“You mean therapists?”
“People.” She gives me a side glance. “We don’t use that word here. Some guests clam up when they hear it, so we use a special language here.”
“Smart.” After that traumatizing event in my life, I shut down every time someone mentioned seeing a therapist.
She leads me to a room with bright-pink walls, and I look around. It doesn’t look like a therapist’s room, nor does the center look like a PTSD facility. Not that I’ve ever seen one, but I don’t imagine their walls painted weird colors. This place feels too homey. You know, like your crazy aunt’s artful house.
A few minutes later, a well-put-together blonde lady in her thirties walks into the room. “Hey, I’m Jenna.”
“Dr. Jenna?” I clarify.
“Just Jenna.” She smiles and sits in the chair next to me. Not at the table, separating us with a physical obstacle, not on the couch, but close to me.
“I’m Alicia.”
“Nice to meet you, Alicia.” She smiles warmly as she puts her notepad on the side table. “How may I assist you on your journey?”
I take a deep breath and tell her my story. The whole thing. Everything I haven’t told anyone. I’ve told Mark pieces here and there, but I couldn’t tell the whole thing. The pained look on his face every time I brought it up made sure I’ll never speak about it again.
By the time I’m done, she lost her shoes and has climbed in the chair with her feet tucked under her.
“You do know why Mark doesn’t like to hear the story, right?” She looks at me from the top of her rims.
“Because he sees me as damaged goods?” I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt.
“No.” Her response is calm, but I feel like she wants to roll her eyes, and my lips twitch. “Because he can’t stand the idea of you being hurt. And I bet he wants to rip them limb from limb. I want to rip them limb to limb, and I bet my face turns feral when I’m thinking about it. And I can guarantee you with a hundred percent certainty that I don’t see you as damaged goods. Does it make sense?”
“Are you even supposed to tell me things like this?” I rub the back of my neck. “You know, as a therapist?”
“We are not therapists here.” She winks, grabs her notepad, and writes something in it. “I want to see you here tomorrow.”
“I can’t. I have… prior arrangements,” I lie through my teeth.
She lifts her eyes from her notepad, pulls her glasses lower on her nose, and watches me over the rim. “I want to see you tomorrow. Ten a.m. Don’t be late.” She taps her lips with the pen. “Or early. I’m cranky before I get two cups of caffeine in the morning.” And she walks away.
Well, that was the weirdest therapy session I’ve ever had, but to my surprise, I feel like I’m four hundred pounds lighter.
I’ll be here at ten.
* * *
In the evening, I hear Dad’s voice calling my name from downstairs. I walk down and find Alex standing in the hallway with a hat in his hands. He’s raking his hand through his long-ish hair, and I feel a pang in my chest, seeing him. He reminds me so much of Mark…
“Get dressed,” he orders without a normal greeting.
“What?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“We need to go.”
“Where?” I narrow my eyes suspiciously. There is no way it’s random after my morning visit to the center.
“It’s a surprise.” He narrows his eyes back, making his scar more visible.
I give him a glassy stare. “Alex.”
“Alicia.” He mimics my tone, and it sounds ridiculous, so I chuckle.
“Fine, you win.” I walk and grab my coat from the hanger. Turning toward my father, who is highly amused, I complain. “You pick his side over your baby girl.”
