The Innocence Treatment

by Ari Goelman

  She sighed, looking at her watch.

  “You can go, Ms. Gale,” I said. “I’m okay getting to the parking lot by myself.”

  “You sure, hon?” she said.

  “Definitely.” I gave her my best smile. “No problem.”

  “All right, dearie,” she said.

  And just like that, for the first time in my life, no one was watching out for me. It felt … weird. Sort of freeing, sort of lonely. I walked toward the back exit, wondering if most people feel this way all the time.

  Outside it was another crisp fall day. I zipped up my jacket and shoved my hands into my pockets. I hadn’t gone far, maybe a dozen steps into the parking lot, when someone called for me to wait up.

  I turned and saw Jimmy Porten hurrying after me. He’s a big guy, Jimmy. Plays football, though not so well that he ever gets to start.

  “Hey Lauren,” he said. “Are you allowed to walk home by yourself now?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. Almost. I’m getting better.”

  “You are? That’s great.” He started walking next to me. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Once we got out of the parking lot and halfway down the next block, he put his arm around me. He has a big arm and having it slung around my shoulders made it a little hard to walk. Still, it was okay until we were walking through the little wooded area behind the middle school, and he started to pull me closer and closer. His hand brushed the top part of my breast.

  I stepped away from him.

  “Hey,” he said plaintively. “Aren’t we friends?”

  It’s probably obvious to you that he was pretending to be sad, that we weren’t really friends, that we’d probably never been friends. And it was sort of obvious to me, even at the time. It’s hard to explain. I felt two opposing things at the exact same time: I felt guilty for making Jimmy sad, and I felt angry at him for lying to me. It was like my brain was simultaneously working in its old and new ways and it couldn’t decide which was right.

  Jimmy stepped closer to me. He looked in my eyes and said, “Lauren, do you still like hugging? I have a new kind of hug I want to show you.”

  And again, I knew two different things at once. I knew I should tell him to leave me alone. But I also knew that I really do like hugs.

  So I didn’t do anything. In the back of my mind I was sure someone would do something soon. Evelyn. Ms. Gale. Someone.

  I let Jimmy lead me deeper into the trees. Once we were out of sight of the sidewalk, he sat down and pulled me down beside him.

  Then he turned to me, and … I don’t know. Something clicked in my brain. I realized that no one was going to help me and that was fine. It was better than fine. It was great. That’s how I felt all of a sudden. Like I was on my own, and instead of being frightening, it was the best thing ever.

  Once I stopped being scared, I started noticing all kinds of things. Jimmy’s eyes were narrowed and his breathing had gotten faster. He was excited. Not because he liked me so much (he hardly liked me at all—that was obvious just looking at the little sneer of his upper lip), but because he thought he was going to get something from me. I guess because he thought he was going to have sex with me, or maybe feel my private parts in a way that most girls wouldn’t let him.

  He inched his hips closer to me and I could tell—something in his body language told me—he was about to try grabbing me. He had hardly moved, you understand, but it was clear to me he was working up his courage and was just about to push me to the ground and put himself on top of me. A split second before he moved, I felt him shift his weight.

  And I moved first. By the time he reached for me, I was already dodging under his arm. I grabbed his shoulder and pushed him hard in the direction he was already moving. Once a guy the size of Jimmy Porten gets moving, it’s hard for him to stop. He ended up facedown in the dirt.

  I jumped up and backed away from him. I wanted to get back to the sidewalk where other people could see us. Just in case. Jimmy’s a lot bigger than me.

  But as soon as he got up, his face and shirt covered with dirt, I realized he wasn’t dangerous.

  “Why’d you do that?” he said, upper lip trembling. He wiped the dirt off his face with his T-shirt. “I thought you liked hugs.”

  “Not from you.” I walked the rest of the way back to the sidewalk, and he followed me. A few middle school kids walked past us. “Not anymore.”

