#SandyBottom

by Alexi Venice

  “Where are Jen and Kristin now?”

  “They went to Jen’s family cabin in Wisconsin. Tommy went with them because he and I are on mandatory admin leave after the shooting in my office.”

  “The Melanie Valentine incident?” Susan asked.

  “I see you’re keeping up with my life on the news,” Amanda said.

  Susan shrugged. “How do you feel about Tommy joining Jen and Kristin?”

  Amanda shifted her gaze to a bookcase, looking for the answer that wasn’t there. “Surprisingly, not bad or jealous. He deserves to get away. He was shot in the shoulder saving me from Mel.”

  “Tell me about that,” Susan said.

  Amanda’s voice shrunk. “Mel was going to shoot me. She was pointing my own gun at me. Then, out of nowhere, Tommy barged into my office at that moment, so she turned her gun on him instead.”

  Susan covered her mouth. “Then what happened?”

  “I attacked Mel, and we got in a fight, rolling around and throwing punches, and she somehow managed to get on top of me. I could’ve taken her, but she was about to slam her fist into my face, so Tommy killed her.”

  “That sounds pretty traumatic, even for someone who’s been in the line of fire before.”

  Amanda shrugged. “I learned last week that guns are loud when they’re used indoors. Which reminds me, can you fill out the paperwork to make this visit official for my return-to-work requirement?”

  “Of course, but tell me how you dealt with Tommy shooting Mel in your office. And, why was Mel trying to kill you?.”

  “She was Eddy Valentine’s daughter, so she was exacting her revenge on me,” Amanda said without fanfare.

  “Okay. I know Valentine’s death has plagued you. How are you coping with Mel’s plot and death?”

  “I don’t give two shits about Eddy or Mel,” Amanda snarled. “I wish I would’ve killed her myself.” She again grasped her scarf and ran the liquid warmth of silk between her fingers, twisting her fists in the ends when she reached them. “Tommy and I analyzed the crap out of that situation over a few bottles of wine. I’m over it.”

  Susan raised her eyebrows—not in disapproval but in surprise—at Amanda’s alcohol relapse.

  Amanda sighed and absent-mindedly wrapped the scarf tightly around her hands and wrists, binding them together. “After our big shootout with Kara Montiago, we needed to decompress, so he came over to my place, and we drank and talked.”

  “Was Jen there?”

  “Yeah. She was sort of disappointed that I was in the line of fire again, and drinking, but she was relieved we were alive. Once she learned we were on mandatory leave, she invited us to her lake cabin.”

  “Please, go on,” Susan urged.

  The memory played across Amanda’s face, as she stared into the middle space between them. “We had a great time talking that night, like we had life figured out, you know? The three of us—connected by Kristin and our love and support of each other—navigating our way. The next morning, we were into our breakfast routine when the photo of Roxy and me dropped.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I showed it to Jen, and she blew a cork.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She pieced together that I slept with Roxy more than once while we were in New York and Cape Cod. She was really devastated. I tried to tell her that I love only her but…”

  “What did you say?”

  “That it was only a one-night stand, which of course isn’t accurate, and I think she intuited, or deduced, that.”

  “Last time you discussed Roxy with Jen, you admitted that you slept with Roxy, so what was different about this time?”

  Amanda pulled hard against the scarf, now marking her wrists. “That’s what I asked!”

  “What did Jen say?”

  “First, she threw my phone over the balcony onto the street, shattering the screen.”

  Susan nodded calmly.

  “Then she accused me of having more than a one-night stand with Roxy, and repeated her tirade, all of which I’d heard before.”

  “Is that when she decided to go to Wisconsin without you?”

  Amanda scrunched her eyelids shut against the tidal wave of tears threatening to break through. She moved her bound wrists to the top of her head as if to keep if from exploding. “Yes.”

