Chapter 27 Gwen
GWEN
A FEW WEEKS LATER
Rhiannon faced me from her armchair. I sat cross legged on the floral sofa Simone, Delilah, and I claimed each Wednesday night for group. For the fourth week in a row now, only Rhiannon and I sat here, mostly in silence, aside from an occasional question from Rhiannon.
We’d gotten past the, “How are you?” And “Anything new going on?” Before we moved onto, “How have the nightmares been?”
“I haven’t had any,” I told her today. “As long as I smoke before bed, I sleep like a baby.”
“That’s a good thing,” Rhiannon replied. “Did you always smoke weed?”
Was that her way of asking if I had a problem? “I liked it when I was a teenager. It started giving me anxiety in my early twenties, so I quit. Insomnia and nightmares kicked in after I came here, so I took Simone’s advice and started again.”
“If the nightmares and insomnia improved, would you quit again?”
“Probably.” Chewing the inside of my cheek, I squinted at her. “What does that matter?”
“I guess it doesn’t.” She lifted her legs and crossed them beneath her, doing her best to make me feel like this was a casual hangout. Her next question was proof that it wasn’t.
“Did your mom smoke?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“So you don’t know?”
I blew a raspberry. “I didn’t know what she was smoking when I was a kid, but in hindsight, it smelled like weed.
Sometimes smelled like burnt plastic too, which was probably the crack.
Maybe meth? I don’t know. But is that what you wanted to hear?
That my mom was a crackhead? She was a horrible mother, and that’s why I wound up where I did? ”
“I never said that.” Rhiannon’s eyes and voice softened. She tilted her head, her long braids falling over one shoulder. “Is that how you feel?”
“Is what how I feel?”
“Like she was, in your words, a crackhead and a horrible mother who’s to blame for your relationship with Troy.”
My scoff was involuntary. “No. That is not how I feel.”
“How do you feel then?”
“For my mom?”
“Yes. For your mom.”
“I don’t know.” I clenched my teeth together. “Like she did the best she could.”
“That may be true.” Rhiannon nodded, eyes still gentle. “But that wasn’t what I asked.”
“Yes, it was. You asked how I felt about my mom.”
“Everything you just said was a rationalization of her behavior.” Rhiannon frowned. “Not a feeling. So how do you feel for your mom?”
“How do I feel about the way she raised me? Or how do I feel for her as a human being?”
“Either. Both.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I feel sorry for her.”
“Why is that?”
“Because her life sucked. Her dad was abusive, and her mom did nothing to stop it. She ran away from home when she was fifteen. Then she got pregnant with me, by a man who wasn’t much different than her dad.” My tone was sharp, abrupt. “And that sucks. It sucks her life was as hard as it was.”
“That does suck.” Rhiannon propped her elbow on the armrest, cupping her chin in her palm. “Do you feel the same way about the way she raised you? Sorry?”
This time, it was more of an annoyed huff. “I feel like she did the best she could.”
“Not a feeling, Gwen.”
“I don’t resent her for it. She wasn’t a perfect mother, but she loved me, and she did everything she could for me.”
“I believe that.”
“Then what’s the point here?” I threw my arms in the air. “I don’t blame my mom for my marriage. I made my own choices. The trauma from it, having to leave it behind, that’s on me.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Those were your choices.”
“Then what, Rhiannon? How does talking about my mom help me with anything?”
“I didn’t say it would help you.” Rhiannon crossed her legs and settled into her seat. “It’d help me understand you. But if you don’t want to talk about her, we won’t. Let’s talk about something more recent.”
“Like Troy?” His name tasted like vomit on my tongue.
A hint of a smile teased the corner of her lip. “If you want to.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Nothing in particular you’d like to talk about?”
“Not really, no.” Dropping one foot to the ground, I leaned back into the cushions.
“I don’t really get why I’m in here at all.
One-on-one therapy with you is for the girls who are really struggling, and I’m not.
I’ve been here for almost a year. I’m fine.
As soon as I got away from that son of a bitch, I was fine. ”
“I believe that you believe that. But to say that you’re fine, that you don’t need therapy, is to say that your psyche is completely normal. That you’re a perfect human being who does no wrong, ever. Is that what you believe?”
My shoulders slumped, voice softening. “No. Of course not.”
“Good. We’re on the same page.” She did her best to contain it, but irritation tinged her voice. “So if you don’t have anything in particular that you’d like to talk about, my next question is, how are things going with Sebastian?”
