by Claire Adams
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I really don’t remember.”
“All right,” she says, writing something else on her paper. Just like with the word detachment, she slowly speaks the word that she’s writing. “Hypnosis,” she says.
“You think someone hypnotized me?” I ask.
“Not yet,” she says. “Hypnosis has been shown to aid with memory and can even put you back to another time in your life using a process called age regression. The brain is a pretty interesting thing.”
“So you’re going to hypnotize me to find out what I was feeling?” I ask.
She ignores the question. “So, tell me more about your relationship with Ash,” she says. “I’m assuming that’s short for Ashley or Ashton?”
“Ashley,” I answer. “She’s great. We get along really well, and we seem to get each other. Things haven’t been easy, but a lot’s been going on over the past few months. Apart from the thing with her mom, there’s really nothing I’d change about her.”
“Okay,” Dr. Sadler says. “When would you say was the last time when there wasn’t a lot going on—when things were more normal?”
“I don’t think things were ever normal,” I tell her.
“That’s why I used the modifier ‘more,’” she says. “When was the last time you really felt like yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I know it’s been a while.”
“That must be very difficult,” Dr. Sadler says.
I look at her. “It is what it is,” I tell her.
“And what it is must be very difficult,” she says.
“Look, I didn’t come in here to be judged, okay?” I ask, getting out of my seat yet again.
The doctor doesn’t move. She barely blinks. “Where did that come from?” she asks in a surprisingly soft tone.
“You’re sitting there trying to be empathetic or sympathetic or whatever it is that you shrinks do to get people to trust you, but you don’t have any more answers than the idiots they put me in a room with when I was a kid!” I shout.
She just sits there observing, watching.
“Look, this was a bad idea,” I tell her. “I told Ash that I’d come see someone, and now I have. I’m out of here.”
“All right,” Dr. Sadler says and turns to her desk. She picks up a file and starts leafing through it.
I haven’t moved from my spot in front of the leather chair that has been my seat for the last half hour or so.
“All right?” I ask. “You’re really something, you know that? I come in here asking for help and you don’t even care that I haven’t gotten it yet?”
She shrugs, but doesn’t look at me.
“Fine!” I declare and go for the door.
“If you’d ever like to turn the anger you’re feeling into a psychological breakthrough, you’re almost there already,” she says. “Come back when you’re ready to start taking this seriously and we’ll get you all fixed up.”
“Just like that?” I ask. “You expect me to believe that you just figured out what’s going on, right when I’m threatening to walk out of here?”
“No,” she says. “I don’t expect you to believe anything, though for the record, I would just like to let you know that I pretty well knew what was going on the last time you threatened to leave. I’d love to help you—it is my job after all—but I made a rule a while back: When a person tries to leave the office more than once, just let them go. Nobody changes until they become willing to change. The reason so many people say they can’t change is that they’re not willing to do it. So, until you’re there, I’m just wasting my time and there are people in that room out there who’d love the extra time to delve into their psyches.”
“Reverse psychology,” I say. “That’s what you’re doing. You’re trying to convince me to stay by telling me you don’t care.”
Finally, she sets her file down and turns toward me, saying, “I wouldn’t rule that out completely, but everything I just told you is true. If you want to stay and finish the appointment, we can do that, but I’m going to have to insist that you be willing to listen, that you be willing to be open enough to hear what you’ve known for a long, long time.”
“Oh? And what’s that?” I ask, crossing my arms, smirking.
“You don’t think you deserve her,” Dr. Sadler says. “It’s not your fault. Your whole life has been all about you finding out just how limited your choices are. I get it,” she says. “I mean, if I were in a relationship with someone I really cared about after avoiding that sort of thing for so long, I’d probably be scared, too. Add fear to the anhedonia, and we’ve got two of the three emotions you were feeling that night.”
“Why three?” I ask. “Is there some part of the brain I don’t know about that makes sure you feel exactly three things at all times, or—”
“Not that I’m aware of,” the doctor interrupts. “People feel what they feel. Sometimes it’s nice and clear-cut, but most of the time it’s a jumble of often-contradictory things. When a person’s graduating from high school, they could very well be feeling pride in their accomplishment, but most of the people I’ve talked to on the subject mention this overwhelming sense of dread that they’re one step closer to being on their own. Then there’s the excitement for the future, the nervousness about what’s to come, the sadness of knowing a lot of the people who have been such a big part of your life are going to start going their different ways. You can feel anger that you didn’t focus better on your school work, or you could feel anger because you never got out and did anything. There’s never a single emotion going on, even when it feels like there is. The mind has to navigate a whole lifetime of experiences, and it’s this process that gives us our emotions in the moment.”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with me?” I ask. “What does that have to do with Ash?”
“That’s just the thing,” she says. “You’ve been so used to disappointment that when a real relationship comes along with someone you could actually see a future with—it makes sense that you’d be at least a little conflicted, though I’d say you’re a lot more than a little. Do you like that? I came up with that myself.”
