“Have you talked to Ian about what happened?” she asks.
“What for? I think it’s pretty obvious that he’s a player. We fell asleep and she caught us together,” I say. “End of story.”
“You didn’t give him a chance to explain then?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “What could he possibly say to me that would make any of this okay?” I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge. “Besides, why are you defending him?”
“Innocent until proven guilty maybe?”
I roll my eyes at her. “Whatever.”
“Don’t you ‘whatever’ me,” she admonishes me sharply. Her tone catches me by surprise. “I know you didn’t ask my opinion, but I’m going to give it anyway.”
“Of course you are.”
She studies me for a few seconds before continuing. “Did it ever occur to you that there might be a perfectly logical explanation for what happened and that you overreacted or maybe jumped to the wrong conclusion?”
“Not once,” I say, returning her sharp gaze.
“Like it or not, Ian and Aubrey still have one thing in common. Emmy. Being as it was Christmas Eve, how do you know that they hadn’t agreed for Aubrey to come over to help him play Santa so that little girl could enjoy a somewhat normal Christmas?” I open my mouth to argue, and Gwen holds up her hand temporarily silencing me. “Yes, it’s unfortunate that Aubrey felt the need to verbally attack you, but let’s face it, she’s not known for her rational thinking. Do you honestly believe Ian would do something so cruel as invite you over when he knew Aubrey was stopping by, to purposely hurt you?”
I scowl and give her an irritated huff. “He didn’t invite me. I dropped in unexpectedly.”
She shakes her head and stares up at the ceiling, “You’re missing the point, Rhane. He deserves a chance to give you an explanation.”
I sit quietly, trying to digest her words. I wonder if there might be a thread of truth to her observations. She’s right about one thing. I haven’t given him the benefit of the doubt. But there is also the fact that he didn’t exactly rush to my side and tell Aubrey to shut her crazy mouth. “He could have stuck up for me when she called me names,” I say sullenly.
Gwen heaves a heavy sigh, “Oh, boo hoo. She called you names. So what? You need to grow a pair.”
“Grow a pair? Did you just tell me to grow a pair?” I ask. My eyes scan the room, looking for my whiteboard. If this conversation is going to continue, I need to give my tired throat a break. I spot the board on the counter beside the fridge, and push back from the table to retrieve it.
“I did,” she says, her eyes follow me across the room.
I scribble I don’t want to talk about Ian Callahan any more. It’s done. It’s over. I’m better off without him in my life. I don’t need the drama his screwed-up life seems to inspire. I replace the cap on the marker and slide the whiteboard under her nose. I don’t give her a chance to respond before I head upstairs to take a shower.
Chapter 51
The exhilaration I feel behind the wheel of my car is indescribable. I remember driving so many times around town with the top down, wind’s fingers knotting my long hair into a mass of tangles and me not caring that it would take hours to comb through it all. It’s not a top-down kind of drive for me this afternoon as I signal to make a left turn into the parking lot behind Dr. Stephens’ office. The day is gloomy and the bitterly cold air bites into my skin as soon as I hop from the BMW. I hunch my shoulders and duck my nose deeper into the colorful scarf wrapped around my neck as I hurry inside.
I sit in my usual spot watching as he tilts his head to study me with a bemused look on his face. “What?” I ask.
He averts his eyes and shuffles through some paperwork in front of him. “The red and green looks good on you. Really makes your eyes pop.”
I snort. “Are you making fun of me? Because I think you are.”
“I would never,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m just waiting for you to do something really bold and shock my socks off one of these days. It’s coming. I’m sure of it.”
“If you expect it, then it’s not as much fun,” I say.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he grins and leans back in his cushy leather chair. “What’s new? Anything?”
I twist my hands in my lap and stare down at the angry pink lines crisscrossing the back of my hand. I decide to start the session by confessing my Christmas Eve mega-meltdown. He listens attentively while I recount the awful episode. As usual, his face is a mask void of all judgment. I end by asking him what he can tell me about Intermittent Explosive Disorder.
He quirks an eyebrow at me and rolls his chair away from the desk. Standing, he strolls confidently over to one of the bookshelves along the wall. He taps his index finger against his lips while scanning the many titles. After a few seconds he reaches out and pulls a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages as he walks back over to where I’m seated. He hoists himself up onto the desk, swinging his legs back and forth, as usual, like an antsy child.
“Intermittent Explosive Disorder involves repeated episodes of impulsive, aggressive, violent behavior or angry verbal outbursts in which an individual reacts grossly out of proportion to the situation. Road rage, domestic abuse, throwing or breaking objects, or other temper tantrums may be signs of Intermittent Explosive Disorder.” His finger trails along the page while he reads. Pausing, he peers at me over the top of his glasses before continuing, “People with Intermittent Explosive Disorder may attack others and their possessions, causing bodily injury and property damage. They may also injure themselves during an outburst. Later, people with Intermittent Explosive Disorder may feel remorse, regret or embarrassment.”