“Perfect. Fine.” I shrugged. “No complaints, really.”
“What about Sebastian? Does he have any complaints?”
“Not to my knowledge.” I pinched my brows. “Has he complained to you about anything?”
“No, he says the same thing you just did. Everything’s perfect, everything’s fine.” Watching me carefully, she raised a shoulder. “That’s good. I’m happy for you two.”
“Why did you say it like that?”
“How did I say it?”
“Nonchalant. Like you do feel some kind of way about it, but you’re trying to cover it up with a nonchalant attitude.”
“That’s how you talk about it. Is that how you feel about your relationship? Nonchalant?”
“No,” I said. “I’m really happy with him. There’s nothing I would change, even if I could.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Is there something you think I should change?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Then what would you say?”
Tone still nonchalant, expression still blank, she leaned back in her seat. “I might ask a question.”
“And what’s that?”
“Why didn’t you tell him about David?”
At the mention of his name, my stomach sunk. But I couldn’t show that. “Why would I have?”
“I don’t know. Simone thought you would’ve.”
“What?”
“When Edwards came to Light Up Night. Simone said that you could stay while the two of them talked because she was going to tell you anyway, and she figured that you were going to tell Sebastian.” She crossed her legs. “Why didn’t you?”
Because I’m terrified that if I talk about David, I’ll admit to killing him.
“Because it wasn’t my story to tell,” I said. “It’s Simone’s. She didn’t want anyone at the ranch to know, so I didn’t think she would want Sebastian to know.”
“Consideration for your friend. I respect that.” Rhiannon thumbed the journal in her lap. “How did Sebastian feel when you explained it to him afterward?”
“How am I supposed to know how Sebastian felt?”
“If he asked why you hadn’t told him, that might tell you that he felt hurt,” Rhiannon said. “If he was angry, that may have told you the same thing. Did he express any feelings after the fact?”
“No.” Which was what I liked about him. He handled his emotions on his own and didn’t make them my problem.
“Did you guys talk about it afterward?”
“Yeah.”
“What was said?”
“He asked for the whole story, I gave it to him, and that was it.”
“That was it?” She narrowed her eyes. “He didn’t have any questions?”
Another sigh. “He asked if I was okay. I told him I was, and that was the end of it.”
“Was that the truth?”
Annoyance scrunched up my face. “Are you asking if I lied to him?”
“I think there’s a big difference between lying and avoiding,” Rhiannon said. “After you saw Simone in the state she was in, were you afraid?”
“No, I was not afraid that Troy would show up and beat the living hell out of me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Although, as soon as the words left my mouth, I wasn’t sure if they were true. In my mind, for a moment, they had been.
“Were you afraid at all?” Rhiannon asked.
“Why does it matter?” It came out in a sharp snap. “I had some anxiety over the whole situation. But why does that matter? I got over it, didn’t I? I’m fine.”
“You know what, Gwen.” Rhiannon pulled off her glasses, sat forward, and propped her elbows on her knees. “I care about you, kid. So I’m gonna say this as nicely as I can. What the hell happens to you when you walk into this room?”
“What?”
“Out there”—she gestured out the window, then the door—“me and you are friends. We talk about everything. You laugh, and you smile, and you are a very likable person to be around. But then we come in here, and you’re not just resistant.
You’re combative. Every question I ask, you answer aggressively.
And I want to know why. What happens when you walk through that door?
Why does just sitting here with me and talking about your feelings make you angry? ”
Guilt roiled around in my gut, a familiar sensation I knew like the back of my hand.
There were few people in this world I cared for more than Rhiannon. Even fewer I respected as much as I respected her. The last thing I wanted to do was offend her. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be aggressive or combative.”
“You don’t need to be sorry, but you do need to think about that.” Rhiannon studied me. “What do you feel when you sit down here to talk to me? What emotion do you feel?”
Biting my lip, I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Then what does it feel like in your body?” She looked me over, watching every move I made. “What does it remind you of?”
That, I could answer easily. “Like when I was a kid, and I first started performing. Like I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I don’t want to screw it up.”
I don’t want you to see how much of a shitshow my head really is.
Rhiannon’s stiff expression softened. “There’s no pressure to perform here, Gwen. I’m not judging. I’m just trying to help you.”
“I know that,” I said. “And I appreciate it. I’m just not good at this. I don’t know what’s broken in me that I’m supposed to fix.”
“Who said you were broken?” Her voice sounded softer now too. “I don’t think you’re broken.”