  She didn’t know why she was fighting back the tears. Susan was her therapist, and Amanda had wept in front of her many times. On the other hand, she had sobbed nonstop since Jen had left, so she scrunched her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and continued in a tremulous voice. “Tommy tried to sooth her, but Jen was determined, so the three of them left without me.”

  “When are they due back?” Susan asked.

  “In a couple of weeks, I think.”

  “That isn’t that long in the scheme of things,” Susan said in what Amanda considered to be a faintly patronizing tone.

  She opened one eye and said into the expanding silence, “Easy for you to say. I’m in hell over here. I can’t go to work, so all I do is mope around the house missing them.”

  “What tools are you using to cope?”

  “Well, I’m not drinking if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Susan smiled reassuringly. “You know I’m asking about more than drinking. What are you doing to work through the pain? Yoga? Walks on the beach?”

  “I haven’t been able to bring myself to practice yoga, and I don’t know why. My instructor keeps texting me, which makes me feel really guilty.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve been crying and playing cello.” Amanda unwrapped her hands a few twists from the scarf and held them out, palms-up, for Susan to inspect.

  A wise woman, Susan honed in on the source right away. “I see the pads of your fingers on your left hand look a little sore.”

  “Classic therapist understatement,” Amanda said in a teasing tone. “They’re hamburger meat. I dabbed some Neosporin on them before I came over here, but they sting like holy hell.” She curled her fingers toward her face and inspected the tips. Ignoring Susan, she unwound her wrists a few more turns from the scarf and dug deep into the right pocket of her capris, pulling out a tube of ointment. She squirted some onto her left thumb pad then proceeded to rub the tip of each left finger, working the ointment into her blisters. Once finished, she sighed in contentment.

  Susan smiled. “Feel better?”

  “A little.” Absorbed in the accoutrements of her drama, Amanda rewrapped her hands in the soft scarf, twisting endlessly until her hands lay close on her lap. “Where were we?”

  “We were talking about coping mechanisms. How is playing the cello making you feel?”

  “Fucking sad. And lonely. Nothing can chase away the loneliness—not even Saint-Saëns or Debussy. I’m just terrified I’ll never see Jen and Kristin again.”

  Six

  Clothing her question in Socratic, therapist-speak, Susan asked, “Do you think that’s a realistic possibility?”

  Amanda tossed her hair back and looked at the ceiling—faux-tin drop tiles. Unimaginative . She lowered her gaze, bypassing Susan, to study the carpet—commercial diamond pattern. Ugly . She knew she was being evasive, bordering on immature, but her reset button was temporarily out of commission. After a time, she slowly raised her tear-stained slits to Susan’s face. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  “Did Jen end the relationship before she left on vacation?”

  “She said something about us being over, then she told me I wasn’t welcome at her lake cabin, and that she and Kristin would move out when she returned. She obviously dumped me.”

  “Is Jen’s decision within your control?”

  “I think so,” Amanda said. “Partially, anyway.”

  “How so?”

  Amanda’s overwrought mind filled with images of Jen staying in Wisconsin for too long, then returning to the city but starting a life independent of Amanda, raising Kristin jointly with Tommy, marrying a
woman who was normal and balanced—hence boring—and ultimately forgetting about Amanda. She shoved aside the dismal imagery.

  “I can control my side of the relationship with Jen, thereby impacting her decision. For example, I could text her this minute that I’m breaking up with her.” Amanda held up a hand, which meant both were raised by her handcuffed wrists, wielding her cell phone, the spider-webbed-pattern across the shattered screen. “I’m not going to, obviously, but I’m just saying that I could potentially influence her decision with my behavior.”

  Amanda noticed that her broken phone caught Susan’s attention. She held the screen to Susan’s face. “Yes. This is the phone that Jen threw onto the street. My replacement arrived, but I don’t want to give up this one just yet because the shattered screen is symbolic of my broken relationship with Jen.” Amanda lay the phone over her chest.

