Chapter Two #2
be hit on, of course, I'm not sure I could even endure such a thing
without panicking, but as it turns out, I don't especially enjoy
being asked if I'm okay every five minutes, or told I look tired or
ill. I'm fully aware.
I ramble pointlessly,
updating Schall on the events of the past couple days—the calculus
quiz I did well on, the fact that yesterday I spent the duration of
an entire gym period hiding in the bathroom—and he asks me some
follow up questions and tells me I'm entitled to hide sometimes if
I feel like it, considering all I've been through, and I appreciate
his saying so. But while he has gotten to know me fairly well since
I began seeing him, I've also picked up on a few things about him,
and I'm pretty sure he's just biding time to ask the questions he
really wants to get to, probably the topics I'd most prefer to
avoid.
"So, Rory," his voice
changes subtly—a little louder and a slightly higher pitch I may
not have noticed if I hadn't been anticipating it—"let's talk a
little more about your dreams."
Here we go…
"They're still the same—the
new ones," I murmur, hoping my reference to their content will
suffice and he won't make me describe the details, but I already
know my hope is futile. Dr. Schall nods thoughtfully and jots
something down on his note pad.
I've spent the past year
dreaming about Robin, my abusive monster of an ex-boyfriend,
hurting me. Usually in the school locker room, sometimes in his
car. It usually started with some innocuous event—a party, a
football game—and then Robin would get angry over something—my
forgetting to call him, losing a game, or he simply drank too
much.
Every scene ended the same
way, with Robin pinning me to a wall or the ground, and violently
forcing himself on me. Sometimes he'd choke me too, and often I'd
wake up gasping for air. Sometimes he'd even hit me, even though
he'd never actually hit me when we were together. Pushed me around,
sure. Grabbed or squeezed me violently, a few times. Though Cam
once said it was the same thing. That assault was assault. The
emptiness and loss inside me sharpens, reminding me that things
aren't as bad as they sometimes seem—no, they're worse.
Before Miami, the only
reprieve I had was when I'd been granted a dreamless sleep. I
hadn't had a single dream that did not include one of those
harrowing scenarios until that trip. But Sam changed that. I only
slept two nights in his arms—and one post-orgasmic afternoon
nap—but each time, he kept the nightmares away. He also starred in
the one and only dream I can remember having in the past year that
did not include a night terror. In fact, it was an exceptionally
enjoyable dream, featuring Sam and me engaged in exploits not
unlike those that preceded that nap. I woke up gasping for
different reasons.
But so much has happened
since then.
In my naivety I almost
started to believe that I could have that—love—with Sam. That it could be
enough.
But maybe it was too
much.
It took no more than a few
hours after we made love for the first time that Sam found himself
in a physical altercation because of me—having to save me from
Robin—risking injury or arrest. It took no more than a few hours
after we professed our love for one another that he came to blows
over me again, this time with my own father, and got dragged away
in handcuffs. Some love.
What good is a love that
does nothing but drag you down? That puts you at constant risk?
That offers you nothing but pain and violence, and threatens to
destroy your entire future? I doubt Columbia University would be
overly forgiving of an assault conviction. They could rescind Sam's
acceptance if Miami PD takes Robin's accusations that
Sam attacked
him seriously—that he
wasn't saving me from anything at all, and just beat Robin out of
jealousy over our history. Complete nonsense, and yet all any of us
have is our word. And my word doesn't have much value, not after
Robin Forbes and his entire family spent the last year trashing my
credibility all over my hometown down in northern Florida.
And that isn't even the
worst case scenario. Because Sam messing up his future over me
would be bad enough, but if Robin came after me again, and Sam was
there… he could get hurt. Really hurt. Or worse. Like Cam. A sharp
pain slices through my gut at the thought.
And thus is the new
direction my nightmares have taken.
I had to tell Dr. Schall
about Sam and me. At first I just told him about the dreams—how Sam
is always there, always in the line of fire… always ending up hurt
or killed. When Dr. Schall asked about our friendship, something
we'd discussed before, I think he already surmised that something
had happened between us. In the past couple of months, Sam has
consistently been a central topic in my therapy sessions. Because
many of my issues center around panic triggers specific to male
proximity—being alone with a man, or God forbid, touched by one—my
friendship with Sam, and all that came along with it, was something
significant in my recovery, according to Schall.