She was about an inch from making a solid point. Then she stopped.
“Very clever,” I say blankly. “So you’re saying that it’s because I feel something real for her that I’m screwing this up?”
“I probably would have phrased it a little differently, but yeah, that’s pretty much what’s going on,” she says.
“What about Chris getting arrested?” I ask. “This didn’t happen before then.”
“Is that really true, though?” she asks. “I’m not trying to discount the upheaval you must have felt when he was taken away, but I find it difficult to believe that there were no indications something might happen even before then.”
“So you’re calling me a liar?” I ask.
“Sit down,” she says sharply.
I don’t even think about it; I just sit.
“Now we can keep going back and forth, but frankly, I’m getting pretty tired of you reacting to everything with an immediate blast of anger,” she says.
I scoff and chuckle a little, smiling with one half of my mouth. “I thought you wanted me to start feeling my emotions,” I say.
“Yeah, but I could do without the tantrums,” she retorts. “You think you’re going to win, but you’re not.”
I’m crying. Why the hell am I crying? I’m not sad. I’m not hurt. Whatever this feeling is, it’s terrifying.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask.
Dr. Sadler passes me a tissue. “People come from all different kinds of backgrounds,” she says. “Some are good, some aren’t so good, but all are a mix of the two. Even the worst childhood isn’t without its joyful moments,” she says. “Even the best isn’t without its heartache. For you, it became very necessary early on to—forgive the pun—fight for your place in the house. It wasn’t simply given to you the way it is
with most children, you had to work for every failed compliment, every quiet moment. I think the problem is that all this time, you’ve been feeling like an imposter. You feel like you have to win at all costs, but in the back of your mind, you have this burning question: ‘What happens when I lose?’”
“This isn’t about fighting,” I tell her. “Fighting is the only good thing that’s come out of my life.”
“Yet you insist on fighting in underground matches,” the doctor says. “Is that because you tried to go the other way and failed, or did you just not try?”
“Aren’t therapists supposed to be understanding?” I ask.
“We are supposed to understand,” she says. “Being understanding, on the other hand, only serves a purpose in certain situations.”
“I feel like you’re being unfair and hostile,” I tell her.
“Good,” she says.
“Good?” I ask. “You’re glad that I think you’re coming across like an officious nag?”
“Huh,” she says. “Usually another word entirely follows officious in my experience.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes a little. Smiling, she says, “I don’t think it’s the actual fighting that’s the problem. As strange as this may be to hear from someone sitting where I’m sitting, I’d say overall, it’s been a net positive in your life. That is, assuming the fighting stays in the ring.”
“I don’t get in real fights anymore,” I tell her. “Not for a long time.”
“Okay,” she says, “but you used to?”
“Frequently,” I answer.
“So, would you say that the main way you’ve learned to deal with your problems is by trying to get them all out by fighting?” she asks.
“I was wondering when you were going to say something like that,” he says. “It’s not a cover.”
“I’m not saying it’s a cover,” Dr. Sadler says. “I’m saying it’s a catharsis. Human beings are very good at transferring their feelings into whatever they’re doing. With something like fighting where there’s a definite struggle, you can come out the other side feeling like you’ve just had a hundred sessions talking with a therapist. The only problem with that is that you get none of the insight, so there’s nothing to prevent those same feelings from creeping back in, and when that happens, they’re usually more intense than when they seemed to go away the last time.”
I’ve actually noticed that.
“What do I do?” I ask.
“Well,” she says, “we’re nearing the end of our time today, but earlier you kind of glossed over an experience with Ash and her mom. I want you to talk to Ash and explain to her why you felt so strongly about this situation. Did this happen before or after your brother’s arrest?”
“After,” I answer.
“Okay,” Dr. Sadler says. “I want you to take a little time before you talk to Ash to do a little introspection, maybe see if whatever was going on with Chris may have affected what happened with Ash and her mother.”
“But you don’t know what happened with Ash and her mother,” I tell her. “How do you even know there’s a connection?”
“I don’t think there’s a connection to them,” she says. “I think there’s one to you, though. Maybe I’m wrong. If that’s the case, you’ll figure it out while you’re introspecting and you can come back here next week and call me an idiot.”
That sounds pretty tempting.
“Okay,” I tell her. “Is our time up, up, or do we have a few minutes?”
“Is there something else you wanted to cover before we end?” she asks. “We have a couple of minutes.”
“No,” I answer. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
I get up and walk to the door.
“Hey, Mason?”
I turn. “Yeah?” I ask.
Dr. Sadler gets up, removes her wig and sets it on the desk. Now with her natural hair showing, she walks over to me, saying, “I know this is a troubling time for you and you’re not used to asking for help, but if Ash feels the same way about you that you feel about her, she wants to help. Maybe it’s time to start letting her in.”
