I hesitate before opening the door and ushering them inside my office, which is light pink and gray and perfectly matches the carpet, the couch, and, most importantly, my book cover.
If I’m being honest, my last clients, the Vickers, really rattled me. Our session finished ten minutes ago, and I can’t stop shaking.
The Vickers. Young couple. Newly married and marinating in that “we’re having great sex” smell. We’re two sessions in. There’s nothing much wrong with them, and they were a bit too smug when I told them that. Last week, I wished them goodbye with a beaming smile, which curdled the second they left the office pawing at each other. Then I trudged home and watched TV in bed with the cat. Joe’s been working late shifts at the bar for extra cash, and maybe that’s a good thing for now.
I can fix this, I tell myself again.
I can fix us. I will. I will.
I hyperventilate at my office door, breathing in the faint antiseptic smell of Amy Miller, who is standing on the other side, knocking. I can do this. I just need a smoke. A drink. And the delightfully fucked-upMillers with their infidelities, credit card debt, and mutual simmering rage to make me happy again.
I throw the door open, my smile huge, my yellow diamond wedding ring sparkling, my bestselling book shining on the windowsill as the afternoon sun washes it in soft golden light as warm as a bath.
It’s so perfect. All of it.
When I stand at that door, it’s like I’m presenting myself: You canfeelthe Pinterest boards dedicated to excerpts of my book. I have a handsome husband, beachy waves, and teeth so white you could read by them in the dark. My baby-pink cardigan brings out the warm caramel of my hair and the forty-three-dollar Nars blush on my cheeks. I’m the human equivalent of Instagram. Sarah Slade. At your fucking service.
“Hi, folks!” I beam, waving them inside. “Come in, come in.”
Folks.I stole it from the celebrity therapist onTeen Mom.He calls all his patients “folks,” and the dim-witted, slack-jawed yokels seem to like it. He’s speakingtheirlanguage; he’strustworthy;he’sstern but relatable.
Richard shuffles past me, mute and solemn as a wounded bird. Amy smiles tightly, clutching her python-print handbag and smelling of total despair. I eat their sorrow, swallowing it down like it’s hearty chicken soup, and by the time I close the door, I’m feelingsomuch better. My clients look at me like I have the answers. Like I can help. It’s healing, to be honest, at least for a little while. I am a giant goddamn wound. My clients are soothing little Band-Aids. But then I go home to my emotionally distant husband, lie awake in my bed, and scratch at all my sores until I’m breathless and frantic in the dark. Then I post some trite bullshit on Instagram about health and healing, and I hold my breath and bleed until the likes come flooding in.
Instagram is my other Band-Aid. It’s toxic, I know. But the more likes I get, the less I bleed.
Nobody is speaking, so we all do that awkward silent walk from the door to the chairs. I peek behind me, hoping they glance up at the dove-gray wall where my book cover hangs in the exact center, blown up tofive times its size. Look up, dammit. Give me validation. Give me praise. I’m empty. Fill me up.
Amy’s matching sterling silver bracelets chime pleasantly, and by the time she’s sat down, I’ve decided I want a pair for myself. It’s a shame she doesn’t take them off. Shame she hasn’t unclipped them from her perfumed wrists and slid them deep into that Balenciaga handbag she always carries. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d steal them both.
She wouldn’t be the first client I’ve stolen from.
I slip into my chair, a Gatsby velvet I wanted the second I saw it on some bony influencer’s feed. On a good day, I kick the last client out at 5p.m., wheel it backward, swing my legs like a child, and gleefully chain-smoke out my window. On a bad day, I gulp peppery Shiraz in the darkness until I can stomach the thought of going home.
And on myreallybad days, I get sloppy drunk and wait until the building’s empty. Then I throw the window open and yell “Fuck you” until it burns.
I can’t tell yet whether today is a good or bad day.
Amy shifts miserably on the couch, casts an accusing glare at Richard that I nearly miss because my eyes are so fixed on her handbag. Nestled on her knees is that sexy Balenciaga, black and blood red. Her bracelets drape over it, adding a sparkle of silver. God, I want it. I want the bag. I want the bracelets. I want it all with an almost physical hunger.
I tear my eyes from it, cross my legs at the ankles. Smile.
“How’s your week been, folks?”
I nearly cringe at the word, but I can’t stop using it. When my clients are sitting silent on my white leather couch, I am Sympathetic and Relatable Therapist Who Is Totally Not Judging You. Sarah has her shit together. Sarah has a strong marriage. Sarah says things like “folks” and “How did that make you feel?” and “That must have been hard for you.” Sarah is abullshit artistwho charges $120 an hour.
“Not very good, I’m afraid,” Amy begins, darting a glance at her morose husband. “We’re not in a good place at the moment.”
Good, because if you were, I’d be broke.
But I nod sympathetically and wait. Truthfully, I don’t judge my clients no matter how scandalous their sins. Believe me, I’ve done much worse.
For the next hour, I listen. I encourage. I ask open-ended questions. Standard stuff from the online diploma I didn’t finish. Funny how I have all the answers without it. Even funnier that people listen when I speak.
As a child, people really confused me. Everyday conversations were like streets with no signs. I was always saying the wrong thing or nothing at all. Soon enough I noticed that people who said all the right things were adored, even if they didn’t mean what they said. My sister was like that. She was the one slinking over an armchair at sleepovers, butting in with brilliant one-liners. I was the one listening behind the lounge room door, mouthing her clever words as if they were my own. God, I was a weird child. If it weren’t for her insistence, none of the neighborhood kids would have spoken to me at all.
I knew even then that I wasn’t who people wanted me to be, because I felt their judgment and disapproval right down to my DNA. So, I began a slow self-eviction, contributing nothing to my classmates or schoolwork. But inside, I wasstarving.
Then I met Joe. Lovely Joe, who didn’t care when I said very strange things. On our first date, I was so nervous that I over-explained my favorite episodes ofForensic Files.But he listened. When I was finished, he gently pushed his phone into my hand.
