Dr.Schall greets me,welcomes me into his office, and then excuses himself to use therestroom in an obvious attempt to allow me to get my bearings.Hisoffice is not what I ever would have expected of a shrink's office.It's both contemporary and comfortable, done up in steel grays andwarm taupes.There is a sofa, but not the kind you would lay downon.More like the kind you'd expect to see in anyone's living room.I sit and wait until he returns and takes his place in one of theclub chairs adjacent to the sofa.
"Your mother is joining ustoday, correct?"he asks, though his tone tells me he has alreadyconfirmed this directly with her.
Once a month, Dr.Schallasks my mother to join the second half of my session so we candiscuss everything "as a family".Or what's left of our family, inour case.And family session day is today.
I nod, even though I knowhe already knows the answer.
"So, any good nights sinceSaturday?"he asks with carefully managed expectations.
I shrug automaticallybefore shaking my headno.He asked the same question onSaturday about the three nights since the previous Wednesday.Theanswer was the same then, as I expect it will be for theforeseeable future.Maybe forever.
Since Miami, I've beenmade to double down on therapy, now spending every Wednesday andSaturday afternoon here, but unlike when I first began thesessions, I don't begrudge the change.God knows I needit.
Before Miami I hadprogressed to having a few nights a week of relatively peacefulsleep, but I'm not sure I've even slept at all since.
Dr.Schall gives me asympathetic smile and goes on about how my upswing in nightmares isto be expected with my "recent trauma".He reminds me of this everysession, as if he's justifying my regression.
Anyone who bothers tospare me more than a cursory glance could surely see the darkcircles under my eyes, despite my attempts to hide them withcover-up.I don't care about being attractive—in fact, in the lastyear I'd actually taken care to make sure I wasnotespecially attractive.But I'verecently learned that negative attention to my physical appearanceis just as unwelcome as positive attention.I still don't want tobe hit on, of course, I'm not sure I could even endure such a thingwithout panicking, but as it turns out, I don't especially enjoybeing asked if I'm okay every five minutes, or told I look tired orill.I'm fully aware.
I ramble pointlessly,updating Schall on the events of the past couple days—the calculusquiz I did well on, the fact that yesterday I spent the duration ofan entire gym period hiding in the bathroom—and he asks me somefollow up questions and tells me I'm entitled to hide sometimes ifI feel like it, considering all I've been through, and I appreciatehis saying so.But while he has gotten to know me fairly well sinceI began seeing him, I've also picked up on a few things about him,and I'm pretty sure he's just biding time to ask the questions hereally wants to get to, probably the topics I'd most prefer toavoid.
"So, Rory," his voicechanges subtly—a little louder and a slightly higher pitch I maynot have noticed if I hadn't been anticipating it—"let's talk alittle more about your dreams."
Here we go…
"They're still the same—thenew ones," I murmur, hoping my reference to their content willsuffice and he won't make me describe the details, but I alreadyknow my hope is futile.Dr.Schall nods thoughtfully and jotssomething down on his note pad.
I've spent the past yeardreaming about Robin, my abusive monster of an ex-boyfriend,hurting me.Usually in the school locker room, sometimes in hiscar.It usually started with some innocuous event—a party, afootball game—and then Robin would get angry over something—myforgetting to call him, losing a game, or he simply drank toomuch.
Every scene ended the sameway, with Robin pinning me to a wall or the ground, and violentlyforcing himself on me.Sometimes he'd choke me too, and often I'dwake up gasping for air.Sometimes he'd even hit me, even thoughhe'd never actually hit me when we were together.Pushed me around,sure.Grabbed or squeezed me violently, a few times.Though Camonce said it was the same thing.That assault was assault.Theemptiness and loss inside me sharpens, reminding me that thingsaren't as bad as they sometimes seem—no, they're worse.