  He raised his hands and said, “Whatever. Skinhead freak. I was just trying to be nice. Why else would someone want to touch your fat ass?”

  By the time he was half a block away, he was walking with his usual swagger.

  I watched him strut off and I was overcome by an intense desire to hurt him. I wished I hadn’t backed off so quickly after I’d pushed him down. Sure, he’s much bigger than me, but I’m fast. And I’d been standing above him. I wished I had knelt on his neck and pounded his face into the dirt. He had a little dirt on his face, but I wanted there to be blood covering his face. I wanted his nose broken and his eyes blackened and …

  Dr. Corbin, I can honestly tell you that in my whole life I have never wanted to hurt anyone like I wanted to hurt Jimmy at that moment. Like I still want to hurt him. Even now, sitting on my bed talking to my tablet’s microphone, I’m picturing what it would have felt like to sit on his back, grab his hair with both hands, and slam his head into the dirt again and again. I’m smiling as I think about it. How creepy is that?

  Anyway, I was standing there, watching him walk away, when a voice behind me made me jump. “You all right, Lauren?”

  I spun around and almost kicked the new kid, Sasha, between the legs.

  He raised his hands like he was scared. Before your treatment I would have thought he really was scared. Today I got that he was joking.

  “Sorry to surprise you,” he said. He looked past me toward where Jimmy was crossing the street a block away. “What was that about?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Okay. Um.” He looked up the hill and fiddled with his glasses. “You walking this way?”

  “What, did you hear how dumb I am? You looking to take advantage of the idiot girl?”

  “Um … No.” His eyes flickered past me, to where Jimmy was still visible in the distance. “Is that what just happened? Did that dick—”

  “I told you. Nothing just happened.”

  “Right,” he said. He walked a half dozen steps past me, then paused. “Hey. I think I live around the corner from you. Do you want to walk together?”

  I stared at his face, looking for some sign of contempt, some sign that he was patronizing me. I saw nothing.

  No. That’s not right. I saw lots of things. His glasses were thick and they had a little console to one side, probably a computer that could route a video feed to and from the glasses’ lenses, like Riley had said. He was wearing a bulky wool sweater that was unraveling a bit at the waist. One side of his lips was slightly turned up.

  His lips, by the way, are very nice—not weirdly plush movie-star lips, but expressive. Kissable. Not that I’ve ever kissed a boy, Dr. Corbin (that being against Rule #2, of course).

  Thanks to your treatment, Dr. Corbin, I could see something else, too. He was lonely. Really and deeply lonely. Even now I have no idea how I knew that. The way his eyes strayed past me. The way his hands were never still for more than a second or two.

  I think that living most of my life without the normal ability to read people, I was sort of like someone with bad vision who doesn’t want to wear glasses and can’t afford the eye surgery. I learned to compensate a little for not having any natural ability to read people, so now—after your treatment—I notice more than most people.

  Anyway. I could tell he was lonely. So I said, “Sure.”

  Sasha and I walked home together, neither of us talking much. I was still thinking of what had happened with Jimmy Porten and me. I have no idea why Sasha was so quiet—maybe that’s just how he is. It turns out that Sasha lives about two blocks away
from me in the house where my friend Mazen used to live.

  So that was the exciting part of my day. To be honest with you, Dr. Corbin, if this is being normal, I think I was happier before. Not that I want to go back to how I used to be. The thought of someone like Jimmy Porten taking advantage of me … it’s making me want to hurt him all over again.

  Why is that, Dr. Corbin? Why would I rather be unhappy than stupid? Why not just take the happy life? What does it matter if other people thought I was stupid, as long as I was happy? Still. I’m telling you. If Jimmy Porten was here right now, I think I’d kill him. And thinking about that, I’m smiling again.

  You’ll tell me if I’m going crazy, right, Dr. Corbin?

  Good night.7

  CASE NOTES OF DR. FINLAY BRECHEL

  December 7, 2031

  Transcribed from interview:

  So the episode with Jimmy Porten was your first violent interaction outside of your self-defense class, is that right?

