MERCY

by KC Decker

  “Mercy, come to my office! We’ve had a major breakthrough—I know who Mark Sexton is!”

  Chapter 24

  My face is stoic when he shuts the door to his office, but when he grabs my cheeks with both hands, it stuns me to attention. His office is full dark, with the tiny exception of a sliver of moonlight that slashes across his desk. It dulls when he switches on his desk light instead of the brash overhead florescent light.

  He pulls me against his body, then wraps his arms around me. “Everything is going to be ok,” he says as he tightens his hold, in an attempt to offset my shivering.

  “Lie down on the couch, we ha—”

  “Will you lie with me?” I ask, and it sounds like the loudest thing I’ve ever said. There is a short pause before he toes off his shoes and then moves to the couch. When I lie down next to him, he gathers me safely in his arms with my head tucked under his chin. I can smell him, warm and intoxicating.

  He begins gently, with barely a murmur, “Mercy, did the Believers believe in signs and wonders?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mark sixteen. It’s a passage from the Bible, and verses 17-18 are particularly poignant.”

  I’m not sure what to make of his words, but instinctually, I tense up. I know there is truth to what he is saying, but it feels transient and fleeting instead of something I can fully grasp.

  “And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name they shall cast out demons; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.”

  His words are an echo from the past. A rigor in my bones. It’s true though, and admitting such a thing is like breaking through the uppermost crust of deep snow—fragile, and once you fall through, there is no stopping until you hit the ground or are swallowed by it.

  “Does any of that sound familiar to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Casting out demons and drinking poison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the Prophet do those things to command obedience?”

  “They were thought to be gifts endowed by the Holy Spirit.”

  “So, he spoke in tongues, and performed faith healings as well?”

  “The signs were a test of faith.”

  “Mercy, was your faith ever tested? With snakes?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You were forced to take up serpents, as a child? What did that entail?” he strokes my back like a lover and holds me as though he knows I need his borrowed strength.

  “They held me down. Then the Prophet would cast out the demons, and everyone inside the church would sing and pray and dance around like they were the ones possessed. I was scared because of the demons inside, but nothing compares to being stripped naked in front of the congregation and having them dump the snakes out on my body.”

  “Everyone believed the snakes would rid you of the demons inside?” he asks softly as if he is afraid to spook me into clamming up.

  “Snakes were seen as incarnations of demons. If a church member was a true Believer, they had the Holy Spirit within them, and would suffer no harm.”

  “Were the snakes venomous?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Were you ever bit?”

  “Many times… I think—I think it feels like—I think that might be the acid I feel on my skin, or maybe the whips.” My voice is timid, and the realization still feels more like an echo than reality, but on some level, I know it to be true.

  “What would they do after you’d been bitten? Did they have anti-venom? Did they take you to a hospital?”

  “Believers don’t seek medical treatment because they place their faith in God to heal the afflicted.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mercy,” he says as he kisses my head and then tips my chin up to kiss my lips. Sweetheart, you’ve been through so much.”

  I want to languish in his kiss, but I feel like a faucet that’s been left on, I have to continue. These memories—these remnants of the past are like the tar in a smoker’s lungs. They are the tangible residue of a repressed childhood, and sooner or later, I’ll need to face the damage. It’s unavoidable, the wreckage is all around me.

  “One time my face swelled up so bad, I couldn’t see between my eyelids, but the worst part was how tight my throat would constrict. It felt like I could only breathe in one oxygen molecule at a time.”

  “And when you survived, did they stop all the devil nonsense? Did they believe the demons had been cast out, and that you had been healed by God?”

  “No. Because my nightmares persisted.” And then I add, as if the lethargic epiphany has finally taken hold, “Sutton, my hallucinations were because of my past. The schizophrenia—”

  “I know.”

  “It’s all—”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Sutton?” I ask as I tip my head back to look him in the eyes.

  “What?”

  “Teach me how to forget,” I whisper.

  “It’s a part of you. You can’t forget, but you can heal. You can address the PTSD, and your anxiety—and Mercy?”

  “What?”

  “The only thing I want to teach you, is how to love.”

  Chapter 25

  Sutton saves me from my seven-billionth wellness group therapy session when he struts in like a Hugo Boss model and waves me over to him. Everyone takes strict notice of his presence, but he does stuff like this all the time, so no one suspects that I’m any different from anyone else. Certainly not that I’m the girl who spent the wee hours of this morning wrapped around his body and making out with him on the therapy couch.

  “What’s up?” I ask as I approach him at the nurse station. His face is unreadable, but is extra scruffy, thanks to me. I probably still have the matching rash on my own.

  His smirk mirrors mine when he answers me, “All kinds of stuff. Come with me.” We walk to his office with me wondering if he was making an erection reference, but he squashes that thought as soon as he shuts the door and turns on the in-session light.

  “Remember that step-down facility we talked about?”

  “No.”

  “That residential, transitional service? The one funded by HUD Section 811? The facility I’ve been trying to get you into for months?... The one we’ve discussed on at least five different occasions?”

