Pieces For You

by Rulon, Genna

  In the last few weeks, they even relaxed enough to talk to me like they used to—like I was just Sam, not an over-sensitive time bomb. Their return to normal helped to fuel my own. I found inappropriate comments sliding from my lips more frequently and I loved it. Ev even had to tell me ‘too much information’ several times this week—now that was proof-positive Old Sam was alive and well.

  While much was still unaccounted for, a fact I was learning to accept, I was acutely aware of one key piece still missing in action. My libido was still on extended vacation in Bora Bora, sunning herself on the deck of her overwater bungalow with a fruity drink in one hand and a book in the other. She had an open ticket and clearly had no intention of booking her return flight in the foreseeable future…bitch. I don’t think I was ready to explore that facet of New Sam yet, and it would take a mountain of trust for me to make myself that vulnerable to a man again, but it didn’t make my complete lack of sexual interest any less disconcerting.

  I watched the movie ‘Magic Mike’ yesterday and felt nothing…not a damn thing. Sexy, built male strippers with killer dance moves and packages that could steal a girl’s breath—yet it did nothing for me. Six months ago Old Sam would have been scrolling through her phone searching for viable ‘repeat performance’ contenders to put out the fire—New Sam went to sleep alone, not even a steamy dream to keep her company.

  I looked at the clock and shook my head at the time. I should be asleep instead of dissecting my inadequacies. Tomorrow was going to be a challenging day. I had my first therapy appointment with Dr. Cynthia Veritus, which was sure to be a fun and uplifting session. NOT! It wasn’t that I objected to therapy, I didn’t. I knew it was a vital part of my recovery and it was nice to have someone emotionally objective whom I could toss my shit at without fear of upsetting them. I have had video sessions with my therapist from TPC over the past month, but face-to-face sessions pushed me more toward absolute honesty.

  My dread centered on the necessity to recount and relive what had occurred and my state immediately following the attack…that would inevitably be the focus of the first few sessions, which was going to suck. By the time I left TPC, I was comfortable with all of the counselors and it was easy for me to share. They helped me process and heal, but they understood my triggers and slowly helped me to stretch my boundaries. I didn’t know what I would have done if approached with the ‘battering ram’ therapeutic approach…yes I do, I would have walked—well, wheeled, since I was still stuck in that stupid chair—the hell out of there and never looked back. Now I have to start from scratch, building a level of comfort and trust with someone new. It’s like training a new boyfriend, but without all of the butterflies in my stomach and lip locks—in other words, all the work and none of the rewards.

  I yawned, finally feeling the weight of my exhaustion pulling me under, and then surrendered, closing my eyes with a prayer for another night of dreamless sleep.

  I awoke in the morning feeling rested and ready to face the day. As I entered the bathroom, I noticed that the recent nights of rest had helped to banish much of the purple shadows beneath my emerald green eyes. My auburn hair was also finally growing out after being hacked off by my attacker. Luckily, my skin was still sun-kissed from my months of recovery in San Diego, which helped distract from my still slightly gaunt frame. I regained most of the weight I lost following the attack, so I was no longer the leading contender for a walk-on role in the latest zombie movie. Unfortunately, with my tiny five feet one-inch frame—okay, four feet eleven and three-quarter inches, but I always wore at least a kitten heel so I had earned the extra inch and a quarter, dammit—even being down seven pounds from my pre-assault weight was substantial and unflattering. I simply couldn’t pull off Kate Moss’ ‘heroin chic’ look, so I was not going to miss looking like the walking dead.

  After a quick shower, I brushed on some blush and mascara to encourage a “healthy” appearance, before braiding my hair over my shoulder, Katniss-style. I returned to my room and opened the door to my walk-in closet. There were many reasons I loved my small, luxurious condominium, and the number one on my list was this expansive closet. I was not OCD about anything except my wardrobe; my clothing was organized by type and color, and then sub-categorized by textile and/or attitude. My shoes and accessories followed the same neurotic pattern. I created each outfit, worn layer by layer, with great care, each communicating a message and theme to the world. Through my clothing I was able to control how the world perceived me, which was a reaffirming prospect to someone whose choice and control were violently taken from them. Yes, I even viewed clothing with therapeutic intent—it also didn’t hurt that I could refer to shopping as a healing activity now.

  I visualized the outfit in my mind. A white bohemian shirt to emphasize my tan and mask my too-thin body. Navy cuffed shorts that lent seriousness to my casual Indian Summer look, and a pair of navy espadrilles with a floral ribbon at the ankles to add a playful element. A pair of white feather earrings for whimsy and a collection of thin, gold bangles finished my look. Perfect. From the outside, I was the picture of stability and normalcy.

  I made my way to the kitchen where I spotted Ev perched on Hunter’s lap as he fed her an omelet. I grabbed a Greek yogurt from the fridge before joining them at the kitchen table.

  “I think I liked you better when you were all reserved and aloof…this touchy-feely Hunter is kind of freaking me out,” I teased.

  In reality, I was overjoyed to see my best friend finally receiving the affection and love she deserved. Ev and Hunter’s journey to couplehood had been fraught with secrecy and delayed gratification. At one point, I had debated drugging them both and throwing them into bed together to speed up the process. I was getting sexually frustrated just watching their self-denial…I’m not sure how Ev didn’t combust.

