by L. B. Carter
“Before we discuss any of—” He gave a sweeping gesture over her essay, like he was presenting a prize. “—this in detail, I want to thank you for being open. This is a great first step. I’m glad you opted to vocalize your concerns.”
Rena arched a brow.
“So to speak,” he amended.
Her second brow rose.
A tiny quiver turned his frown not quite upside down for a moment. He waved a hand in dismissal of the inaccuracy of the idioms in her case. “In the colloquial sense.”
Rena felt her mouth quirk back at the humor. Perhaps Dr. Spelmann wasn’t doomed to wallow in a pit of despair. For some reason, that made everything in her own life—only one puff in the dark cloud over Dr. Spelmann’s head—feel a little less daunting. He’d been right as well that writing it all—or most—out had lightened the despondency for her current situation.
“Now, to address the specifics.”
A shiny pen was plucked from a mug and the notepad pulled in front of him, then meticulously angled 45-degrees from the edge of the desk. Dr. Spelmann unscrewed the cap of the pen and placed it aside. Why did he get a fountain pen while she had some happy bouncing kids’ pen?
Rena peeled a little more of the tape off the spring. The daisy drooped to one side. Now it was less springy. The pun would usually crack her up. It did nothing to alleviate the stress—this was stress—pressing her uncomfortably into the thin cushion of her chair; Dr. Spelmann got the better deal in terms of butt satisfaction, too.
“Let’s begin with the beach since that happened first.” He glanced down. “You said, ‘I froze and then it was like a different part of me took over and I blacked out,’ he read off the page, his frown back, before sliding the clipboard to the side with one finger as though it offended him. It probably did, not being the most well-written (or honorable) piece of literature. The sharp, shiny tip of his pen was poised above his pristine notepad, ready and waiting, as if what she’d already written with her wobbly pen wasn’t adequate.
Hearing her monologue spoken aloud resettled the heaviness in her stomach like dust obstructing the glow of a lamp. She sat up straight, getting serious.
“Then you don’t remember what happened next? Not until the other boy pushed him off you, you said.” His eyes scrutinized her. They looked oddly small over the tops of his glasses.
Rena swallowed and shook her head. She tucked a few green strands behind her ear. Her fingers returned to twisting the loose tape around and around. Her therapist's pen moved in smooth, flowing gestures that belied the use of cursive in contrast to the jerky scratching she’d done. How could someone so disparate really understand and help her?
“So what do you think it was that triggered this blackout, as you call it?”
Her blinks were much more rapid than his. Wasn’t it obvious?
“I mean in that particular moment during the interaction,” he clarified. “Was there a certain action or thought that may have provoked your mind to shy away from what was happening?”
She’d been drowning. That was an action from which any normal human might experience mental shock.
“I want you to try to think what you may have been feeling right before the memory lapse. Can you remember?”
Of course she could remember, since there hadn’t really been a memory lapse. The “blackout” was isolated to bodily functions, like an alien takeover, not her awareness. The feeling associated was so unsavory, she’d always remember, no matter how many nails she drove into the box lid or therapy sessions she sat through. Her band snapped painfully hard on her wrist.
To remind him he had the clipboard, Rena waved the pen at Dr. Spelmann. The flower plopped, defeated to the floor.
They both looked down at it. It felt like an omen. She left it where it was, like a body on the sidewalk awaiting a chalk outline. Her apologetic look did nothing to assuage the displeased frown Dr. Spelmann shifted to her. Nonetheless, he half-stood to lean across his desk, handing her the clipboard.
She paused for a moment, the bald spring atop the pen vibrating in her shaking hand. Infallible, was the feeling she remembered, as if she’d just solved a tough riddle. Safe. The opposite of what someone who wasn’t “unique” would feel when asphyxiating.
“Don’t over-think your emotions, Sirena. Write whatever immediately comes to mind when you revisit that time,” Dr. Spelmann admonished.
