Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(3)
I thought for sure I’d say all the right things, turn my clients around, and make everyone I encountered see the light. So far I haven’t. Not even a little bit. What I’ve learned in the lecture halls sounded great in theory. Yet I can’t be sure I’m applying those theories correctly. Who am I kidding? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m just praying no one dies on my watch because of something I say or do―or worst, don't say or don’t do.
I’m at a loss around Loretta. She’s beautiful . . . as in otherworldly beautiful. Seriously, if she suddenly sprouted wings and pelted me with pixie dust, it wouldn’t shock me. The problem is, she doesn’t see it, and that makes me sad.
Loretta is sweet, and a genuinely good person. She has great things going for her, yet I don’t envy her life and fear for her future.
For years she’s been battling bulimia. She hates her appearance and doesn’t think she’s smart. She doesn’t believe there’s anything worthwhile about her. When she looks in the mirror, she doesn’t see the stunning girl I do, the one who has me brushing my hair and checking to make sure I don’t have food stuck in my teeth before we meet.
On my best day, I couldn’t match her on her worst. But despite my many imperfections, I like me. I only wish I could get her to like her.
Since I’m in Dr. Mason Shavis’s office, my direct supervisor during my internship, I tap into his inner awesomeness and feign that relaxed demeanor he always seems to have. “What wasn’t so great about it?” I ask.
“I came in second runner up in my pageant,” she admits.
“Second runner up for Miss Lehigh Valley? Loretta, that’s amazing!”
She shakes her slowly head, as if it’s the most horrible news in the world, probably because for her, it is. “Not when the judge told me afterward that I would have won had I scored higher in the bathing suit competition. He told me he deducted points based on the pounds he thought I needed to lose.”
“He said that?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What an *,” I say before I can stop myself.
Cool, confident, and refined. Oh, yes. That’s me.
“Sorry,” I offer when her eyes pop out of her head.
“It’s okay,” she says slowly, like she can’t believe that out of all the peer counselors, I’m the one she’s stuck talking to.
Loretta was raised a little differently than me. Hmm. Maybe a lot differently. When she was attending prep school, I was sitting in the principal’s office answering to Sister Marguerite for punching Carolina Gonzales in the nose. In my defense, I was seven, she was ten, and she started it.
Loretta glances down at her hands, shutting down. But I can’t let her. She’s better than this. “You’re awesome,” I tell her.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re awesome,” I repeat. “People are going to say anything and everything to put you down, especially because of the business you’re a part of. You have to decide if you’re going to believe them or believe in yourself.” I lean a little closer when she simply blinks back at me, gathering my courage. “You came in second out of how many other young women, twenty? Take a step back, look at the others you beat, and be proud of it because you are fabulous, and talented, and kind. And because you are, you have to make a choice whether to embrace how well you did to advance further, or allow someone who makes a career of eyeing women and ripping them apart hold you back.”
The corners of her mouth curve into that “almost smile” she only allows herself. “Easier said than done.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “So what do you think we can do to get you to start believing it?”
What I say to Loretta isn’t textbook counseling. But maybe Loretta needs more than the theories I’ve been taught. Like me, she’s only twenty-four. And when you’re twenty-four, you’re at that weird stage in your life where you’ve taken a giant leap into adulthood, but are still hanging tight to all the craziness and insecurities of your youth. You don’t need a bunch of facts spewed verbatim. You want to feel like someone is listening, believe that you still matter, and that the great things in life have only just begun. I believe it, mostly because with everything going on in my life, I have to.
When I walk Loretta out about thirty minutes later, she’s holding her head a little higher. It’s not a lot. But it’s a start, making me think there’s hope, for both of us.
“Has Miss Hemsworth yelled at you today?” she whispers when we’re almost to the lobby.
“No,” I say, laughing. “But the day is still young.”
Miss Hemsworth is our lovely receptionist. When I say lovely, I actually mean evil. The woman has hated me since the first time we met.
The heavy door to the lobby opens with a loud smack, drawing attention to those waiting to be seen. The counseling center is private and held in high regard. The majority of our clients come from money, but a few of our therapists work pro bono, counseling those from working class backgrounds similar to mine. Some are like Loretta, suffering from eating disorders and mild anxiety issues. But the majority are severely damaged individuals with suicidal tendencies. I catch sight of one of our more heartbreaking cases sitting in the corner beside his father. Poor kid, he can’t be more than fifteen. And there he waits with his wrists bandaged down to his elbows.