  Susan’s eyes widened, but she quickly smothered her alarm. “Please, go on about how you could potentially influence Jen’s decision to stay or go.”

  Amanda thought she saw where Susan was going with this line of questioning, so, for no reason other than to humor her, Amanda said, “At the opposite end of the spectrum, I could fly to Wisconsin and surprise her, falling to the ground and begging her to come back.”

  “What impact do you think either of those actions would have on Jen—texting her to break up or begging her to come back?”

  Amanda’s mind flipped through the possibilities like a circular Rolodex spinning business cards. She saw laughter. She saw Jen scowl. She saw Jen screaming at her. She saw Jen crashing into her with a big hug. “She has a mind of her own, so it’s too soon to predict. Jen can be quite mercurial, you know. Maybe she needs some time…”

  Susan’s lips curved into her we’re-making-progress smile.

  Amanda felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. “I guess I should continue to lay low, huh?”

  “You just said that Jen probably needs some time. Can you give her that?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Sometimes, we instinctively move toward a person who needs space, but that just makes the person feel smothered. We don’t want to crowd Jen if she indicated she needs time and space. Does that make sense?” Susan asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “In the meantime, I’d like to make a plan that’s healthy for you,” Susan said. “What activities would you like to do while you wait for Jen to explore her feelings?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Smoke some weed and shoot myself?”

  “Do you own a gun?” Susan’s expression didn’t change, but she removed all jocularity from her voice.

  “Several,” Amanda said.

  “Tell me about your desire to shoot yourself.”

  “I’m not going to shoot myself, Susan. I was using it in a metaphorical sense because the pain is so fucking bad. I’d never do that to my parents, or to Jen and Kristin for that matter.” Amanda sought and found Susan’s clinically assessing eyes, holding them for a long second to assure her that she wasn’t seriously considering killing herself.

  Susan cleared her throat. “You have a lot to live for, and people who love you—”

  “I know, I know,” Amanda cut in, trying to ward off a gushy diatribe. She waved her hands, but their entwined mass prevented any meaningful gesture.

  “I’ve never asked if you’ve tried to kill yourself, or had any history of suicidal thoughts,” Susan said.

  “The answer is ‘no’ to both,” Amanda said, channeling her serious court voice that she reserved for judges. She felt the full weight of Susan’s keen clinical eyes upon her, and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of an involuntary commitment.

  Susan rose and went to her desk. She opened the top drawer and removed a business card that she handed to Amanda. “Here. The on-call pager number is printed on the card. If you ever find yourself in need of immediate help, page that number. I, or one of my colleagues, will return your call. One of the benefits of belonging to a concierge practice.”

  Amanda accepted the card in her bound palm and let it drop onto her lap, covering it with the scarf. “Thanks.”

  If Susan questioned the likelihood that Amanda would save the card, she didn’t mention it. “Now, let’s return to your coping activities for the next few days. I’d like you to write down a plan—a loose itinerary—of what you would like to do with yourself and for yourself.”

  “Now?” Amanda asked, the task of writing ideas on a piece of paper beyond her reach in her current state.

  “No,” Susan said. “When you return home. You can write anything you want on the paper, in as much detail as you like, but I’d like to see you jot down a few healthy activities for self-care.”

  “Well, I do have a standing offer from my parents to join me for a walk on the beach.”

  “That’s a start. How do you feel about that?”

  “Meh…”

  Amanda’s dull reply invited a knowing look from Susan. “Not your first choice?”

  “Parents are parents,” Amanda said. “Don’t get me wrong—I love them, and they’re very supportive, but I don’t necessarily want to hang out with them.”

  “I understand. Should we consider someone else?”

  Amanda had a surge of recollection. “My friends, Chance Greyson and Kip Moynihan, invited me to their Stinson Beach house for a party this weekend.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Actually, they invited both Jen and me, but I suppose I could go alone.”

