An Anonymous Girl(21)
“No prob, I’ll figure it out,” Lizzie says cheerfully. “Hey, should we get nachos?”
I nod and give the order to Sanjay. I feel bad that I can’t help Lizzie.
And it feels strange to hide things from her, because she’s the person who knows me best.
But maybe she doesn’t any longer.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Tuesday, December 4
You were unsure of the burgundy nail polish, but you wear it today.
This is evidence of your growing trust.
You also select the love seat again.
At first you lean back and fold your arms behind your head; your body language signals your increasing openness.
You don’t believe you are ready for what will happen next. But you are.
You have been groomed for this; your emotional stamina stretched, similar to how a methodically planned increase in endurance prepares a runner for a marathon.
A few perfunctory warm-up questions about your weekend are asked.
And then: In order for us to move forward, we need to go back.
When those words are spoken, you abruptly adjust your position, pulling your arms down and crossing them over your body. Classic protective posturing.
You must already sense what lies ahead.
It is time for this final barrier to come down.
The question you shied away from during your very first computer session in Room 214 is presented once more, this time verbally, with a gentle but firm inflection: Jessica, have you ever deeply hurt someone you care about?
You curl into yourself and look down at your feet, shielding your face.
The silence is permitted to linger.
Then:
Tell me.
Your head jerks up. Your eyes are wide. You suddenly look much younger than twenty-eight; it is as if a glimpse of your thirteen-year-old self briefly emerges.
That is the age when everything changed for you.
Every lifetime contains pivot points—sometimes flukes of destiny, sometimes seemingly preordained—that shape and eventually cement one’s path.
These moments, as unique to each individual as strands of DNA, can at their best cause the sensation of a catapult into the shimmer of stars. At the opposite extreme, they can feel like a descent into quicksand.
The day you were watching your younger sister, the day she fell from a second-story window, was perhaps the most elemental demarcation for you thus far.
As you describe running toward her limp figure on the asphalt driveway, tears stream down your face. You begin to hyperventilate, gulping air between your words. Your body is retreating with your mind into this emotional chasm. You release one more anguished sentence, It was all my fault, before you succumb to violent trembling.
When the warm cashmere wrap is gently tucked around you and smoothed over your shoulders, it has the desired calming effect.
You take in a shuddering breath.
You are told what you need to hear:
It was not your fault.
There is more for you to share, but this is enough for today. You are nearing exhaustion.
You are rewarded through words of praise. Not everyone is brave enough to face their demons.
You absently stroke the taupe-colored wool draped across your shoulders as you listen. This is self-soothing, a signal that you are now in the recovery phase. A new, gentler conversational rhythm eases you into safer terrain.
When your breathing has steadied and your cheeks are no longer flushed, you are given subtle clues that the session will soon end.
Thank you, you are told.
Then a small reward:
It’s so chilly out. Why don’t you keep the wrap?
You are walked to the door, and when you leave, you feel the brief pressure of a hand squeezing your shoulder. The gesture is one that conveys comfort. It is also used to express approval.
As you exit the building, you are visible from three stories above. You hesitate on the sidewalk, then you reach for the wrap and loop it so that it hangs like a scarf, flipping one end over your shoulder.
Though you have physically departed, you linger in the office for the rest of the day, through the final client scheduled for twenty minutes after your departure. Maintaining focus to assist him on reining in a gambling addiction is more of a challenge than usual.
You are still there as the taxi weaves through congested Midtown traffic, and in Dean & DeLuca while the cashier rings up a single medallion of beef tenderloin and seven spears of white asparagus.
You don’t award confidences easily, yet you yearn for the relief that comes with the release of a secret.
Presenting an unremarkable facade to the outside world is the norm; superficial conversations comprise the majority of social encounters. When an individual trusts another sufficiently to expose the true self—the deepest fears, the hidden desires—a powerful intimacy is born.
You invited me in today, Jessica.
Your secret will be kept in confidence . . . if all goes well.
The front door to the town house is unlocked and the bag from Dean & DeLuca deposited on the white marbled kitchen counter.
Then the new, ecru cashmere wrap that was purchased only hours before your session today is removed from its bag and placed on a side shelf in the coat closet.
It is identical to the one you are now wearing.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Tuesday, December 4