Honey Girl(68)

The fifty-five minutes drag in silence. Barbara-Jean Marie’s pen hovers, and Grace stares resolutely at the clock.

The second therapist is a Black man named Davis Redman. He has flower-adorned crosses on his walls, and gospel music plays softly in the background. He hums along with it, reaching out for Grace’s hands. She lets him, only because she is not sure what else she is supposed to do.

“You feel that?” Davis asks. “That’s God right there, Miss Porter. You hear that? That’s God.”

“Okay,” she says.

He releases her hands. He’s wearing an Easter-blue suit and white shoes. “Have you ever been to church before? Real church, the kind that has us sisters and brothers speaking in tongues, stomping our feet, singing in His name?”

The last time Grace went to church, it was an Easter Sunday, perfect for Davis Redman’s suit. Maw Maw shoved her into a scratchy lace dress from JCPenney with a little shawl over top. Grace kicked the pew the whole service, while the pastor hollered and yelled and sang along with the aunties in the choir. She didn’t understand half of it, but she understood the eye Maw Maw gave her if she kept kicking that damn pew. She understood the stale strawberry candies were to keep her quiet and still.

“Not in a long time,” she decides to say.

Davis Redman shakes his head. “That’s where a lot of the youth have gone astray. I believe with the power of talk and prayer, you can heal.”

Grace scrunches her nose. She hasn’t prayed in even longer. “I don’t think that’s what—”

“God!” Davis Redman shouts, and Grace jumps. “God can fix all, if you let him. Can I get an amen, hallelujah?”

Grace leaves. She sits on the curb and waits for Mom to pick her up. She’s late, of course, but Grace lets the apologies wash over her. She spends the rest of the day in her room, pretending to be asleep.

The third therapist is a Black woman named Heather Huntley. Her office is homey: a desk, two lounge chairs, potted plants along the wall, a yellow-orange lamp. She has some photos on the bookshelves of her and a huge, hulking dog. Her dark skin gleams under the light, and when she shakes Grace’s hand, she smells like cocoa butter. Her black box braids hang over one shoulder and are adorned with little plastic jewels.

“Nice to meet you, Grace,” she says, and Grace figures being called by her given name isn’t actually a sign she should walk out and forget the whole thing. “How are you doing today?”

She sprawls across the chair. “I’m okay. Can I just get some things out of the way first, though? I’m a lesbian,” she says, holding Heather Huntley’s eyes the way Colonel taught her to. “I’m not religious, so I don’t think praying it away will work. I call my father Colonel because he was in the military, and it’s probably a little fucked-up, but it’s stuck now. While we’re on the subject, I don’t want to talk about the inherent imperialism in America’s military-industrial complex.” She pauses. “At least not here. I could probably talk about it somewhere else. I don’t want you to think I don’t find the discussion important.”

Heather raises her immaculately arched eyebrows. She makes Grace feel grungy and unkempt in her oversize T-shirt and ripped denim overalls and backward BARNARD cap.

“Noted,” she says, sitting back in her chair. “Anything else you want to get off your chest?”

Grace mirrors Heather’s position in her chair. “I have a doctorate in astronomy that I’m trying to figure out what to do with,” she says. “The thought of spending the rest of my career doing research with a bunch of privileged people who don’t understand me and days filled with racial microaggressions makes me want to scream. I want—I don’t know exactly what I want.” She huffs and crosses her arms. “Oh yeah, my mom said to mention that feeling out of control in situations makes me feel extremely anxious.” She thinks about the anxiety that makes her scratch at her skin, makes her want to bury it deep in her marrow where it can’t get to her anymore. “I also probably have a perfectionism problem?”

“Well, I’m glad you mentioned it,” Heather says. “That’s probably important for me to know.”

Grace shrugs.

Heather stares at her. Grace glances at the clock. It ticks down.

“You seem pretty straightforward, Grace,” she says eventually. “So, I’m going to be straightforward with you, too. Sound good?”

Grace narrows her eyes. “Depends,” she says carefully. “What are you going to be straightforward about?”

“You,” Heather says. “I want you to tell me why you’re here. Then we can decide, together, if this will work.”

Grace clenches her jaw. The words force themselves from between her teeth. “I’m here because I want to get better,” she says. “I don’t want to feel worthless just because I’m not working myself too hard.”

Heather tilts her head. “Can you tell me a little about what you mean by getting better? Do you think you’re sick?”

Grace is quiet. Years ago, when Agnes was still a biting, bloody, angry thing, the hospital called her sick. That’s what they told Ximena when she was assigned as her companion. She’s sick, the nurse said. Not just under the bandages, but in the places you can’t see.