Panicked, she wrote. Terrified, trapped. I was drowning! That was the correct answer, the expected answer. And those were the feelings she had felt right before the calm sureness had settled over her.
She stood and took a step to pass her words back, somehow tripping on the immaculate carpet and slamming a hip into the desk, practically throwing the thin edge of wood at the therapist. Sure, add another murder to her list. She held up her palms and slowly back-stepped until her thighs hit the chair and sunk back down. More omens?
The doctor rearranged himself, clearing his throat and throwing her a censoring glance before reading. “Interesting. This seems to contradict what your attacker reported.” He pulled a file folder over from the side of his desk and opened it, flipping through a few pages. “He claims that you pulled him down and held him under.”
Shi— shrimp. How did he know that? Did JT talk to Dr. Spelmann? Was he also his therapist? Wasn’t there a clause about patient confidentiality? Rena sat taller, trying to peek at the folder.
Dr. Spelmann casually shut the file. “It’s in the hospital’s report,” he answered her unspoken question, raising a million more. He knew it too. “They’re available upon request for those with qualification and relevance to a case.” That seemed like a breach of patient confidentiality. Dr. Spelmann had known all about the car accident.
She let the reason behind the exposure of the truth slide to the back of her mind in favor of the more alarming issue: JT had spilled. The secret wasn’t so secret. Like prey, she was frozen on the chair, eyes huge with trepidation, wishing without much hope to be overlooked by the sharp vision of a predator turning its head. Dr. Spelmann knew. They knew. A rusty taste alerted Rena to the realization she’d bitten her lip. Her mind was whirling. She hadn’t been arrested. So maybe JT wasn’t pressing charges back even if he had revealed the role reversal? Why not? By Nor’s account, JT had been assaulting Rena in the first place; no court would vouch in his favor with that back-story. Two wrongs could make a right. Did it count as self-defense?
“Sirena, don’t close down on me now. That kind of retaliation is not unexpected for someone with your background nor does that position invoke passive acceptance. You should not feel ashamed of what your body did to free itself from a difficult position. It’s simply something to be aware of and overcome, similar to the way you’ve learned to write with this clipboard to express yourself; just another of your unique qualities. Once you can do that, we can work on ensuring you find a safer, less destructive option. I believe it was this guilt over your reaction that may have triggered your panic during the second fight.”
On the contrary, the guilt was likely what stopped her from doing anything to Larry.
“Do you remember doing that, Sirena?”
What now? Half of the truth had already been aired. Should she stick to the memory loss story? Argue in favor of self-defense?
She worried the tape into nothingness, the spring dropped to the floor bouncing next to the decapitated flower and rolling under a nearby bookshelf. Who knew if it would remain there, hidden from the reach of the hungry vacuum, a blight on Dr. Spelmann’s perfection.
“The brain is a marvelous thing. Capable of blocking out the moments that scare us the most.” Her band snapped. “Try to open yourself to the possibility that your attacker’s claim is accurate. I want to emphasize again: physical self-defense is fine. Mental defense though is only possible without denial,” he reiterated. Rena now understood he’d known all along. She hadn’t revealed anything with her stupid essay, except the plausible lie of an amnesia relapse. Snap. Would he c
onnect the dots? Would he know that she’d done this before, the last time she’d had amnesia?
Hide? Defend herself? Or spill? Snap. The latter two would mean prying off the lid. Exposing herself completely to Them. She wasn’t sure she could do that. Her mind was clearly fragile—the nightmares confirmed that. It was doubtful she was mentally strong enough to prevent the rest of her secrets from flying out like foam from a shaken soda bottle. It’d be impossible enough trying to corral all that emotion securely back afterwards. Once again, the love and support of her friends—her family—would all have to get shoved back in. Snap.
“Don’t shake your head, Sirena.” She hadn’t realized she was. “This is not the time for negativity. You can accomplish this small feat. You are more than capable. You have overcome much more daunting experiences. I want to hear only positive outlooks from you.”
Sure. She was positive her secrets needed to remain hidden. She was capable of sticking to her plan to keep it all locked up. She could keep silent. All that was nothing new.