  “You are just jealous you don’t have one of Hunter’s famous omelets. My man has many talents—big, impressive talents.”

  “Are you offering me a sample of Hunter’s impressive talent?”

  Hunter nearly spit the coffee out of her mouth.

  “Paws off lady, I don’t share.”

  “You always did monopolize all the good toys when we were kids, never sharing your Malibu Barbie.”

  “For the hundredth time, you had the same freaking Malibu Barbie, along with her Malibu mansion, convertible, coordinating wardrobe, scooter, and whatever other accessories Mattel had marketed that year. There was no reason for you to want my Malibu Barbie,” Ev returned with exasperation. This was an ancient debate, which may pre-date the conflict in the Middle East.

  “But your Malibu Barbie had a couture hand-sewn wardrobe and Meme painted Barbie’s nails with that little marker—so stylish…so me.”

  “And then mom sewed a coordinating wardrobe for your Barbie and painted her nails. There was no difference.”

  “But your Barbie was the first, the trendsetter. Mine was just a copycat wannabe.”

  Ev threw her hands in the air dramatically. “I give up! Fine, you want my Malibu Barbie? We can switch. Will that make you happy and finally end this ridiculous debate?”

  “No need, I switched them during a sleepover one night. I’ve had the innovative fashionista for the last thirteen years.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me? You stole my Barbie? What is wrong with you?” she asked, no longer pretending to be annoyed by our age-old dispute…oops, I probably shouldn’t have ‘fessed up to that particular truth.

  I shrugged. “Sorry, but you really didn’t appreciate her. You didn’t even notice when I made the swap—what kind of mother are you?”

  Ev lunged across the table and would have caught me if Hunter’s arm hadn’t locked around her waist and hauled her back into his lap.

  “Why you—“ Ev didn’t get the chance to finish what was sure to be a scathing reprimand because Hunter’s mouth was on hers in the blink of an eye, distracting her with what I can only say was impressive technique.

  When he finall
y broke the kiss, Ev was glassy-eyed and breathless.

  “Would you like an omelet, Sam?” Hunter asked as if he had not just laid a scorching kiss on my best friend seconds before. Bravo, Hunter, bravo.

  “You are not preparing breakfast for that…that…Barbie snatcher. Come on, Mr. FBI Man, can’t you drag her down to headquarters and charge her with something? She may have even departed the country with Barbie at some point. That’s a federal offense—do something useful with that badge of yours.”

  Hunter rose, somehow managing to hoist Ev over his shoulder, and started down the hall.

  “Excuse us, Sam. Your best friend evidently needs a reminder of how useful I can be.”

  I could hear Ev’s half-hearted protests as Hunter shut her bedroom door. I laughed aloud at their antics. Ev was one of the most determined people I had ever met. She could easily steamroll over most adversaries. It was divine intervention that she fell head over heels for the one man who could best her. He challenged her and she loved every minute of it. They were a unit, stronger together than their individual halves.

  Ev had been like a sister to me for the last fifteen years and now I had gained Hunter, who almost instantly became like a brother—a really hot older brother who would hopefully parade equally hot friends through the house. I may not be ready for a man right now, but that wouldn’t last forever and Hunter was my golden ticket into the sex-on-a-stick buffet. When my appetite finally returned, I intended to stuff myself like a half-starved contestant at a hot dog-eating competition.

  I finished my breakfast and headed out to my car. Dr. Veritus’ office was not far and I arrived in less than fifteen minutes. I practiced my relaxation breathing as I gathered the courage to face a history I would prefer to forget. Confident I had done all I could to prepare myself, I entered the office suite. I was comforted by the refined elegance of the space. There was minimal clutter and several flowering plants, adding both color and life. I settled myself in a comfortably stuffed chair and waited.

  A few minutes later, the door in front of me opened and an attractive woman in her early fifties emerged. Dressed in a colorful sundress and ballet flats, she conveyed warmth and acceptance. I wondered if she had done this deliberately or if she just thought the floral pattern was pretty on the hanger.

  “Sam?” she asked in a strong, clear voice.

  I nodded.

  “Hello, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Dr. Cynthia Veritus, but please call me Thia.”

  “Hi Thia, it’s nice to meet you, too. I have heard great things about you; I’m hoping they’re all true.”

  She laughed at my joke, which set me at ease.

  “Come in, Sam—let’s get this over with.”

  I followed her into the adjoining office, confused by her choice of words. It wasn’t the most encouraging opening statement, but perhaps I had misheard. I sat down on the comfortable, tan loveseat and noted that her office matched the style of the waiting room. Thia sat across from me in a navy wingback armchair and offered me a kind smile. I returned her smile and waited for her to begin. She continued to smile at me but said nothing, which was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable. My own smile began to fall and she smirked knowingly. I rededicated myself to what was apparently a staring/smiling contest, determined to emerge victorious. She smiled even wider and I caught a glimmer of laughter in her eyes, but she was rock solid and unwavering.