So I'm not surprised that
he's especially fixated on the romantic direction our relationship
had taken in Miami. As fucked up as it is, this psychiatrist I've
known for barely a few months is the closest thing to a father
figure I have anymore. So his pride over my intimacy with Sam is
just the weirdest freaking thing ever. He knows Sam of course, he
treats his little sister, Beth—or Bits as her family calls her—and I
suspect Sam may have seen him himself at one point too.
Schall wasn't surprised
when I told him I love Sam. Or that Sam said that he loved me. Nor
was he surprised that I broke things off after what happened with
Robin and my father. He asks me if I think that Sam blames me for
him getting into these altercations. I don't answer. The truth is,
I have no idea. But it doesn't matter, I know it's my fault, and that's
what important. That's what gave me the strength to do what I
needed to.
"In fact, if you really
feel like you've done him wrong, perhaps you should
apologize."
I blink at him before
letting out a short laugh. "Nice try. I already apologized,
remember?" I know what he's trying to do. He thinks Sam will agree
with him that I am innocent in all of this. But he's lamented his
opinions ad nauseam, so he knows there's no use in repeating them.
He thinks I was an innocent victim. He always says "was", because
he insists that's no longer what I am. He doesn't want me
identifying myself as a victim. Now, he insists, I am a
survivor.
But a year ago, I was an
innocent victim. Maybe a little naive, but that was my right at my
age, or so he's said repeatedly. And now he says that I am
similarly not to blame for what happened in Miami. But I'm not
naive anymore, and so what excuse do I have for putting myself in
such a precarious situation when I knew better? None. And he knows
it.
But I know he thinks Sam
will agree with him, and that I'll listen, because Dr. Schall
thinks I listen to Sam more than anyone. That I trust
him.
And sure, he's not wrong,
I do trust Sam. But I also know he is both protective and defensive
of me, and so his opinion isn't exactly unbiased. Even so, Dr.
Schall won't force a conversation this way. Because I
did apologize to Sam.
And so I remind him of the note we discussed the week after I
arrived back home.
But Dr. Schall shakes his
head. "Doesn't count. You apologized for abruptly ending the
relationship. Not for unintentionally leading him into danger and
putting him at risk."
"Semantics," I argue,
though I know he's right. I didn't apologize for getting Sam into
trouble. Just for how I handled things—for hurting him.
But it's irrelevant,
because it's not like there's a chance in hell of me going up to
Sam—who most days resembles more stranger than best friend—and ask
him if he blames me for something I know to be my fault.
I know I didn't
intentionally put Sam at risk. But that's not the point. The simple
math is, if it weren't for me, Sam wouldn't have gotten into those
altercations. Wouldn't have spent his spring break getting into
fights and nearly getting arrested. I don't have to be a whiz in
calculus to know that he's better off without me than
with.
Dr. Schall makes that
"hmm" sound he always makes to let me know he's reserving his
opinion. It's his way of not reserving his opinion at all, and I
roll my eyes.
Schall hands me an empty
journal and asks me to start writing down my dreams. He wants a
detailed log of when they happen, and their content. He wants me to
record if I do have any dreamless sleep, or sleep without
nightmares, and tells me to particularly pay attention if there's
anything out of the ordinary. He says if that happens I should try
and think what was different about the day that preceded such an
occasion and record that, too.
No
problem, I tell him, since it won't
actually fucking happen.
I stifle another yawn. I'm
so damn tired.
Dr. Schall tries to hide
his disappointment in my negative attitude, but I catch it. He
tells me to let him know if I ever ask Sam about what he thinks
about the whole matter. If he blames me for almost getting him hurt
or arrested. I offer him a faint, sardonic smile and let the good
doctor know I will keep him in the loop. He smiles then, and I feel
less hurt over his disappointment.
Dr. Schall's intercom
buzzes and the receptionist announces my mom's arrival. They shake
hands before she joins me on the sofa, rubbing my upper arm in
greeting. I'm immediately put on edge. I don't know why, either.
Maybe it's the change in the doctor's demeanor, subtle as it may
be. Or perhaps it's the nervous energy I feel emanating from my
mother.
Then again, her nerves
aren't exactly unwarranted—these family sessions haven't exactly
gone smoothly, historically speaking. I think of our first session