Whisper to Me(39)
ME: (inside: ****.) Um … It’s just my dad. My mom is … That is … It’s just me and him. And you can’t talk to him.
DR. LEWIS: I can’t?
ME: I don’t … I don’t really want him to know if I … if I come. Here.
DR. LEWIS: I’m afraid it’s not an opt-in, opt-out kind of situation. If we’re talking, he needs to know about it. (shrugs apologetically) It’s the law.
ME: (shaking my head) No. He’d … he’d freak out. He’d be angry.
DR. LEWIS: Your father gets angry often?
ME: Yeah.
DR. LEWIS: Any particular reason?
ME: He was a SEAL. In Afghanistan. He got hurt. And … And he hates me. I mean (**** Cassie why did you say that?) he doesn’t hate me. But he’s always ****ed with me. I have to be super careful, or he kind of explodes. Even little things set him off. If I told him about this …
DR. LEWIS: He seeing anyone about that—his anger I mean?
ME: No. He used to have some kind of therapist, in the Navy, but he didn’t like it.
DR. LEWIS: Let me get this straight. It sounds like you’re telling me that your father has untreated post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in the Navy, that he has a temper that is triggered by even small things, and that if he knew you were pursuing this treatment, he may harm you or jeopardize your recovery. Is that a correct summation?
ME: I don’t know about harm. He wouldn’t … hasn’t … hurt me. But yeah. Apart from that.
DR. LEWIS: Apart from that, you’d agree with my statement? This is important.
ME: Yes.
DR. LEWIS: In that case my view is that it is in your best interests that he should not know.
ME: Mine too.
DR. LEWIS: Okay then.
ME: Okay? Seriously?
DR. LEWIS: (nods)
ME: You called it a treatment though. I thought it wasn’t a treatment.
DR. LEWIS: (smiling) You’re right. I can see that these are going to be interesting sessions.
ME: I—
But then a guy comes in the door, trailing Paris behind him. He’s skinny, nervous looking. Maybe thirty. He’s wearing Dockers and Timberland boots, a denim shirt. My first thought is, construction. I am wrong about this. I am wrong about so many things.
“Hey,” says the guy.
“Sorry, Doc,” says Paris. “It’s five after.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Well. Time flies. Cass, this is Dwight. He comes every week.”
Dwight nods at me. “Nice to meet you, Cass,” he says. He still has a little acne on his cheeks. I’m thinking now more like twenty-two.
“Uh, you too.”
“I think,” says Dr. Lewis, “that the group may be a little much for your first day, Cassie. Come back next week?”
“I … Yeah, I think so.”
He smiles. “Good. Welcome to the group.”
Dwight winks at me. “It’s like a family, but better.”
“Nothing that’s like a family is good,” says Paris.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Dr. Lewis turns to Paris. “Are you joining us?”
Paris shakes her head. “I’ll walk Cassandra home. Like a gentleman.”
“Of course. Well, we’re always here. Should you need us.”
“Thanks, Doc,” says Paris. “But I think I have it under control.”
“Excellent. You’re knocking them dead at Rutgers, I hear. Professor Jenkins told me they’re thinking of recommending you for a grad program at Harvard.”
Paris shrugs.
“Well, go with my blessing. And bring that girl back next week. You’re going to do amazing things, Paris French.”
MOST WRONG STATEMENT EVER.
I gave Paris a little curtsy when we got out the door.
“Thanks for escorting me home,” I said. “Thanks for being my gentleman.”
She bowed, twirling her hand. “You’re welcome.”
“But seriously,” I said, “you don’t have to. I mean, I’m grateful. I am. But you don’t have to walk me home. You probably have better stuff to do.”
Paris frowned. “There’s a serial killer on the loose,” she said. “You think I’m letting you walk home alone in the dark?”
Oh yeah. That.
“Anyway,” she added. “I have nothing better to do.”
It was when we were nearly back to my house that it finally clicked. We were passing a slushie machine outside a corner store, blue and red ice churning, glowing in the half dark of sunset. Already you could hear the shushing of the ocean, as if it were trying to quiet our voices. I think it was her saying that thing about families that made it fall into place.
“Your trauma,” I said. “What was it?”
She looked at me.
“He said it comes from trauma. Usually.”
The slushie machine turned and turned. I thought how weird it was that people were happy to drink it. After it had been in there for who knew how long, just spinning over and over, the color bright like a chemical solution, radioactive.
“Nosy all of a sudden, aren’t you?” said Paris eventually.