I stretch my arms overhead. The couch in the living room is white and so deep that if I sit all the way back, my legs stick out in front of me, like I’m a little kid. Bet they did that on purpose, to make their patients feel helpless and small. Evelyn sits in a chair across from me, her feet firmly on the floor.
Little kid,
Little girl,
Made of id,
No one’s pearl.
“This is boring,” I sigh, dropping my arms and folding them across my chest. “I’ve told these stories a thousand times.” I’ve lost track of how many therapists’ couches I’ve lounged across, how many people have singsonged the questionAnd how did that make youfeel?I’ve heard the twelve steps somany times I can recite them, all the way from admitting powerlessness to having a spiritual awakening, though I’ve never personally made it past the ninth step, quick to quip that making amends would take up the rest of my life. Besides, the people who wronged me never bothered sending apologies my way.
Evelyn, I notice, hasn’t mentioned the twelve steps. Guess she couldn’t justify charging whatever it is she charges her patients if she trotted out the same program anyone can find for free in their local church basement.
Out the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see waves crash on the beach, the water almost black in the dim January light. Who wants to be this close to the ocean in the dead of winter? Well, plenty of people, if you live in LA. I live thirty minutes from the beach, and I can’t remember the last time I took my kid there. When she was little, I’d answer every request with a promise that we’d go tomorrow. The convenient thing about tomorrow is there’s always another one. Eventually my kid caught on. Hasn’t asked me for anything in a long, long time.
Ask me for anything.
I’ll always say no.
Ask me for anything.
Unless you’re asking me to go.
The Scott Harris in my head says,Keep going,but I ignore him. Can’t listen to everything the dead-musician chorus says, even when they’re being encouraging. People like Evelyn would think I’m even crazier than they already think I am.
Evelyn’s icy blond hair is pulled into a bun so tight it raises her eyebrows, like a shitty facelift. It makes her look more like a simulation than an actual human being.
“Give me your phone,” I say, reaching toward her. “I’ll pull up my Wiki page, and we can sit here quietly while you read.”
Evelyn doesn’t flinch as I lean forward, but when I try to reach into her pockets, she holds up a hand. In an instant, the chef, Andrew, is standing between us. I hadn’t even realized he was in the room.
“Florence,” Evelyn says, hidden entirely behind Andrew’s tall, broadly muscled body. “I’m going to have to ask you to sit down.”
“What, you’re not allowed to stand during therapy here?”
“You’re not allowed to attack your therapist.”
“I wasn’t attacking you!”
The words I said to Joni—I’ll kill you for what you did to me—will follow me around for the rest of my life like a stray dog. I bite my tongue to keep myself from saying something similar to Evelyn, the phrase in my thoughts like a birthday wish.
I picture Evelyn and Joni as roommates in hell, longing to exchange stories about me, but the devil stole their tongues, so Evelyn can’t take her condescending tone and Joni can’t sing.
“Are we going to have a problem?” Evelyn’s disembodied voice asks from behind Andrew.
“What if we are?” I ask, feeling defiant. “Will you kick me out?”
“No, but we will sedate you.”
Now, the housekeeper—I bet she’d be surprised that I remember her name, Sascha—steps forward, a medical bag in her hand.
“You’re going to have the maid inject me with drugs?” I almost laugh at how horrified I sound, considering all that I’ve been injected with over the years.
“Sascha is a registered nurse.”
She’s surely had more training than half the guys—it was always guys—who’d shot me up over the years, if not quite as much experience.
“So you lied when you told me she was the housekeeper.” Sweat springs on the back of my neck so that I’m tempted to twist my hair into a bun to cool off, but I don’t want Evelyn to think she’s upset me.