  “Oh, you were serious about that?”

  “Of course, I was serious. You need to transition from a hospital setting to being completely self-sufficient. That’s where this program comes in.”

  “You mean the halfway house? Matty said only addicts and criminals live in halfway houses.”

  “I’m not sure Matty is our expert here. This is a fantastic opportunity for you to step down to a less restrictive environment. The program is in a residential, sub-acute setting, you would have your own bedroom—It’s the perfect place for you. And a room finally opened up.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m good, I have a condo downtown,” he says with a teasing smirk. He can’t seem to understand why I’m not excited. In fact, why the hell is he so happy?

  “Will you still be my doctor?”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, there are all kinds of PHP—Sorry, partial hospitalization programs that would be put in place. In that case, you come to the hospital for part of the day and then go back to the step-down facility.”

  “And my nightmares?”

  “The place is staffed 24 hours a day, it would be a safe environment for you. Obviously, we can address all that stuff with the—”

  “All that stuff?”

  “I’m not minimizing the nightmares, Mercy. I’m trying to tell you that you have a room in a house. With a kitchen and laundry room—you can have your computer without having to check it out from the nurse's station…”

  “Great,” I say, but it’s delivered flatly, so Sutton cocks his head in a questioning manner.

/>   “Mercy, this is the best-case scenario. The other option is to wait until you turn twenty-one, and then show you the door. Is that what you want?”

  “I want my friends. And I want you,” I say. His voice softens in response to my admission.

  “Trust me, you will have a much better opportunity to keep in touch with your friends in a residential setting. As far as me, I will still be your doctor because all your clinical treatment will occur off-site…as in, back here.”

  “Ok.”

  “You will work with a social worker as far as community integration. So, that person will handle the stuff like driver’s ed, gainful employment, bank accounts—all that tedious stuff. You will also start seeing a psychologist in addition to myself and Dr. Gingham, that’s all part of your transition plan. Why do you look like you are about to cry?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, but even I can feel my chin quivering, and my eyes filling with tears.

  “Listen to me. Matty is out in four days, and Lyla isn’t far behind him. Do this. Move into the step-down facility. Go have lunch with your friends. Get your driver’s license. Find a job. And in between all that, continue to have your sessions with me. This isn’t an eviction, I’m offering you some freedom from these walls.” At some point during his explanation, he took my hand, and he is still holding it now.

  “What if I live with a bunch of assholes?”

  “Well then, I guess you will have to learn how to deal with assholes. That should be a life skill class in itself. The world is crawling with them.”

  “When does this all happen?”

  “Not right away, there isn’t even a social worker assigned to you yet. But soon, ok?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “No, Mercy. You are brave. That’s what it’s called when something scares you, but you do it anyway.”

  Chapter 26

  Brave, my ass. This isn’t brave. This is mopey and pathetic. Now Matty is gone just like Veronica, and Wes threatens to walk out on a daily basis. Truth be told, I think the staff would watch him do it too. He has been somewhat of a troublemaker on the unit and probably equates to a heckler at a stand-up comedy club. He has even worn out his welcome with Colleen, and that says a lot.

  Group therapy sessions have been infused with his hysterical showboating of the highest order, and are the only reason I even attend anymore. Who would have thought group therapy would be such a comic relief? Wes has given a very boisterous voice to all of our inner monologues. He says what we all think, and when it comes to things like aliens monitoring pupils and government tracking devices implanted beneath the skin, well, sometimes it’s funny to watch the drama play out.

  Lyla is my only other friend left because the songbird, Tracy, hates me and avoids me at all costs. Lyla and Wes are amazing, but without the whole group, the whitewashed walls simply ring hollow.

  Lyla is obsessed with filling my head with fool-proof ways to seduce Sutton during my sessions. I think she has made it her personal goal, not to get better herself, but to get me to cough up my V-card before she leaves.

  Her ideas are lofty, considering my novice state. I’m not saying I am completely opposed to them, only that they are not for amateurs. The tactic that I happen to be the most comfortable with requires me to smuggle my new cell phone from Sutton’s office, and somehow ditch the watchful eyes of the staff, so I can snap some racy selfies.

  Proceeding as if that were actually possible, Lyla has already started strategizing my attack. More accurately, she has spent rec time sketching out salacious poses and slutty outfits and then walking me through the plan like an offensive line coach running plays.

  I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to pull it off, but even with all the potential obstacles, it still makes more sense than her other idea, which is lying naked on Sutton’s desk with my legs spread and asking him to fuck me.

  Needless to say, Lyla is a level ten with guys where I am more of a negative three. And recently, without Matty and Veronica’s sometimes conflicting input, she has reprised the role of my sexual Jedi Master. Rec time has taken a drastic detour away from the fictional world of books and has sped headlong toward more of the verbal pornography type.

  Having listened intently to Lyla’s explicit how-to’s and erotic play-by-plays, I can finally say I have a comfortable grip on a wide variety of sexual acts—and a permanent buzz down below.

