paused and reached for one of the Fat Cakes sticking out of the messenger bag pocket. On the corner of the bag’s main compartment flap, a metal pin with “Seattle Kickboxing Club Championship” caught the light as she fumbled for her snack.
With that, she was out the door and gone.
Dr. Crane took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. After taking a few notes about the session, he pulled open his email and had a look.
Something from Frasier. Maybe he’d actually read this one. Maybe it wouldn’t be another self-pitying missive riddled with aggrandizement and manipulation.
Niles glanced at it, then closed his email without opening the message. He ran his hands over his brow, then tucked them behind his back and paced for a moment. Dialing his receptionist, he said, “Marcus, can you let the next patient know I’ll be about fifteen minutes late?”
With that arranged, he got his coat and headed out into the overcast Seattle afternoon, to take a walk and clear his head. It was hard not to feel ghosts and regrets nipping at his heels—but Niles was a fast walker. A rather fast walker indeed.