Page 10 of Lies Beneath Secrets
“Where would you like to start today?” Dr. Brooks looks at me from across the small room. It’s too small, really. I think it’s made that way to make her patients feel like they have nowhere to go unless they talk to her.
Maybe it’s only me who thinks that.
“Where to start?” I echo some of her words. “I have really good shifts this week at the diner. Only two closings.” Honestly, that’s good news to me. It’s not my favorite thing to do, closing down the diner. It’s normally almost midnight when I actually get out of there since the place closes at eleven.
“How are the nightmares?”
“Great question.” I point at her. “That one is always my favorite question you ask when I come here.” I snark.
“Is it?” She knows I’m being sarcastic. Dr. Brooks is great at keeping a level head when I’m being a brat.
“For sure. There’s nothing I like more than answering the question about how my nightmares are.” I give her more sass that she takes in stride.
“And the burning?” she asks, shifting in her green floral chair. I watch the action, suddenly aware of how my legs are crossed. Doing my best to not mimic what she just did, I look up at her face. She’s an older woman but doesn’t yet have any gray hair. The auburn strands are too natural of a shade to lead me to believe she colors it.
“It’s under control.” A complete lie that right away, I can tell she sees through. Tilting her head to the side, she pushes up her thin wire frames and leans back a little. I call that action the bullshit detector. “The grounding technique you had me try has worked.” I shrug, then add, “Somewhat.”
“Would you say fifty percent of the time?” I think for a moment, chewing my lip a little, then push up my new glasses.
“Sure, fifty sounds about right. Maybe sixty?” I shift a little and do my best not to wince when the fabric of my jeans rubs across a fresh burn on my inner thigh. Dr. Brooks doesn’t catch it thankfully and must decide to move on to another topic I don’t want to discuss.
“Okay.” She writes something down in her little notebook, then looks up at me again. “Let’s talk about that.” She points to my face, where my bruise is almost healed. I almost covered it this morning with makeup, but I thought it wasn’t as noticeable anymore. Apparently, I was wrong.
“I caught an elbow at work. Hot plate spill.” The explanation is vague, and she sees right through it.
“Are you in danger of any kind?” If only she knew. I let out a dry laugh and shake my head.
“My situational awareness could use some help.” I try for the joke, but it does nothing to crack a smile on her stoic face. How can she be so serious all the time? “I went to visit my mom,” I say after a beat, in effort to change the subject.
“Has there been any change to her condition?” I shake my head. Two years ago, my mom suffered a massive stroke. She’s still slightly functional. She can walk, respond to directions, feed herself, many things she can do. Except for the one thing I want her to do, speak. Life is truly cruel sometimes.
“I really want to talk to her again,” I admit. She wasn’t mother of the year, but she did the best she could. Although my sister would disagree with me and say I was just too young to see it. Maybe that’s true, but I still didn’t come out of our childhood unscathed. That doesn’t mean I don’t love her any less.
“She’s still here though and being grateful for that’s okay,” Dr. Brooks says.
“Is it though? She’s a shell of who she used to be. The stroke should have just killed her.” I hate that I give this thought actual words, but honestly? Wouldn’t she have been better off dead than trapped in her body with nowhere to go? I often wonder at times what that would be like. Maybe it’s like being buried alive. You’re trapped inside a box but have plenty of oxygen to stay alive. Only you can’t leave. You’re just… there.
“Maybe so, but she’s here nonetheless and dealing with that is much harder than dealing with her death.” I hate how she uses her words. I know she’s right, but I don’t want to hear it. “This week, I want you to journal. If you have a nightmare, I want you to write down every part you can remember as soon as you wake up. This will help you to confront it.” That’s the last thing I want to do.
“If I have one, I will,” I lie again. I only come to these sessions because my sister was adamant I keep up with them, and since her rich husband pays for it, I do as she says. She’s twelve years older than me and practically raised me when our mom was out trying to make ends meet with whoever she decided to scam at the time. So, if she wants me to see a therapist, I’m going to do it.
I step out of the small room and pass a man sitting on the waiting couch. He has a little girl sitting next to him, and I do a double take. She’s the little girl I gave the crayons to at the diner. They’re looking at the fish tank on the opposite wall of the door I just walked out of. The little girl is running her finger along the glass, following the orange and white fish that’s swimming back and forth. The man, who I’m assuming is her dad, is watching intently as she does this but not saying a word. For some reason, it warms my heart a little. I never grew up with a dad or father figure. There was one guy who was around for a long time when I was six but then suddenly, one day he was just gone. I remember asking Mom about him once. She smiled and said he wouldn’t be coming back ever again. My sister moved out right after that.
I stand there, stuck in that memory, and try to remember more. Something about that time hangs there in the back of my mind, but I was only six. I can’t grasp much more than bits and pieces. Just that he was suddenly gone, and then my sister left. I didn’t see her for so long after that.
“Mr. Mathews? She’s ready for you both now.” My focus on the past is broken when the receptionist speaks to the man.Mr. Mathews.I wonder what his first name is. Before they turn around, I duck out of the room as fast as I possibly can without drawing attention. They were both very nice at the diner. He was even handsome in a way, but running into customers at my shrink’s office is not on my bucket list.
Stepping out into the late summer air, I close my eyes and tip my face toward the sky, trying to let in the sun’s warmth. The darkness has its grip on me again today, causing everything to feel numb. Deep down, I know if I were to go back to my apartment, I’ll want to burn again. The searing heat from the lighter causes the darkness to subside, letting pain take its place. Pain is bright. And Ifeelpain. It brings with it white light that pulls me from the hole I’m continuously falling down. It’s endless, until that hot metal touches my skin, and I’m flying back up to the surface.
I suck in one more deep breath and open my eyes to the sun, staring for a little too long. It will be fall soon, then the long, depressing winter will take over everything. Honking from a car horn gets my attention, and I attempt to blink my eyes back to normal. Despite the bright splotch in my vision, I walk down the street toward the diner. I’m not scheduled until tomorrow, but I don’t think I should go home.
The town I live in is large but since I’m downtown, most everything is within walking distance. All of the local businesses anyway. The larger supermarkets and fast food places are in the outer part of town, by the freeway. I rarely venture that way. I don’t own a car, and I have no need to go shopping in a huge store that has more than I need for my small one-bedroom apartment. The only time I do leave this area of town is to see my mother. For that, I use the taxi service.
My friend Piper is working when I step inside the diner. She greets me with her big smile and grabs a cup to pour me some coffee. “Just can’t stay away, can you?” She places the cup in front of me and fills it up.
“The coffee is just too good,” I say dryly and wrap my hands around it, then bring it to my nose to take in the aroma. The scent puts a balm on my racing mind and gives me a little comfort.
“Fresh pot too. You got the first pour.” She walks away from me and puts the pot back on the burner. “Want anything to eat?” she asks when she turns around. Much like everyone around me, she’s much taller and has beautiful blond, wavy hair. I’ve been the same five foot nothing since the ninth grade. My curves didn’t come in until later though. Finding a good pair of jeans that fit my height and my ass is sometimes a challenge. So, when I found a used sewing machine at the thrift store, I took that opportunity to learn how to hem things.