Dr. Spelmann sighed. “It’s clear I’m not going to get anything more from you today, am I?”
Since head shakes were disallowed, Rena gave a nod and an exaggerated grin as though to say See? I’m positive. Dr. Spelmann’s exasperation indicated that he wasn’t.
“Fine. Well this was a good start.” He unclipped her marked pages from the clipboard and waved her banners of achievement in the air, then slid them into his secretive folder of confessions. “In that case, I’m giving you homework.” He ignored her scowl and steepled his fingers again. “We’ll meet again in a week. In the meantime, we’re going to take baby steps toward embracing your fears while releasing your self-doubts. Each day, I’d like you to do one thing that you might otherwise shy away from. It might be as small as trying a new food, allowing a hug from your foster parent, or speaking a single word. Additionally, by our next session, only once, I need you to revisit a location where you felt the most fear and the most guilt. Perhaps take a walk on the beach. While you sit there, I want you to make note of what you’re feeling and tell yourself that whatever those emotions are, they’re okay. They’re a part of you. Accept them in that moment, in that spot, and release them, like a leaf on the wind. They are a part of you, but they do not control you.”
This homework was worse than any Rena had gotten from anatomy, more horrifying than reading Moby Dick. Getting rid of those feelings was going to be impossible, because, unbeknownst to Dr. Spelmann, they did control her.
“If you can accomplish this task, then we will move on to the next step: holding that state of calmness and awareness in the presence of others.”
Oh, heck, no. She was not risking the people she loved. Maybe she’d bring tattle-tale JT and finish what she hadn’t last time… No. Rena was not a murderer. Snap.
“Can you do that, Sirena?” Dr. Spelmann’s predatory eyes conveyed threat, contrasting with his beseeching tone.
She nodded, just to get out of that room, and stood when he did. He wasn’t much taller than her.
“Excellent. Now before you go, I just need you for a few more minutes for a blood sample,” he said, benignly, with a toothy grin.
Rena automatically twisted toward the door. Could he hear her heart picking up tempo? The second door in Dr. Spelmann’s office, squeezed between two bookshelves, opened to reveal the medical examination room.
“Just a few samples to check your hormone balance and ensure you don’t need to go back on medication after these events. Have a seat.” Dr. Spelmann smiled congenially, stepping in and patting the paper-topped examining table.
The antiseptic smell, the sight of the syringe gracing the top of a metal tray, the harsh light of the fluorescents brought back the nausea from her days in the hospital. Rena’s throat was thick, her palms sweaty as she fisted the spring-less pen in one hand like a weapon and adjusted her necklace around her neck with the other. It was hard to swallow.
His smile faded as she hesitated. “Sit,” he commanded.
This was no holistic healing stuff. As she walked into the small room with Dr. Spelmann, and the door clicked with finality behind her, Rena twiddled the pen behind her back and willed her dark side to turn the tables.
◆◆◆
Her body refusing to cooperate, instead a bag of sand took the brunt of Rena’s angst. She rubbed the crook of her elbow again where Dr. Spelmann had removed what had felt like all of her blood, the bulky padding of her glove doing nothing to ease the discomfort. ‘A few tests,’ her a— butt. The hanging bag received several punches and a roundhouse kick. It swung ever so slightly on its chain.
Rena blew an errant clump of hair back from her face. It fell directly in front of her eye. She shoved at it clumsily with her fist, succeeding only in plastering the strands to the sweat pouring down her flushed cheek. She swiped bluntly a few more times before giving a hoarse scream of frustration, pulling it off and tossing the glove across the room.
Thankfully it was empty this late at night. Coach had acquiesced to her pleading eyes when she’d shown up at closing time, allowing her some time while he finished up his paperwork. Evidently her noisiness was enough to bring him into the room.
He glanced at the offending equipment where it had fallen in the corner by the mirror. “Everything okay in here?”
Taped fingers free, Rena was able to peel the hair off her face and yank it with venom behind her ear.
