Like Gravity(60)

My heart literally fluttered in my chest as I heard the distant click of the front door closing, marking Finn’s departure. He’d only just left, but I already found myself checking the time and counting down the hours until his show tonight, when I’d see him again.

I barely recognized this girl I was becoming, and I knew it was all because of Finn.

What in the hell have I gotten myself into?





Chapter Twelve


Cliff’s Edge




“And you have no memories of this boy other than those from your dreams?” Dr. Angelini asked.

If I’d been expecting her to express shock or even mild surprise at my revelation of the sad-eyed boy in my dreams, I would have been sincerely disappointed – her face was utterly unresponsive as she leveled me with her clinical stare.

“I don’t have many clear memories from my time in the foster system,” I admitted. “Until now, it’s mostly been fuzzy images. Sometimes, a particular smell or taste would trigger a vague memory, but nothing has ever been this vivid before.”

“When you say vivid—” Dr. Angelini began, seeking clarification.

“When I have one of the dreams, it’s like I’m six years old again, reliving things in real-time. It’s so real – more real than almost anything I’ve ever felt.”

My mind reeled through a series of images: the hands of two lost children clasped tightly; a swarm of fireflies meandering through untamed bracken; the dark night sky, swirling with stars far beyond our reach.

I looked away from her unflinching stare, steering my gaze out the large windows over her shoulder. She had a great view – I wondered absently whether she ever took the time to enjoy it. It was hard to imagine Dr. Angelini looking anywhere other than inside the skulls of her patients.

“Do the dreams upset you?” she asked.

My eyes drifted back to her face, which, unsurprisingly, was blank of any true emotion. Despite her unruffled serenity, I could see the alertness in her eyes and knew that she was highly focused on everything I was saying. The mind hidden beneath that smooth blonde chignon was constantly analyzing and evaluating, picking apart everything I said and inferring the things I’d purposefully left out. More than once, I had to remind myself that this torture was self-imposed – that it was good for me.

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “But not because of what happens in them. It’s more upsetting because I feel like I don’t even know my own mind. I suddenly have all these memories I never knew about, just locked away in my subconscious – it makes me wonder what else I’ve forgotten or blocked out.”

“The human mind is a complex thing, Brooklyn. Even after decades of research and despite the revolutionary development of brain imaging machines, we still are virtually no closer to understanding how the brain functions, let alone why it works the way it does.”

I nodded in agreement; I’d taken Pysch 101 freshman year – none of this was news to me.

“And memory is one of the most mysterious and complex mental processes of all,” she continued. "We really don’t know how the brain stores and recalls information; all we do know is that memories are rarely brought to the surface randomly. Typically, there is a trigger of some kind, which creates a mental association between a current sensory stimulus and one that has been stored away in the mind.”

“So, you’re saying that something I’m experiencing now is unearthing my memories of this boy?”

“It’s possible,” Dr. Angelini postulated noncommittally.

Damn shrinks and their inability to give a definitive answer to a single question.

“Do you want to remember?” she asked. “Or would you rather these memories remained buried?”

“It’s got nothing to do with whether I want to remember or not,” I said. “I have no control over it.”

“Brooklyn, have you ever considered that maybe you’re simply remembering now because you’re finally ready to?” she asked.

I didn’t know the answer to that question.

We moved on, spending the remainder of the session discussing my performance at The Blue Note and my painting project. I didn’t mention Finn’s role in the whole process, nor did I tell her that we’d finally crossed the boundary of friendship.

There was still a significant part of me that didn’t want to admit anything had changed between the two of us. There was also a smaller, yet equally vocal, part of me that was afraid if I admitted our relationship out loud to Dr. Angelini, I would jinx the entire thing, and it would fall apart before it had ever had a change to fall fully together.

As I stood to leave, Dr. Angelini rose from behind her desk and stilled me by placing one manicured hand lightly on my forearm.

“For what it’s worth, Brooklyn, I think you’ve shown tremendous progress in the past few months,” she said, her eyes detachedly compassionate in a clinical sort of way. “The fact that you’re finally opening up and allowing yourself to embrace the past can is extremely brave, not to mention exceedingly more healthy than your previous coping strategies.”

“What, doc, you didn’t approve of the meaningless sex and tequila binges?” I asked playfully, uncomfortable with the serious turn our conversation had taken.

She was being complimentary – supportive even – and it instantly made me uneasy. I knew I was being cynical, but in my experience, people were rarely genuine and sincere compliments were few and far between. Since I’d also never been on the receiving end of many – my father hadn’t exactly been Brady Bunch material – I was wary of the look in Dr. Angelini’s eyes, which could easily be classified as pride.