  Violent? You keep using that word. I wish it was a violent interaction. I barely touched him.

  You wish it had been more violent?

  I wish I had stomped his face into the ground. I wish I had broken both his arms. Do you disapprove? How would you treat a guy who tried to force himself on a girl he thought had a mental disability?

  This isn’t about my approval or disapproval, Lauren. I’m just trying to understand. Judging by your journal entry at the time, you didn’t really hurt him at all. Is it fair to say you’ve become more comfortable with violence since then?

  As though you don’t know.

  Hmm. Yes. Fair enough. You’ve injured at least five people since returning to this facility.

  I think you’re missing the point, Dr. Brechel. The thing with Jimmy wasn’t important because of the violence. It was important because that’s when I realized I didn’t need anyone’s help to take care of myself. And I liked it that way.

  That’s exactly the point. That, to you, taking care of yourself means hurting other people. Tell me about this medical orderly you put in the hospital. Eric Schafer. Were you taking care of yourself then, too?

  That bastard is lucky I didn’t kill him. I’m still not sure why I didn’t. I was already in jail.

  Lauren, you’re not in jail. You voluntarily returned to our custody for treatment.

  (snorts) Yeah. Voluntarily.

  When you attacked Schafer you weren’t restrained in any way. Another orderly—the only witness to the attack—says Schafer and you exchanged a few sentences, and then you attacked him. In the course of this attack, you severely fractured Schafer’s upper femur—his thigh bone. You also broke three bones in his hand and permanently damaged his windpipe. He may never walk again without assistance, and he will certainly never run. He can’t talk or eat without pain.

  Still? Are you sure he’s still having a hard time eating and talking?

  Positive. I met with Mr. Schafer yesterday, and talking definitely remains painful for … You’re smiling.

  I like the thought of that bastard thinking about me every time he talks or swallows.

  What did Mr. Schafer say to you? The surveillance camera in the hallway doesn’t record audio and the orderly who witnessed the attack was too far away to hear your exchange.

  Why didn’t you ask “Mr. Schafer” when you saw him yesterday?

  I did ask him. He claims he welcomed you back, and you attacked him with no provocation.

  What, and you don’t believe him? I’m touched, Dr. Brechel.

  I want to hear your side of the story.

  That’s nice, but what happened between Eric and me … it’s not really your business.

  Lauren. I’m trying to help you.

  Yeah, well, I helped myself, didn’t I?

  CASE NOTES OF DR. FINLAY BRECHEL

  December 7, 2031

  Ms. Fielding’s social observations are unusually acute. She often asks me a question and accurately anticipates my answer before I say anything. When I don’t respond or when I attempt to dissemble (as when she asks questions about my personal life), she is uncannily good at divining my true response to any question.

  Her own reactions are hard to catch, let alone interpret. I’ve taken a video recording of her face during our sessions, and looked at it frame by frame. Most people’s faces show some involuntary movement every few seconds, but Lauren holds her face still for minutes at a time. A diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder would seem like a no-brainer if she weren’t so damn empathetic she can practically read my mind.

  Her previous condition also remains maddeningly hard to understand. Her medical record mentions a diagnosis of Williams syndrome, but even her earliest journal entries reveal far too much cognitive ability for any Williams case that I’ve ever heard of. It’s as though she had a condition that impaired her ability to distrust others, without otherwise altering her cognitive function at all. The year before her operation she got almost all Bs, for God’s sake—show me another example of a mental disability which allows someone to get straight Bs but doesn’t permit them to walk home alone.

  On a personal note: paranoia is contagious, especially if you’re living at a secure Paxeon site with cameras visible everywhere but the bathroom. I know Lauren isn’t well. I know she’s not stable. She has consistently (and, so far, falsely) predicted her own imminent murder since the day I met her. And yet I’ve found myself wondering if there isn’t enough truth in her story to put me in danger. Her perceptions of my reactions are so accurate it’s hard to entirely discount everything else she says.