  Son of a bitch! I was going to lose this contest…I’m not even sure what that meant, but it couldn’t be a good sign.

  “Fine, I give,” I acquiesced with a sigh.

  Thia smiled before raising her hand to muffle what I can only imagine would have been a chuckle if permitted to escape.

  What the heck? She was laughing at me…how unprofessional!

  “What gives? Aren’t you supposed to be asking me what brings me here? The details of what I experienced? What dysfunctional ways I have coped with everything thus far?”

  “Is that what you want to talk about?”

  “Hell no! That is the last thing I want to relive for the umpteenth time,” I virtually shouted.

  “You don’t want to talk about what is past and I’m not asking. So what is the problem?”

  Well that took the wind right out of my sails. I had no idea how to respond, so I resumed our staring contest. It was juvenile, I know, but it felt really good being defiant.

  This time she did laugh aloud and I glared back at her. Was I actually paying her to laugh in my face?

  “Okay, so what is your biggest concern right now?”

  She finally asked a question…thank god!

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been back almost two months and I think I have kept it together—for the most part. I’ve been having night terrors occasionally. I’m still a little uncomfortable out in public when alone and I find myself looking over my shoulder. The deep breathing exercises help to center me, but I wish I could get rid of the paranoia completely.”

  “It definitely is normal after what you have experienced, but I think you are ready to conquer this particular fear.”

  “Okay, what do I do?”

  “We will get to that in a little bit, it’s a part of your homework assignment.”

  “Homework?”

  She nodded in reply. Dammit, I thought I was done with homework. Oh well, I would try anything once.

  “What else?” she prompted.

  “My parents have requested I come to dinner next week.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t want to?” I asked, as if it may be the wrong answer.

  “Why not?”

  “Because they never make time to see me. They only came to visit me in the hospital once after the attack—and I wasn’t even conscious! They never bothered to visit me when I was at The Phoenix Centre and I haven’t actually spoken to either of them in over six months, since before the attack. The only communication I received was an email from my father’s secretary reminding me to use the Platinum Amex for any medical expenses. Trust me, whatever they want, it’s not going to make me happy.”

  “Are you certain? Maybe they had an epiphany after almost losing you and want to work on improving your relationship.”

  “Spoken like a rational person who has an empathetic bone in their body. There’s a reason I am an only child, Thia. My parents thought having a kid would be a great addition to the illusion of their Rockwell portrait life. Once I arrived, they handed me to the nearest nanny and resumed business as usual. My mother was horrified by the effects pregnancy had on her previously impeccable body, and spent well over a hundred grand to repair the damage I caused. Ultimately my cost exceeded my value, so they determined children were a bad investment and a hindrance to their quality of life. These are not the type of people who have sudden moments of introspection—nothing good will come of this dinner,” I finished with conviction.

  “Well, I’m convinced. Next?”

  “Are you mocking me?” I asked, confused by her quick dismissal of my mommy and daddy issues.

  “Not at all. You seem to comprehend that their issues are theirs, not yours. While you’re understandably apprehensive about the dinner, you aren’t harboring any unrealistic expectations and have already developed healthy coping strategies to process your feelings concerning your parents. Unless you begin to exhibit inappropriate emotional responses to their behaviors or indulge in self-destructive coping mechanisms, I see no reason for us to explore this any further. Do you want to analyze the minute details of every disappointment you have ever suffered at their hands? We can do that, but I’ll need to grab my calendar to schedule all the additional weekly visits.”

  “Sarcasm much?”

  “I am happy to waste your time and money by exploring every little facet of your past and psychoanalyzing the myriad ways each has shaped your psyche…if that would make you feel better,” she deadpanned.

  “You should grab coffee with Everleigh some time—you two would have a blast out-snarking one another.�
�

  “Since Everleigh is your best friend, I will take that as a compliment,” she countered, successfully turning my poke around.

  “Two peas in a freakin’ pod,” I muttered.

  “Next?”

  “Geeze, I might as well be waiting my turn at the supermarket deli counter, holding a little ticket with a number on it.”

  “Sarcasm much?” she parroted my earlier barb.

  “I’m not sure if you are the best therapist ever or the worst.”

  “I get that a lot,” she offered without concern, causing me to laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ll grow on you.”

  “If you have a magical solution to cure my night terrors, I will commit to providing you an organ of your choice should a transplant ever become necessary.”

  “Now that is a tantalizing offer. My patients are far more biddable when I drug them…” she paused and I stared at her like she was a complete lunatic. “Kidding. Of course I could prescribe a sleep aid if you don’t currently have one, but that would not be my suggested course.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Homework.”

  “Such a dirty word to be throwing around so casually. Okay, lay it on me.”

  “I want you to find a part-time job in an environment you feel safe to help increase your comfort level in public—consider it exposure therapy. Plus, you need something to do besides shopping,” she said as she eyed my outfit, correctly pegging my current method of passing time. “You should attend the dinner at your parents’ next week. At the very least it will clear them off your list of worries. I also want you to establish a regular exercise routine. Sign up at a gym and use it. It will aid your sleep and possibly help reduce the number of night terrors you have been experiencing. Not to mention, it’s another public venue for you to build comfort and confidence.”