I narrow my eyes. “So what you’re telling me is you don’t know anything about it? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
He snaps the book shut and puts it beside him on the desk. “Actually, I know quite a lot about it. I merely read that out loud so you could familiarize yourself, or perhaps identify with, some of the symptoms. Judging from what you’ve told me in our sessions about your anger issues, I’d say it’s a fairly accurate assessment. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I guess, yeah.” Embarrassed, I avoid his gaze. “So, now what?”
“I’m not big on miracle drugs, you know that,” he tells me. I nod, remembering some of our earlier discussions. “I believe sometimes medication is a necessary evil. However, I also feel that cognitive-behavioral therapy is an absolutely essential part of the healing process.”
“Okay,” I say, fiddling with the hem of my sweatshirt.
He twists at the waist reaching for the small desk calendar behind him. “Good, good,” he mutters. He smiles at me and says, “There’s a new eight-week anger management session starting up next Tuesday. It may be too late to get you enrolled; these things fill up fairly quickly. But I’ll call in a favor and see what I can do.”
“Anger management? Seriously? There’s a big demand for that around here?”
“Sadly, yes. Especially this time of year. Holidays. Winter. Dysfunctional families. The whole ball of wax tends to bring out the worst in everybody,” he says, sliding off the desk. He walks around and wiggles the mouse to wake his computer. He types in something, and a few clicks later tells me, “All set. I’ve sent your prescription over to the pharmacy. I’d like for you to get started taking the anti-anxiety meds right away.”
I wrinkle my nose distastefully. “You’ll let me know about the classes then?”
He nods, “Of course.” I slowly blow out a long breath. His eyebrows knit together. “Hey, relax. This is a monumental step in the right direction, Rhane. Don’t let any preconceived notions about what you think anger management is all about dissuade you from going to a meeting.”
A smile crosses my face as visions of Adam Sandler and Jack Nicholson flash into my head. “If you say so.”
He laughs. “I’ll be in touch. And, I’ll see you next week?”
I scoot in behind the wheel of my car and head to the drugstore. My fingers drum against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. Young Guns “Everything Ends” blasts from the speakers. This is my effort to come into the current decade with my taste in music. So far, so good.
I park out front and run inside to pick up my prescription. Valentine’s decorations assault my senses like cheap cologne, instantly threatening to put me in a place I don’t want to be mentally.
I wander through the hair color aisle and grab some bleach so that I can get rid of the green and red completely before dying my short locks another new color. I can’t decide which color I want to try next so I pick up several different boxes. I toss them into the blue basket and make my way back to pick up my prescription.
As I’m on my way out to the parking lot, a bulletin board near the door catches my eye. It’s overflowing with items for sale and things people just want to give away. It reminds me of my promise to Gwen about stopping at the vet’s office and I head there next. I set up an appointment for Mama Dog. I have no clue how I’ll manage to get her into town, but I’ll worry about that later.
Somewhere between my last stop and the turnoff for home, my cell phone vibrates in the center cup holder. Frowning, I pick it up. Ian.
WHN R U GOING 2 4GIVE ME?
Without replying, I drop the phone back where it was and take a deep breath. In a few seconds it buzzes again.
AT LST HEAR ME OUT?
I turn off the main road, easing down the rutted driveway back to the house. As soon as I shut the car off, I lean my forehead against the steering wheel and try to calm my racing heart. Reaching for the phone, I tap out: DON’T HOLD UR BREATH. I NEED TIME. I press send before holding down the power button to turn off the phone. I’m seriously not ready for any more interaction with Ian today. Just this little bit of contact has caused my breathing to become erratic and my mouth to feel like a ball of yarn. Damn it. How it is that he’s able to unravel me so completely with just a text message? I don’t trust myself to be within touching distance of him. Not now. Not yet. Truthfully, I don’t know if I ever will be.
I slide out of my car, my content mood slipping somewhere into the depths of my churning stomach. Mama Dog and the puppies greet me with wagging tails. I pat each of them on the head and sullenly trudge up the porch steps and go inside.
Chapter 52
Somehow, Dr. Stephens manages to pull some strings and get me into the anger management class. He mentions that, normally, they prefer a class size limit of ten, but they are willing to make an exception this one time. So I become the eleventh member.
Determined not to be last and equally certain I don’t want to be first, I sit in the parking lot and watch several people enter through the back door. With about five minutes to go before the scheduled start time, I pull my keys from the ignition and stuff them into my jeans pocket.
I don’t know what I expect to see when I walk into the small room in the basement of St. Mary’s Catholic Church tonight, but I’m taken aback by how normal everyone appears. I slide into one of the empty desks that have been arranged in a tight circle. I try to become as invisible as I can. The last thing I want to do is make eye contact with any strangers. Especially knowing they’re here because they have the same anger issues I have.
My eyes remain focused on the scarred wooden desktop before me. “Is this seat taken?” a soft, female voice asks, snapping me out of my reverie. Glancing up at the girl, I’m struck by how big her blue eyes are. I quickly shake my head no. Her wavy brown hair is knotted into some sort of messy bun at the back of her head. If she weighs a hundred pounds, I’d be shocked. Overall, she’s an attractive girl, and I’d guess her to be about my age.
