“Can you tell me what made you decide to finally break off ties with Wes?” she asks. “Was there an epiphany of some sort?”
“Sort of,” I say. “I remembered something.”
“Something negative?” she asks. And I’m not imagining that she scoots closer, riveted. I like her attention. It might be a little needy, but I miss my grandparents. I need them, so I’m letting Dr. Warren fill in—act the role of the concerned adult.
Besides, I’m still sore from earlier. Still broken from the memory.
I tell Dr. Warren all about going to Wes’s house and spending the night. I recount the painful memory I had, including telling off his mother. Including wishing I was dead. I don’t mention the handlers at my house or even The Program. I want her to know that I mean what I say about ending things with Wes. But rather than appearing encouraged, Dr. Warren flares her nostrils and tightens her jaw.
“I don’t understand,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “YouknewWes was dating someone else? You were suicidal?”
“I put together that he was seeing someone,” I say, “but I don’t believe I would have hurt myself. Okay, I admit there was a decline in my health, but when it came down to it, I knew I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I just needed help.”
“And you never got it,” she says, mostly to herself. Her pen presses into her paper, scraping the clipboard underneath.
“The Program—” I start to say, and she slaps her clipboard onto the couch.
“You were never in The Program, Tatum,” she says forcefully, startling me. My eyes start to tear up, feeling scolded, and Dr. Warren smiles an apology.
“I’m sorry,” she says in that same soothing voice she’s used for over a year. “I’m... unnerved by these revelations. Despite what you told me about wanting to be better, you slept over at Wes’s house last night. That was unethical.”
I lower my eyes. “Yeah, but nothing happened. I didn’t—”
“I’m sure your grandparents don’t know?”
I lift my eyes to hers because the tone of her voice... it feels kind of like a threat.
“No,” I say. “But they’re not your patients, remember?”
We stare at each other, and then Dr. Warren nods and smiles. “That is true,” she says lightly, like we’re gal pals again.
But now I’m the one unsettled. She can’t really be that mad that I went to Wes’s house. Is she secretly working for his mother or something?
“Tell me more about your memory,” she says casually, picking up her clipboard again. “Was there anything else you suddenly remembered? It’s highly unusual, but we’ve established that you were traumatized by the ending of your relationship with Weston. If this flashback is indeed true, it could be why. I’m sorry you didn’t realize sooner. Probably would have saved you both from the Adjustment.”
It’s a dig, once again putting the blame on me. And I feel myself close up. I’m not going to tell her any more about The Program or that I think I had an Adjustment to fix it. I’m not telling her shit.
“That’s it,” I say with a shrug. “Seemed like a good enough reason to make sure Wes and I didn’t make the same mistake.”
“Sure does,” she agrees.
I’m doing my best not to fidget, ready to leave her office. When she asks if I’d like to formulate questions for my grandparents, I tell her maybe next time. Whatever Dr. Warren’s motive is, I no longer think it’s in my best interest. Whether on purpose or as the “concerned adult,” she’s overlooking my actual problems in hopes of treating the symptoms.
And for now, we’re done.
“I should go,” I say, checking the time on my phone. I’ve only been here twenty minutes, but I make a quick excuse about meeting Nathan.
“And how is Nathan?” she asks. “How did he feel about Wes coming back today?”
“Oh, uh... he told me to be careful,” I say, surprised she’s asking about him. “You know Nathan—made some jokes and whatnot.”
There’s a buzzing on her desk, and Dr. Warren flinches, looking in that direction. “I’m sorry,” she says, standing up. “I have to answer that.” She sets her clipboard on the seat and goes over to her desk. I watch as she picks up her phone, not even checking the ID as she says, “Yes?” in a hushed voice.
She turns toward the window, and I wait for her, not wanting to be rude by walking out. My eyes drift to the couch and eventually the clipboard resting on the cushion. I don’t mean to, but I read the words, able to decipher them upside down.
Evasive
Falsified history