Coach held up his palms at her furious expression. “Usually the bag helps eradicate aggression,” he commented mildly.
As did therapy and guess what? The opposite had happened. She’d been interrogated, pricked, called a liar and an attacker, and given homework. And Rena still had the same problems she’d had before she went to the session.
Coach watched her. “Would you like to try sparring again?” She jerked back, her spine bumping into her inanimate opponent. Palms raised, Coach approached, like she was a wild animal. “Just with me. We can stop when you get uncomfortable.”
She was always uncomfortable. Her fingers scratched at the mark left from the needle before sliding down to snap her band.
“We can even stick to upper-body only. It can satisfy your therapy homework for the week,” he coaxed.
Barnacles. Grandpa and his big mouth again. He’d been too gung-ho about the idea when he picked her up and had tried to hug her when they got out of the car. Rena cringed at the memory. Before his arms had closed around her, she’d ducked under them, veered around him, and headed straight out the door. He must’ve called Coach while her self-disgust built on the walk over.
Rena considered the proposition as Coach collected equipment for himself and swiped up her discarded glove on his way over: no contact with the gloves; not someone she’d feel hugely horrible about disappointing—unlike Grandpa; he was strong enough to fight her off if aliens took control of her body again; and she could tell Dr. Spelmann she did his terrible task. Maybe she’d get bonus points for doing it the first day.
O-K, she signed.
Coach grinned, something like pride shining in his dark eyes. He passed her glove over and slid on both of his.
Soon Rena was sweating but grinning around her mouth guard. She was exhausted from dancing back and forth across the mat. Every time she gained ground with relentless hits, Coach would force her back, clearly letting her have the advantage before challenging her. It was a good challenge, a tough and exceedingly satisfying fight. Without even realizing it, her woes seeped from her pores along with all the water she’d downed from her water bottle in the short breaks Coach insisted upon.
Coach held up a fist overhead and Rena immediately dropped her arms and straightened, breathing hard. She was pleased to see that he too had droplets dotting his forehead and a flush to his dark cheeks. He removed the glove and pulled out his mouth guard. She did the same.
“I think that’s enough. It’s getting late.” He grinned. “Well done. Not so bad was it?”
She shook her head,
smiling. Baby steps. Take that, Dr. Spelmann. Homework complete. Sparring with Coach, it seemed, was an excellent way to keep her brain busy. She didn’t once think about any of her weaknesses. Coach had the experience and composure to keep the spar professional. Lenny was a student like herself. He’d let his emotions control him and her baiting had egged him on enough that he’d forgone the rules and grabbed her. Getting too close had been his mistake.
“—get changed while I call your Grandpa to pick you up?” Rena tuned back in to the end of Coach’s sentence.
She waved her hands back and forth like a traffic controller, signaling no. It was late. Grandpa might be asleep given how early he got up in the mornings. Her other glove joined the first under her arm so she could awkwardly sign, I can… She forgot the word for walk. She awkwardly mimed it, marching in place.
“I’d rather you didn’t walk home alone in the dark. I had almost finished the paperwork anyway. If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes for me to wrap up, I’ll drop you off on my way home. It’s not far out of my way and besides, my wife doesn’t bother waiting for me to eat on bill days anymore.” He laughed and she smiled back.
O-K, her fingers dictated.
Rena changed while he headed off to his office, thinking the whole while. If she could keep up this progress, then maybe Dr. Spelmann was right. The death kiss ability wouldn’t go away, of course. She understood it was just something about her she had to live with, like he’d said, even if she never understood it. If, however, she could get over her fear of it, disallow it from controlling her mind and body, by avoiding the trigger—fear of death by asphyxiation, evidently—then maybe she could function like a relatively normal human. Maybe no kissing either to be safe. Barnacles.
The house was dark when Coach dropped her off, so he waited while she checked the door was open—she hadn’t grabbed her keys when she’d stormed out—until she waved him off and his headlights disappeared down the tree-lined drive.