5. Chapter Five #4
We lost our home, the only place I remember ever living in, when immigration came that day.
It was the same day we lost papá. When I was allowed to see mamá once more, two days later when a lady with big round glasses brought me to visit just long enough for me to cry in her arms and for her to promise me I’d be with her again soon, I had no idea I was losing her too.
Someone else probably owns that home now.
Mamá is probably dead.
I have nowhere to go if I leave here.
Are we in the U.S. still?
Would they send me to Venezuela?
I try to think of the stories mamá and papá used to tell of their home. They always made sure I called it that - their home, not mine. I was American. They told me they worked hard for that. They came so far, never stopping, so that mamá wouldn’t have me until she reached U.S. soil.
I was American. They told me to never let anyone tell me otherwise.
Immigration had laughed when I’d tried.
I still don’t know who was right. Who to believe.
I guess it doesn’t really matter.
“Matt?”
That’s not my name.
But that doesn’t really matter either.
“Matt?”
I flinch on instinct before forcing myself to look at him. I probably missed something important. I try not to let the worry about that eat away at me.
He’s wearing a smile that looks an awful lot like Bryce’s when he’s concerned.
“Do you need to take a break?” he asks.
A break implies having to start again, which sounds awful, so I hurry to tap the card for NO.
“Okay. You can knock once on the table if that changes. Or just get up and leave. You won’t be in trouble for either, Matt.
You can do whatever you like here - apart from physically harming anyone.
” He didn’t ask a question, but I can tell he wants some sort of response. I manage a small nod. “Good.”
There’s another silence, just as heavy as before.
“Matt, I think I lost you for a moment before. After you confirmed that you’d be here for at least a week, I asked if you think you’ll be staying here for at least 21 days. That’s a harder question to predict, for a lot of people, so if that question overwhelmed you, it’s understandable.”
I didn’t even hear that question.
How do I tell him that?
“Sorry, that wasn’t exactly a yes or no question. Do you think you’ll be staying here for at least 21 days, Matt?”
I hesitate this time. That many days feels like nowhere near enough time, but it also feels endless.
Really, it’s probably more about how long Nolan and Bryce will stay here. I’ll probably go wherever they go. If they want me to, at least.
Oh god, what if they don’t want me to?
“We’ve had quite a lot of survivors leave these first few days, but it sounds like most of you who are still around plan to stay for at least a month.
I’m not sure if that helps you decide or not.
” I’d wonder if he could read my mind, having said that with what I was just thinking, but there’s no way.
I can barely read my mind these days. The place is a nightmare.
“Can you try 21 days, Matt? I won’t hold you to it.
You can always change your mind. But I’d love to create a plan for you that gives us at least that much time. ”
If he wants a 21-day plan, and wants me to stay for at least 21 days, does that mean we have to start today so they line up? Because he said no therapy today. He said there was no rush for that.
Is there a rush now? Or does the 21 days just start whenever our first real therapy session happens?
Will the plan assign me times where I have to be here, even when my head isn’t working right? Like a schedule? Will he expect me to come even when I’m more ghost than man? Will we have to start over every time I lose myself in my own head?
Is 21 days even going to put a dent into the broken thing I’ve become?
There’s nothing else to do, though.
Nowhere else to go.
I have no one. I have nowhere. I have nothing.
I’m nothing.
So, I’ll stay. Sure. For 21 days. Or maybe forever. With the name Matt.
None of it is real, but it’s close enough.
I can accept close enough.
I should feel lucky I even have the chance of close enough.
I tap YES.
“I’m really glad,” he says, with another one of his smiles that means I gave the right answer.
“I’m very thankful that you’re willing to put that trust in us to help you here, and that you’re willing to try to stay that long.
I want you to know that I’m very aware of how monumental that is. I won’t betray that.”
I run the tip of my finger along one of the flowers on my notebook, not sure what I would say to that even if I could.
I see him move in my peripheral, grabbing something. I can tell from just a quick glance that it’s a leather journal. I guess that’s fair - now we both have something to write with.
Though, I’m not sure why he needs to be writing. Maybe just to match me on my level? That’s… kind of nice actually. But also a waste of time?
“I like to take notes in my sessions.” Oh.