  The knowledge that at any moment, Lyla could be released from her state-sanctioned stay, or I could be introduced to my transitional social worker, hovers like a guillotine. I know Sutton has made it possible for me to keep in touch with my friends, but somehow, I know it will never be the same. And I am terrified.

  Any moment now, my life is going to become virtually unrecognizable.

  Chapter 27

  “How have your sessions with Dr. Gingham been going?” Sutton asks, all fresh-faced and sexy. He has no idea I am picturing his lips on my vagina right this very second.

  “Good, I guess. He seems to think I’m making progress,” I answer as I shift my position on the couch, and then shift again.

  “You haven’t had a nightmare in three nights, I would consider that progress. Especially because of the heightened anxiety from Matty leaving and your looming change of placement.” God, his lips are perfect. He even slow-licks them to really fuck with me.

  “I think it helps me to understand where they come from, you know? Before, I just felt like my mind was turning on me. Now, I don’t feel so crazy. I don’t feel normal—just, not full-blown crazy.”

  “I’m glad I could help you with that. We still have a lot of work to do, though.”

  “I disagree. Can I use my phone now? I’m dying to find out how Matty is doing.”

  “We are like, three minutes into your session.”

  “So? Can I have it for a little while?” I push. He sighs.

  “Sure.” He gets up, almost reluctantly, to retrieve my phone. It’s still in the box. My fingers are itching with the need to check on Matty and see what new stories Veronica has for me. The last one almost made me wet my pants I was laughing so hard. In a nutshell, her cat was pissed that she left him for so long, so he totally destroyed her apartment and tormented her roommate endlessly. I really need to meet that cat. I think I love him already.

  “Fifteen minutes, ok? We have work to do.”

  There is nothing new from Veronica, but I quickly tap out the seduction plan, just in case she wants to weigh in. I’m sure she will find the racy selfies rather bush league, and try to encourage something far more daring, but that’s fine with me, I need all the help I can get.

  In my text to Matty, I tell him about the halfway house and how I’ll be rubbing elbows with addicts and criminals soon. I also tell him I miss him terribly and not just because I have to do my own makeup now.

  Anyway, after that, I don’t really have anything to do with my allotted fifteen minutes, so I decide to text Sutton. He looks to be checking his email, or something equally boring, so I’ll go ahead and spice up this session.

  Me: The capabilities of this phone are fairly limited inside of fifteen minutes. Now I’m back to wishing it was a vibrator. That seems like a better use of my time, don’t you think?

  As far as Sutton is concerned, I’m texting with my friends, so he has no problem fishing his phone from his pocket and stealthily checking the incoming text. He snorts on a stifled laugh before tapping out a reply.

  Not Wes: I can think of quite a few ways to better use this time.

  Me: Is that sexual innuendo? Or do you agree about the vibrator?

  Not Wes: I can’t say I disagree about the vibrator. But I was referring to cognitive processing therapy, or perhaps some prolonged exposure techniques.

  Me: No thanks, I’m going to ask Veronica to send me something that vibrates. Anyway, did you know this phone has Solitaire?

  Not Wes: If I can’t interest you in a little CPT, how about some good old fashioned, psychotherapy?

>   Me: No than—

  Then there is a knock on the door, and we both scramble to hide the evidence of my phone. I drop it between my thighs and pinch them closed while Sutton shoves his into his pocket. When he looks up at me, I toss him the empty phone box, he drops it in his drawer and then with a look of begrudging solidarity, he walks to the door and opens it.

  “Dr. Sutton, I’m Hilary Eades, I’m the social worker assigned to Mercy Kavanaugh. So sorry I’m late.” Picture a frazzled kindergarten substitute teacher that has completely lost control of the classroom and has kids swinging from the ceiling fans, and the walls covered with paint and toilet paper—that haggard image, that’s Hilary Eades. My new social worker.

  “Nice to meet you, Hilary. Please come in.” He shakes her hand and then gestures her into his office.

  “This is Mercy Kavanaugh. Mercy, say hello to your social worker, Hilary.” Then he gives me the stink-eye when I don’t stand to shake her hand. Normally, I would have conformed to the demands of social etiquette, but my phone is between my legs, and I’m trying to smuggle it out of here.

  The next forty-five minutes are a rundown of my new life, new responsibilities, new expectations, and new living situation. My social worker clearly has a mountain of other cases because she delivers the information with a flurry of hand motions and in a bullet-pointed format. Her hair is in disarray, with more strands free from the bun than are contained, and her files are no better.

  In fact, if this is the woman I’m supposed to trust my immediate future with, I think I should manifest some paranoid delusions and keep my ass right here. I am no more ready for this than I was when I was dropped off at St. Vincent’s.

  In a not so subtle hint, Sutton thanks the social worker for her time and gets up to show her out. I think he can read my lack of faith in her as easily as if it was written across my forehead, and is trying to minimize the damage.

  I have enough sense to shove the phone up my sleeve while he is moderately distracted with the formalities of her exit. I can’t say I expected the selfie plan to materialize this easily, but I may not get another chance, so I’ll have to proceed without Veronica’s input.