“Yeah,” I mutter and open the door.
I leave the office, feeling—I don’t know what I’m feeling. It’s good, though. I almost feel lighter, more clearheaded.
Funny thing is I don’t feel like she really told me anything I didn’t already know. It’s not quantum physics.
Maybe it’s not the advice itself, but just getting that motivation, some vague permission to be open, vulnerable. It was strange that Dr. Sadler was so accurate about so many things before we really got talking, but I guess she’s just that good at her job.
Whatever the case may be, I don’t worry about calling first, I just head straight over to Ash’s place. I’ve been holding back, but I didn’t know what to do about it before. I guess I still don’t really have a definite plan of action, but I feel like talking to Ash.
Right now, that’s enough.
I knock on the apartment door. Jana opens it.
“Hey,” she says. “She’s not here.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry to swing by without calling. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Not really,” Jana says. She looks me up and down like I’m some sort of stranger and then, almost casually, she says, “Judges do the sentencing, right?”
“Wait, what?” I ask. “She’s in jail?”
“Yeah,” Jana answers. “She wanted me to call you, but I never really got around to it. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“What was she arrested for?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Something to do with student loans and—oh, I remember someone saying the word ‘fraud,’ but I didn’t really catch much more than that. It was kinda scary, you know, having police show up at your door.”
“Where did they take her?” I ask.
Jana furrows her brow. “Jail, probably,” she says.
“County or city?” I ask.
“There’s only one jail in town,” she says. “They probably took her there.”
“Were they local or state police?” I ask.
“How should I know?” Jana asks, narrowing her eyes. “Anyway, you should probably go check on her or something. Last I knew, she’s still not talking to me after I had a perfectly innocent conversation with her mom, so maybe it’s a good thing she’s got some time to cool out.”
I just got back from my therapist’s office and I really don’t want to start yelling at someone within the same hour, so I just shake my head and walk away.
From the conversation between Ash and her mom I overheard through the bedroom door, I already know why this happened. Ash’s parents just used her as their fall guy.
Chapter Eighteen
The Life and Style of Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq.
Ash
The water in jail tastes like sulfur. The food in jail tastes like sulfur. Everything is brimstone for about five hours and then I’m jarred by a piercing screech from near the cell door.
“Butcher!” a harsh voice barks through the intercom. It’s so seldom anyone refers to me with my last name attached, much less by surname only, that it takes a couple of seconds before it clicks that he’s talking to me.
“Yes?” I respond.
My cellmates chuckle at my very non-jail-hardened tone. At least that’s what I think they’re laughing at. They haven’t really talked to me since I was put in here. They just giggle and nudge each other at irregular intervals.
It’s kind of like high school, but here, if you get on the wrong side of the “popular girls,” there’s a decent chance you’re going to get shanked…whatever that means.
“Grab your stuff and come out of the cell,” the voice commands.
I don’t know what stuff he wants me to grab. Other than the Bob Barker soap (I’m not making that up) and the falling-apart jail clothes, I wasn’t really given a lot.
Not wanting to offe
nd the two other women in this cramped concrete-and-cinderblock room, I leave the amenities behind and just stand in front of the door to my cell.
I’m standing here for about a minute, and I’m really starting to feel a little exposed here. Behind me, the women, who have literally said nothing to me at all, just continue to laugh infrequently and seemingly acontextually.
Finally, one of them finds a modicum of mercy.
“They got the cell unlocked for you, Porcelain,” one of them says. “You better get out there before they think you’re tryin’ to resist release or somethin’.”
“Maybe she’s goin’ to the SHU,” the other one says. “You peeled anyone since you been in yet, Porcelain?”
“No,” I say and, for reasons I cannot begin to understand, much less explain, I add, “thank you.”
Apparently I’m Porcelain. I’m not sure if they’re calling me that because I don’t really get much sun or because I’d be so breakable if one of them decided to “peel” me. I don’t know what that one means either, but it sounds a lot less pleasant than being shanked, so I just push against the door, hoping this isn’t some sick joke.
It gives way.
My cell is on the second level, but it’s an open view. Ever since I came into this block, I could just see myself going over this cold metal railing in the inevitable riot that would come once the people in here found out who I am. I guess nobody really cares who I am so much as they’d care about who my parents are.
Either way, I can just see the situation devolving into me being held for ransom on a near-daily basis.
The thick door to the cellblock opens up and one of the guards steps through. Looking up, he motions for me to come toward him.
This block is for people who are either new to jail and haven’t been given their assignments yet, like me, or are considered too dangerous to be outside a locked cell longer than to grab a tray and go back to their cell. The guard on the way in got pretty chatty when she recognized me from the news.
Apparently, this isn’t going to be a quiet thing.
The point, though, is that everyone is in their cells and, as far as I know, the only cell that was unlocked was the one I just came out of. Still, as I’m walking down the metal stairs, I can feel dozens of eyes on me.