Right. That makes more sense. He can talk, after all.
He’s able to. Who wouldn’t talk if they could?
Who would actually choose to be locked in silence?
“The notes help me keep track of my thoughts and ideas, especially things that pop up in my head that I’ll want to return to and expand on later without interrupting the flow by bringing attention to it in the moment.
I’ll also note things that are important that I want to make sure I don’t mix up - details, mostly.
I don’t want you to end up having to decide between correcting me on things or ignoring them.
You deserve to have the right details, okay? ”
You don’t even know my name.
Should I tell him my name?
The thought makes something sharp twist in my chest.
I’ve been Matt for so long, now.
Matt is the ghost.
If I let him know my real name, that part of me will die too.
Is that a stupid thing to think?
It doesn’t matter.
Really, that part of me probably died a long time ago, anyway. Way before Matt did.
“The notes are about me being the best therapist I can be for you. This is all about you, Matt. Every single minute we spend here is for you. Is it okay if I take notes?”
I wonder if he’ll have to put my name on his notes. If he’ll write Matt at the top like it was on my file for Dr. Deacon.
I could be Matt, though.
It’s so close anyway.
“You can decide later, if you’d like - about the notes, I mean. We aren’t doing a session today, so there’s no need for it at the moment anyway.”
Right. I need to respond.
Is it too late?
I’ll at least try.
I tap the YES card.
He raises an eyebrow. “Yes, you want to decide later?”
I shake my head this time, starting to lose the energy to keep leaning forward and tap the cards. Would he be upset if I put them in my lap instead?
He lifts his journal a little. “Yes, you’re okay with me taking the notes?”
I nod.
He smiles.
Right answer again.
“Thank you. If that ever changes, just let me know and I’ll stop taking them.
You can write it out for me. Or just point and shake your head.
Honestly, feel free to just take it out of my hands, as long as you promise not to throw it at me after.
” He smiles. It’s one of those smiles that’s about himself more than me.
There’s a name for it. Self… something. “I’ve actually had that happen a few times - patients throwing something at me.
My favorite used to be when a patient threw the tissue box - much softer than other items. If you simply must throw something, though, I’d appreciate your consideration of the lovely throw pillows I’ve added. ”
I look to where he’s gesturing, just now realizing there’s a fuzzy throw pillow against my left hip. It definitely looks softer than the tissue box.
Would he really let me throw it at him? That’d get someone killed back in the compound. In fact, that’s what almost got-
“You can also ask to see my notes at any time,” Dr. Singh continues. “The notes for your sessions, of course. Not anyone else’s. I can make copies for you at any time, or I can hand over the whole book if you ever want me to. I have one for each person I work with, so it’s all yours if you ask.”
It’s not something I can respond to wtih yes or no, it’s not even a question really, so I just wait.
He stares at me for a few uncomfortable seconds before giving me a smile that I can tell is forced.
Maybe not communicating wasn’t the right answer this time around?
I’m already so tired of playing this game. Of taking this test. Of… all of this. Any of this. Of life.
I am so, so tired of life.
“Now, I have the notes from your appointment with Dr. Deacon, since I like to know what medical conditions I need to keep in mind when working. He and I have worked safehouses together before and usually meet regularly to discuss our survivors. I’ve always been a strong advocate for a team mindset when it comes to recovery.
It helps to have a sounding board with someone who knows what you know.
Because of confidentiality, that usually falls to Dr. Deacon.
I like not to even share with the operatives, since they’re recovering too now, in their own way, and don’t need to be tangled up in your own journey.
Especially not if you don’t want them to be a part of it in that way.
And I obviously won’t share with the other survivors.
Whatever we discuss here won’t be brought up in group therapy, unless you bring it up. ”
So many words.
He’s saying… that he wants to share his notes with Dr. Deacon? And keep having Dr. Deacon share his notes with him? So they can help me better? But he won’t share them with anyone else?
And shit, now he’s looking at me like maybe he asked something and is waiting for me to answer. The silence is heavy with expectation.
Is that all he said, or was there more that I missed? If that’s all he said, then the question was probably him asking if it was… okay? For him to share? With Dr. Deacon? Maybe?