  In any case, I’ve actually opened an account at one of the Swedish websites she told me about and I’m posting my case notes there as I take them. Not over the in-house network, of course—I’m not an idiot. I take screenshots with my phone and upload them via the cell-phone network whenever I leave the Paxeon complex. If some Department spybot stumbles on the transmission (or these notes), well, so be it—another reason to keep me alive.

  Not to be ridiculous. I’m sure it will work out fine. I’ll finish off the contract (just another three weeks to go), pass my notes over to Dr. Corbin, sign whatever loyalty oaths she wants, and walk out of here with enough money to pay the kids’ school fees for the next five years. And Selena can go straight to hell if she thinks I’m going to pay their school fees without getting 50 percent custody.

  If Lauren’s expecting anything else from me, well … shoot … I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She’s not expecting anything else.

  JOURNAL OF LAUREN C. FIELDING

  Thursday, October 23, 2031

  Dear Dr. Corbin,

  Things just keep getting better.

  That’s a joke. Really, things are getting worse, even though my condition has never been “better.” What exactly is “better” about being mad at everyone all the time? I still don’t get why I’m not begging you to turn me back to how I used to be. But I’m not. I’m so grateful that I’m not dumb anymore. That I can see people how they really are.

  It was nice talking to you this morning. Thanks for saying that I’m not going crazy and that it’s normal that I would be so mad and want to hurt Jimmy Porten.

  Do you ever want to hurt people? I sort of bet you do.

  I was wondering if we could cancel my checkup this weekend. Charlotte Montauk is having a party Saturday night and I don’t want people to think I’m scared to go out just because Jimmy Porten has been spreading rumors about me.

  My father says you really need to look me over in person to see how I’m doing, but I promise you—we don’t need a checkup to know your treatment worked. I’ll tell you about my day, and you’ll see. At lunch, Riley and Gabriella didn’t have to say a word to me before I knew there was something up. I saw the way Riley’s eyes flickered over me and the way Gabriella puckered her lips when I sat down.

  “What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why would there be something wrong?” Riley arched her right eyebrow. In eighth grade
, Riley practiced that look in the mirror for weeks before she got it to look natural. These days she sees a beautician every week or two to get her eyebrows just the shape and color that she prefers.

  I’ve tried as hard as I can to remember, but I really can’t recall what it felt like to not think that Riley is super-fake.

  Anyway, I could tell that she knew exactly what I meant when I said, “What?” I could even tell that she wanted to tell me.

  “Just tell me,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  Gabriella reached across the table and took my hand. “We heard about what happened with Jimmy yesterday, Lauren.” She glanced over my shoulder toward where Jimmy was sitting with the other jocks. “I think you should tell the principal.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I said. “It was no big deal.”

  “No big deal?” Riley said incredulously. “Forget the principal. I think you should tell the police.”

  “Tell them what? We were walking home and Jimmy asked if I wanted a ‘special kind of hug.’” I rolled my eyes and shrugged.

  Riley leaned toward me. “So you…”

  “So I pushed him down and told him to leave me alone.”

  “What?” Riley was genuinely surprised. “Really?”

  “What did you guys think happened?” I glanced between Riley and Gabriella.

  “He’s been telling people that you and he…” Riley let her voice taper off. “You know…”

  “No. I really don’t. Telling people what?” I eyed Jimmy across the room. One of his friends, Brent Anderson, noticed me looking and said something to Jimmy. A bunch of the guys sitting around them laughed.

  Gabriella leaned across the table toward me. “He’s saying that you’re allowed to be with boys now and that you and he … um.” She blushed and lowered her voice. “Had sex.”

  “What?!” I leaped to my feet. I’d calmed down a lot from the day before, but now I wanted to kill him again. I don’t know if it’s a side effect of your treatment, or if this is just how being angry feels for normal people, but being angry feels much more overwhelming now than it used to.