Confidential(73)
He wanted to be Dr. Baylor tonight, but I needed him to be Michael.
“I see that it’s hard for you to sit still,” he said, looking down at my gyrating legs. “Has something happened?”
“Too much,” I said.
“Let’s start with some deep breathing. Just breathe with me.” He inhaled, watching to see if I’d follow suit.
“That’s not what I need.” I approached him. “What I need is for you to fuck me senseless.”
He got this shocked look, as if we’d never done it before. “What you’re asking is—”
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you.” I grabbed his hand and put it on my breast. He pulled away immediately. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to assert myself? To find my power? Well, I’m doing that. I need you to fuck me now.”
“Sit down, Lucy,” he said. His face and voice were stern. He was letting me know he was in charge. And what pissed me off was that I could feel it working. I never had a father around, but I was still somehow programmed to listen to male authority.
I flopped down on the couch, my legs spread wide in defiance. “Fuck you, Michael.” Now I sounded like his petulant child.
“I’m worried about you. You’re decompensating.”
“What does that even mean? Don’t talk to me like that.” Like a shrink, when I needed a lover. Our arrangement was bullshit, and I could see that now. Bifurcating our treatment, trying to keep things separate—that wasn’t how people worked. I needed him now, and he didn’t even care.
“It means you’re unraveling. Things are moving too far and too fast. It’s possible I’m out of my depth.”
“What are you saying?” My legs had gone still. Too still. Like they were paralyzed or belonged to someone else.
“We may have taken things as far as we can, in terms of our work together. I know a very good trauma specialist—”
“That’s one of your specialties, isn’t it?”
“A very good female trauma specialist.” He didn’t particularly emphasize the word female, but it ricocheted through me like a bullet. “Dr. Devers, remember? I told you that sometimes I consult about you.”
“You can’t just throw me away.”
“It’s not like that. This is about what’s best for you.” He ran his hand through his hair, visibly distressed. About losing me? About screwing me up? About screwing me?
“You’re what’s best for me.”
“It wouldn’t have to happen immediately. We could take some time with the transition. You and I have a few more sessions, and then a joint session with Dr. Devers. A medication evaluation with a psychiatrist would be recommended.”
I glared at him. “Recommended by whom? I’m an editor. I don’t like the passive voice. Be active. Say what you mean. You think I need to be drugged?”
“It would just be an evaluation. You’d gather information and then make a decision about whether medication is right for you.”
“You sound like an ad. ‘Talk to your physician and see if Happy Pills are right for you!’” I made my voice high and mocking.
“There are no happy pills, Lucy.” As if to underscore that, he sounded truly sorrowful. Because he was going to miss me? Because he regretted what we’d been doing? Because he thought I was beyond repair, a car in flames, and he was just trying to get away, un-singed?
“Why do you think I need drugs?”
“You’ve been having mood swings lately. You’ve been so up and so down. Problems with stability and impulse control.”
“My mother showed up! My boss read my book! Who wouldn’t have problems with stability and impulse control?”
“I didn’t know about any of that. You didn’t tell me.”
Unbelievable. He wanted to off-load me, and he was going to make me sound as bad as he could to make it happen.
All these sessions where he’d tried to empower me, and now my therapist was trying to convince me I was crazy.
“. . . I care for you so much, Lucy, and I just want you to find relief, to find some peace—”
I couldn’t listen anymore. Pure, roaring feelings, all of them bad. He was supposed to help me, but he just wanted to get away.
I stumbled out onto the street, and there she was in the car. Michael’s ex, or maybe she was his current. She was his future, and I was just a joke.
Then I couldn’t see her anymore because tears blinded me, and all the confidence I had, all my supposed power, was long gone.
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 58
DETECTIVE GREGORY PLATH
“Am I officially a suspect now?” Lucinda asks. Her legs are like twin tuning forks.
“You’re a person of interest,” I say.
“But I’m of greater interest than I used to be, it feels like. Should I have a lawyer here with me?”
These women and their lawyers. I feel a little bad for Lucinda. In a way, she’s here because she’s easier to bully than Greer, not because I think she’s guiltier. Though I do think she might be guilty. I haven’t ruled her out, not after what Flora told me.
“You can always have a lawyer,” I tell her.