The oversized, round clock on the wall indicates that the meeting should begin in a few minutes. Several more people straggle in filling the remaining desks. The only sounds in the room are the ticking clock and the occasional cough or someone clearing their throat. There is no small talk amongst the group. Seven men and four women comprise our numbers.
Promptly at 7:00, an interior door opens and a woman strolls across the room to take the last empty seat in the circle. She’s neatly dressed in a colorful, knee-length skirt with a simple, off-white peasant blouse. Brown knee-high boots complete her outfit. Her prematurely gray, stick-straight hair is cut in an asymmetrical bob. She tucks one side behind an ear and smiles warmly.
“Welcome, everyone. My name is Ms. Walker,” she says. She reaches into the small tote bag she’s brought with her and pulls out a stack of papers and a box of pens. She hands them to the greasy guy to her left. “I’d like for you each to take a sheet of paper and a pen.”
As soon as everyone has their pen and paper she addresses the group again. “Some of you are here because you chose to be. Some of you are here because you have to be. Why you’re here makes no difference to me or anyone else in the room. No one needs to know your reason; it won’t be made public knowledge unless you feel the need to share.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat and resist the urge to doodle on the blank sheet in front of me.
“We’ll go around the room and have everyone say his or her first name,” she says with a genuine smile.
The young woman seated next to me seems extraordinarily nervous. I watch her wipe her hands repeatedly against her jeans before she softly tells everyone her name. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snickering when I learn that her name is Cybil. Greasy, whose real name is Bryant, isn’t so tactful. His snort earns him a stern look from Ms. Walker.
Group therapy intimidates me since I’m unable to speak above a whisper. “Rhane,” I offer self-consciously when it’s my turn. Thankfully, no one makes any snide remarks about my lack of voice.
Once everyone has given their name, Ms. Walker passes around another stack of papers. “This is a questionnaire I want each of you to answer truthfully. As you can see, it’s quite lengthy so feel free to get started as soon as you receive your copy. Feel free to use the blank sheet of paper I’ve provided if you need more room for your answers. Believe me when I say there are no right or wrong answers. You will not be graded nor will you be judged. These questions are to help each of you gain some self-awareness and identify your anger triggers, what it is that starts your blood to boil.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be figuring that out for us?” a young man, I think his name is Will, asks.
“No, I assure you, Will, I am not here to figure anything out for you. It’s up to each of you to learn non-destructive ways to control and/or channel your anger,” Ms. Walker informs him. In a cheerful voice, she continues speaking while I skim over questionnaire, “In order to control your anger, you must understand what causes you to get angry in the first place. What is it that pushes your buttons?”
I comb my fingers through my newly colored, bright pink hair, tugging at the back nervously. Some of the questions are difficult for me to think about. Have I ever hurt myself or others during a fit of rage? Have I ever been so angry I didn’t care about the consequences of my actions? Once I calmed down, how did I feel? What sort of thoughts ran through my mind? Did I ever experience shame or remorse for my actions?
“This is bullshit,” the guy across from me hisses under his breath.
“Alex, I would appreciate if you’d please check your barroom language at the door. This is a church you know,” Ms. Walker points out.
Though I don’t say it, I am starting to feel the same way Alex does about this whole exercise. I’m not sure I want to remember all the times I lost my temper and hurt myself or, worse yet, caused someone else pain. Tears sting the back of my eyes when I think of Dalton and my fit of rage that cost him his life.
I put down my pen and lean back in my chair, pressing my palms into my eyes, trying to shut off the movie reel rolling behind them.
“Rhane? Is everything all right?” Ms. Walker asks.
/> “Yes,” I lie. I swallow a couple times and focus my attention once again on the questionnaire. Cybil softly sniffles beside me and I peek sideways at her. Her cheeks are wet and stained dark with streaked mascara. The pain I sense radiating off of her temporarily causes me to forget my own screwed-up life. I dig into my coat pocket and pull out an unopened package of tissues. Wordlessly, I set them on her desk.
With about ten minutes left, Ms. Walker reviews the outline of what we can expect over the next several weeks. She also talks about what anger is and how it functions to protect us from more vulnerable feelings, though not usually in the most helpful way. She asks us to write down what we want to get out of the class, if anything, adding that we can go when we’re finished.
On our way out, Ms. Walker hands each of us a small pamphlet. “Before next week’s meeting, I’d like for you all to read through the brochure. Go over your questionnaire responses. Really take some time and think about your answers. Next week we’ll discuss some of your different triggers. Thank you for coming. I’ll see you next week.”
A few groans and grumbles hang in the air. Alex complains loudly about how lame this whole thing is. It doesn’t take long to figure out that Alex is most likely not here by his own choice. I just bet somewhere there’s a girl who has seen the wrong end of his fist when he’s lost his temper. It’s not right of me to make assumptions, but he’s got that cocky attitude, and he just reeks of self-appointed superiority.
He glares at me when he catches me staring at him, “What the hell are you looking at?”
I know his type. If he thinks he can intimidate me, he can think again. I’m at least half a foot taller than Alex. I smirk down at him. “I’m not looking at anything,” I say.
He clamps his mouth shut and stomps out of the room. Cybil chuckles, “What an ass.”
I Breathe You Page 21