  “You say that like you’re unsure. Would you consider going solo?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t know,” Amanda said. “I used to go to a lot of parties alone. I guess I hadn’t thought about it, but now that we’re talking about it, maybe I’d like to go.”

  “Being part of a group would definitely take your mind off Jen while she processes her feelings,” Susan said.

  Amanda tilted her head at Susan’s description of Jen’s two-week vacation. “Is ‘processing her feelings’ euphemistic for being really pissed off and breaking up with me?”

  Susan didn’t take the bait. “What do you think?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Susan. Must you answer all of my questions with a ‘how do you feel?’ or ‘what do you think?’”

  Susan smiled politely. “Yes. I think Jen is processing her feelings. Do you think otherwise?”

  Angry tremors rattled Amanda’s voice. “I was on the receiving end of a breakup…at least that’s how it felt to me. I call bullshit on Jen ‘processing her feelings.’” Amanda tried to use air quotes but carved the quotes so closely together that she looked like a chipmunk. In the process, she knocked Susan’s card off her lap.

  “Did Jen actually say, ‘I’m breaking up with you?’”

  “Why do you think I’m here? I feel like you’re trying to gaslight me into thinking everything is fine or will be fine with Jen, and that I’m overreacting!”

  Susan waited a few beats to let the air simmer down. “I’m not trying to dupe you into believing anything. I think you were involved in two traumatic shootings—one in your office where Tommy was wounded, and Mel was killed; another in Kara Montiago’s office where she jumped out of the window to her death. Those two events might impact your perception of Jen’s actions, so I’m trying to help you disconnect the events and figure out a path that’s healthy for you.”

  Amanda hadn’t considered that the shootings colored her perception of Jen, but she still wasn’t ready to concede. “Well, rewriting my narrative isn’t exactly helpful. I don’t think I’m blowing Jen’s actions out of proportion just because a few women died in front of me last week.”

  “I’m glad to see you have plenty of fight in you, Amanda. That’s healthy. Maybe we can use some of that determination for self-care.”

  “I need to focus on some self-pity first if you don’t mind.”

  “Feeling sad and traumatized isn’t self-pity,” Susan said. “It’s normal.”

 
; “My life isn’t exactly ‘normal.’” Amanda’s voice rose again to meet her racing mind.

  “I agree. You’re in the line of police work, so you’re destined to see and experience things that ordinary people don’t.”

  “I thought I was desensitized to shootings, but they still get to me—in here.” Amanda poked herself in the chest.

  “I’d be concerned about you if the shootings didn’t affect you.”

  “Do you think I’m overreacting to Jen’s departure?”

  “Not at all. Jen left at a time when you needed her emotional support. If you hadn’t been through what you just went through, maybe her departure wouldn’t feel so devastating.”

  Amanda let Susan’s words sink in. Maybe Susan’s perspective was valid.

  “While you wait for Jen to work through seeing the photograph of you and Roxy, do you want to go to Chance and Kip’s beach house?”

  “Seeing them might be a nice diversion. I suppose I should text Chance first, and tell him where I’m at emotionally.” Amanda glanced down at her damaged phone, curious if she’d be able to type through the spider-webbed glass.

  “Being honest about your feelings is healthy,” Susan said. “You can always leave the party if you’re not having fun.”

  Amanda felt a surge of panic. “Chance said he was inviting a small group, and we’re staying overnight. What if someone hits on me?”

  “Is that your anxiety talking?” Susan asked.

  Amanda pulled an angry face. Ah…no. I’m legitimately concerned about it.”

  “Okay. Let’s explore that possibility. What will you say?”

  “Depends if I’m wasted or not.”

  “I thought we were practicing sobriety, in part to meet your goal of having a child someday.”

  Jen scoffed, “Well, that seems like a farfetched notion now that Jen left me, doesn’t it?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Jen is on a two-week vacation. I encourage you to stay sober. Now, how do you think you’ll react if someone hits on you.”

  Amanda patted the air with her bound hands. “Not interested.”