Before Miami, the onlyreprieve I had was when I'd been granted a dreamless sleep.Ihadn't had a single dream that did not include one of thoseharrowing scenarios until that trip.But Sam changed that.I onlyslept two nights in his arms—and one post-orgasmic afternoonnap—but each time, he kept the nightmares away.He also starred inthe one and only dream I can remember having in the past year thatdid not include a night terror.In fact, it was an exceptionallyenjoyable dream, featuring Sam and me engaged in exploits notunlike those that preceded that nap.I woke up gasping fordifferent reasons.
But so much has happenedsince then.
In my naivety I almoststarted to believe that I could have that—love—with Sam.That it could beenough.
But maybe it was toomuch.
It took no more than a fewhours after we made love for the first time that Sam found himselfin a physical altercation because of me—having to save me fromRobin—risking injury or arrest.It took no more than a few hoursafter we professed our love for one another that he came to blowsover me again, this time with my own father, and got dragged awayin handcuffs.Somelove.
What good is a love thatdoes nothing but drag you down?That puts you at constant risk?That offers you nothing but pain and violence, and threatens todestroy your entire future?I doubt Columbia University would beoverly forgiving of an assault conviction.They could rescind Sam'sacceptance if Miami PD takes Robin's accusations thatSamattackedhimseriously—that hewasn't saving me from anything at all, and just beat Robin out ofjealousy over our history.Complete nonsense, and yet all any of ushave is our word.And my word doesn't have much value, not afterRobin Forbes and his entire family spent the last year trashing mycredibility all over my hometown down in northern Florida.
And that isn't even theworst case scenario.Because Sam messing up his future over mewould be bad enough, but if Robin came after me again, and Sam wasthere… he could get hurt.Really hurt.Or worse.Like Cam.A sharppain slices through my gut at the thought.
And thus is the newdirection my nightmares have taken.
I had to tell Dr.Schallabout Sam and me.At first I just told him about the dreams—how Samis always there, always in the line of fire… always ending up hurtor killed.When Dr.Schall asked about our friendship, somethingwe'd discussed before, I think he already surmised that somethinghad happened between us.In the past couple of months, Sam hasconsistently been a central topic in my therapy sessions.Becausemany of my issues center around panic triggers specific to maleproximity—being alone with a man, or God forbid, touched by one—myfriendship with Sam, and all that came along with it, was somethingsignificant in my recovery, according to Schall.
So I'm not surprised thathe's especially fixated on the romantic direction our relationshiphad taken in Miami.As fucked up as it is, this psychiatrist I'veknown for barely a few months is the closest thing to a fatherfigure I have anymore.So his pride over my intimacy with Sam isjust the weirdest freaking thing ever.He knows Sam of course, hetreats his little sister, Beth—orBitsas her family calls her—and Isuspect Sam may have seen him himself at one point too.
Schall wasn't surprisedwhen I told him I love Sam.Or that Sam said that he loved me.Norwas he surprised that I broke things off after what happened withRobin and my father.He asks me if I think that Sam blames me forhim getting into these altercations.I don't answer.The truth is,I have no idea.But it doesn't matter,Iknow it's my fault, and that'swhat important.That's what gave me the strength to do what Ineeded to.
"In fact, if you reallyfeel like you've done him wrong, perhaps you shouldapologize."
I blink at him beforeletting out a short laugh."Nice try.I already apologized,remember?"I know what he's trying to do.He thinks Sam will agreewith him that I am innocent in all of this.But he's lamented hisopinions ad nauseam, so he knows there's no use in repeating them.He thinks I was an innocent victim.He always says "was", becausehe insists that's no longer what I am.He doesn't want meidentifying myself as a victim.Now, he insists, I am asurvivor.
But a year ago, I was aninnocent victim.Maybe a little naive, but that was my right at myage, or so he's said repeatedly.And now he says that I amsimilarly not to blame for what happened in Miami.But I'm notnaive anymore, and so what excuse do I have for putting myself insuch a precarious situation when I knew better?None.And he knowsit.
