There’s only fifteen minutes left in our hour-long session, and my mouth is dry. I don’t know how anyone talks for this long without taking a moment to breathe and hydrate.
“Or maybe you’re uncomfortable with being left alone with your thoughts,” she offers, uncrossing her legs. She’s wearingwide legged jeans and an oversized sweater that’s too warm for the sweltering heat of DC in the middle of June.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”
Frustration claws at my chest with long nails that turn my response sharp. “It would make me feel better if you could tell me what the purpose of giving me the silent treatment is.”
“You have a background in psychology, Agent Beckham, years of experience with interrogating subjects and taking confessions, do you really not understand the value of silence in settings such as these?”
As she poses her question, she rearranges herself in the seat, folding her feet underneath her. Watching her get more comfortable in the face of my growing agitation makes me want to get up and walk out of here and never come back. I can’t do that though. After my shower confession a week ago, I promised Cal I would go back to therapy and gain the tools I needed to heal the ache inside of me he’d already began to sooth with his own dark admissions.
Pulling a breath in through my nose and expelling it out of my mouth, I think back to her question. “I’ve only ever used silence during interrogations when they weren’t really interrogations.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, some suspects just can’t wait to talk. That’s not usually the case, but it does happen sometimes. They can’t wait to tell you what they’ve done, so there’s no work for you to do. The words just flow out of them, and you have no choice but to just…let them.”
The end of my explanation comes with the dawning of realization. Dr. Pike watches it wash over me, hiding a knowing smile behind the rim of the teacup she keeps on the table beside her chair.
“Exactly.” She takes a slow sip of the hot liquid before saying more. “In our previous sessions, you were reluctant to share, which isn’t uncommon when clients are mandated to come to me, but today, you came in and just let the words flow. It would have been a shame to interrupt that for the sake of hearing my own voice.”
“Oh.”
I deflate a little, feeling like an asshole. Dr. Pike reads me easily, shaking her head. “Don’t be upset with yourself. Lots of people find silence disconcerting in therapy. I apologize for not making my approach clear to you before, but I have to commend you for doing so much with the space you were given.”
Thinking back, she didn’t really give the space. I took it. As soon as I sat down, I started talking. About Charlie and the dreams. About Cal and the post-nightmare showers. About Valinsky and my fear of being more like him than I thought.
“Thanks.” I shrug awkwardly. “It felt easier to say this time.”
“That’s not uncommon especially if you had a positive experience the first time you disclose, which it seems you did with your partner, Cal.” She glances at the notepad to make sure she got his name right. “Receiving acceptance once typically makes us feel confident that we can again, so we repeat the story with less shame, less doubt, less fear of judgment and rejection.”
“Makes sense.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” she asks, laughing lightly at my flat response. “I’m afraid that’s our time for today, but in our next session, I’d like to unpack some of the statements you made today.”
“Which ones?” I quip. “Apparently, I’ve shared a lot today.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Agent Beckham.” Dr. Pike runs her index finger down the side of the notepad, tapping it lightly on the page when she finds what she’s looking for. “If you’re comfortable, I’d like to start with you referring to yourself asa monster and discuss why you so easily accepted that as your truth.”
I frown as I push to my feet. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“I wanted someone dead, and I acted on that desire without remorse.”
She’s standing now too, following me to the door which she holds ajar after I open it and step into her empty waiting room. “You think this belief was formed around Charlie’s death?”
“You don’t?”
In true therapist fashion, she sidesteps the yes or no question with an artful grace. “In my experience, the stories we tell ourselves about who we are shaped in our childhood and affirmed or disproven in our adult years. Usually, we tend to hold on to the things that support those beliefs and filter out anything that doesn’t.”
“So, you think I believed I was a monster before Charlie’s death?”
Her lips are pursed together as she gives a reluctant nod. “Possibly. The question is why?”
I turn Dr. Pike’s inquiry over in my mind several times on my way to the parking lot and find myself unreasonably frustrated when I can’t find a suitable answer. Cal is waiting for me in the car, expectant eyes on my face when I slide into the passenger seat.
