An Anonymous Girl(19)

You break eye contact and hesitate.

“I like your nail polish.”

Deflection. This is a tactic you’ve not exhibited before.

“I could never wear burgundy, but it looks great on you.”

Flattery. Common in therapy, when a client is trying to be evasive.

Clinicians are trained to avoid making judgments about their patients. They simply listen for clues that will reveal what the client already knows, even if only subconsciously.

However, you are not in this office to explore your feelings, or to delve into unresolved issues with your mother.

You will not pay for this session, even though others who sit in your chair are charged $425 per hour. Instead, you will be compensated very generously.

Everyone has a price. Yours has yet to be determined.

You are staring at the therapist. The carefully constructed facade is working. It is all you see. It’s all you will ever see.

However, you will be stripped bare. You will need to summon skills and strength you may not have known you possessed in the coming weeks.

But you appear up to the challenge.

You are here against all odds. You snuck into the study without being issued an invitation. You didn’t share the same profile as the other women who were being evaluated.

The original study has been indefinitely suspended.

You, Subject 52, are now my sole focus.





CHAPTER


ELEVEN


Friday, November 30

Dr. Lydia Shields’s silvery voice is a perfect match for her sleek exterior.

I perch on the love seat in her office during my second in-person session. Like the first one a few days ago, all I’ve done is talk about myself.

As I lean against the armrest, I continue peeling back the layers of lies I’ve told my parents: “If they knew I gave up on my dream of working in theater, it would be like they’d have to give up on theirs.”

I’ve never been to see a psychiatrist before, but this seems like a traditional therapy session. A part of me can’t help but wonder: Why is she the one who is paying me?

But after a few minutes, I’m not aware of anything other than the woman across from me and the secrets I’m sharing with her.

Dr. Shields looks at me so carefully when I speak. She waits a few moments before responding, as if she is rolling my words over in her mind, absorbing them thoroughly before choosing how to reply. Beside her, on a small end table, is the legal pad she occasionally reaches for to jot down notes. She uses her left hand to write, and she isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

I wonder if she is divorced or maybe a widow.

I try to imagine what she is jotting down. On her desk rests a single manila folder with typed letters on the tab. I’m too far away to read the words. It could be my name, though.

Sometimes after I answer one of her questions, she pushes me to tell more; other times she offers insights so kind I’m almost brought to tears.

In such a short period, I already feel understood by her in a way I never have by anyone before.

“Do you think I’m wrong to deceive my parents?” I ask now.

Dr. Shields uncrosses her legs and rises from her cream-colored chair. She takes two steps toward me and I feel my body tense.

For a brief moment, I wonder if she plans to sit beside me, but she merely walks past. I twist my head and watch her lean down and grasp a handle at the bottom of one of her white wood bookshelves.

She pulls it open and reaches into a built-in mini refrigerator. She takes out two small bottles of Perrier and offers me one.

“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”

I didn’t think I was thirsty, but when I watch Dr. Shields tilt back her head and take a sip, I find my arm rising and I do the same. The glass bottle is comfortably substantial, and I’m surprised by how good the crisp, bubbly liquid tastes.

She crosses one leg over the other and I straighten up a bit, realizing I’m slumping.

“Your parents want you to be happy,” Dr. Shields says. “All loving parents do.”

I nod, and suddenly wonder if she has a child of her own. Unlike a wedding ring, there’s no physical symbol you can wear to show the world that you’re a mother.

“I know they love me,” I say. “It’s just . . .”

“They are accomplices in your fabrications,” Dr. Shields says.

As soon as Dr. Shields speaks those words, I recognize the truth. Dr. Shields is right: My parents have practically encouraged me to lie.

She seems to realize I need a beat to take in the revelation. She keeps her eyes on me, and it feels almost protective, like she’s trying to assess how her proclamation has landed. The silence between us doesn’t feel awkward or heavy.

“I never thought of it that way,” I finally say. “But you’re right.”

I take my last sip of Perrier, then carefully set the bottle down on the coffee table.

“I think I have all I need for today,” Dr. Shields says.

She stands and I do the same. She walks over to her glass-topped desk, which holds a small clock, a slim laptop, and the manila folder.

As Dr. Shields slides open her desk’s single drawer, she asks, “Any special plans for the weekend?”

“Not much. I’m taking my friend Lizzie out for her birthday tonight,” I say.

Dr. Shields removes her checkbook and a pen. We’ve had two ninety-minute sessions this week, but I don’t know how much I’ll be getting.