CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

February 7 to 10, 1993.

On Sunday morning, I go running with Tom. Maybe he senses that I need to talk because we keep the pace at a steady jog rather than our typical marathon pace.

“I fucked up,” I tell him. “I was at a nine, and I did something stupid to bring it down to a five. Not the dumbest thing, but… pretty idiotic.”

“What happens the next time you reach a nine?”

I appreciate that he doesn’t ask for more details. “I don’t know… You want me to buy one of those ‘101 Coping Skills’ posters?”

“I want you to go to therapy.”

I groan. “I don’t have a great track record with therapy, Tom; you know that.”

“Ra’Shelle said her therapist really helped when Pete tried to kill her a few years ago. She gave me the woman’s card; it’s in the car. I want you to call her, Sam.”

“What would I tell her? About Layne dying?”

“And everything surrounding his death, yes.”

“Do I tell her about the past? I mean, she doesn’t really need to know about all of that, right?”

He glances at me. “Is that a joke? When you’re at a nine, she absolutely needs the backstory.”

“Well, I can’t tell her if I go at a nine because then she’ll want to admit me somewhere.”

“What’s the point of going to therapy if you aren’t going to be honest with your therapist?”

“I think you just made my point for me.”

“Sam.”

“Fine,” I say. “Give me the card, but I’m not making any promises.”

He slows, then stops, and I stop too. “Sam,” he says fiercely, “you could die. Do you understand that? You could die. No more Tom. No more Ra’Shelle. No more LFI. No more anything. Dead. Erased from existence.”

“Tom, come on.”

“You come on. Every time the phone rings, I wonder if this is going to be the call that tells me that you’ve been taken to the hospital or to the morgue. You think Ra’Shelle or I want to tell our kids that Aunt Sam is dead?”

“I’m not going to commit suicide, Tom.”

“You know that’s not the problem. And I’m glad that you tell me when things are bad–”

“And the voices are loud–”

“And all of that, but I’m not a shrink, Sam. I’m more like your–”

“Sponsor.”

“Exactly. And as your sponsor, I’m telling you that you need to see a damn therapist. Okay?”

“Okay, Tom. I’ll give it a shot.”

“Thank you!”

We restart the jog. “Your lecturing has improved.”

“My teenagers are giving me a lot of practice.”

***

On Monday morning, I flick the card several times before I pick up the phone. A young receptionist answers, “Dr. Muto’s office.”

I hang up. “This is stupid.”

I clean the house, and the entire time, I think of sex with Javier. Our entire non-relationship flashes through my mind: sandwiches, screaming, ashes, sex.

It plays over and over, always ending the same way: I convince him to fuck me as a coping mechanism and then dump him immediately.

That’s shitty. Really shitty.

I switch the genders in my head. If Javier were a woman, and I were a guy, how would that play?

Yeah, really shitty bordering on fucked up.

But that doesn’t mean that I should see him again. Maybe I’ll send an apology letter. If I see him again…

And then another thought suddenly appears: The gala Layne and I attended every year is next week. Do I go? Alone? Do I make a speech? Do I match the money they raise? Do I offer something else for the auction? Do I skip it entirely?

I shake my head and decide to take a shower. I’m not even sure why I’m cleaning Paul’s house.

I step into the shower and intentionally turn the water too hot. My nerves twitch and scream but eventually accept it.

I rarely shave my legs. The last time was shortly before the bridal shower, and that was only because I became self-conscious that all these people would be watching me so closely.

But for some reason, today, it bothers me.

I substitute soap for shaving cream, grab a disposable razor, balance my foot on the edge of the tub, and–

Suck in a breath when I immediately nick my shin.

Fuck.

I drop the razor and apply pressure to the cut. When I uncover it, the running water washes away the blood.

I step out of the shower, haphazardly dry myself, and apply a Band-Aid to the still-bleeding wound. When I glance in the mirror, I see the small scar on my bicep from the Thanksgiving I spent with Layne’s insane parents. I wrap a towel around myself, sit on the tile floor, close my eyes, and focus on the minor pain pulsating from my leg.

I take deep breaths and try to focus on the present.

But I hear a low buzzing, and I know the flashbacks are coming.

I sigh as I open my eyes and get dressed. Once again, I dial the number, and this time, when the receptionist says, “Dr. Muto’s office,” I don’t hang up.

***

Dr. Muto had an opening on Wednesday, and I couldn’t think of a good reason not to go.

She has olive-toned skin, but I wouldn’t presume to know her ethnicity. Her bright green eyes alarm me, and I look away. She’s no older than me, and she’s professionally dressed, balancing a legal pad on her knee.

“So, what brings you here?” she asks.

“Oh, geez,” I say. “Here we go.”

It takes me almost half an hour to tell her everything about Layne and recent events.

“So you’re struggling with coping with his death?” she asks.

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“What coping skills have you tried?”

That takes another ten minutes. I almost leave out the sex with Javier, but I decide I don’t care enough about this woman’s opinion enough to not tell her.

“And what were you trying to avoid when you had sex with Javier? What was it a replacement for?”

“I don’t think we have time for that today,” I say.

“I don’t have a client after you,” she says. “I can extend our session.”

Dammit.

For twenty-five minutes, I tell her about my few rough moments in college, the incident in 1983, the subsequent hospitalization, and that I’d been more-or-less healthy ever since.

“Until Layne died,” she says. It’s not a question.

“Right.”

“It’s rare to see this in adults.”

I remind myself that I’m doing this for Tom. “So I’ve been told.”

“How bad are the cravings, the voices as you called them, how bad are they right now?”

“Maybe a four.”

“Would you tell me if they were higher?”

“Honestly?” I raise my eyebrows. “Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going back to a fucking hospital, and that’s a shrink’s solution to everything.”

“Why not? Did you have a poor experience last time?”

“No, it was rainbows and butterflies, and I just hate rainbows.”

She ignores my sarcasm. “How do you feel when you think about the incident in 1983 and similar moments?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

That’s the pushiest she’s been so far, and I find it refreshing. “Fine. I feel equally terrified, guilty, and exhilarated.”

“A bit like an addict.”

“Exactly like an addict.”

“So you think you’re an addict?”

Maybe I gave her too much credit.

I scoff. “I knew this was a mistake.”

“I’m just trying to get to know you,” she says. “I’m trying to understand how your mind works.”

“And not doing a great job. You came highly recommended, but I don’t think you’re the right fit for me.”

“Sam, until you deal with Layne’s death, you’ll continue to get those urges.”

“No kidding.”

“You’re going to have to face your guilt, sadness, anger, and everything else to move past this. If you’re not willing to face those feelings, I can’t help you.”

“Does that work?” I ask. “Does that little speech make people continue the session and suddenly work on all of their issues?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, not this time,” I say as I stand. “I knew I this wouldn’t work, and now I can tell Tom that I was right.”

“You’ll have to face all of this eventually, Sam.”

“Maybe,” I say, my hand on the door. “But not with you.”