Chapter 21 Beck
BECK
“And how does that make you feel?”
The most well known therapy question slips past Dr. Pike’s lips with ease, and I can’t stop myself from laughing. She gives me an odd look, gazing heavenward to recall the last thing she said. Then she cringes and laughs too.
“Sometimes there’s just no avoiding the classics,” she says, smiling. “And I still need an answer.”
We were discussing Selene’s argument with Joanna, particularly the way it ended, before I got distracted.
I take a second to gather my thoughts, making sure that my answer is thorough and truthful while still maintaining the privacy of Selene and the girls.
So far, I’ve only mentioned Cal by name in our sessions, and I’ll keep it that way for the foreseeable future.
I trust Dr. Pike, but I can’t have my romantic involvement with Selene documented in any way because I don’t know who might have access to her files.
Especially the ones in her home office where she sees clients who aren’t employed by the federal government.
Just looking around, I can spot several ways someone would half a brain could get in and out of here undetected. She follows my gaze around the room. “Something wrong?”
“You should really think about upgrading your security system,” I say, smoothing my hands over the fabric of my sweats.
Dr. Pike frowns. “I’ll consider that. Let’s stay on topic, though, Lance.
Your partner expressed a desire to establish an ongoing relationship with these girls.
This means that they will be a part of your life as well, might even require you to act as something of a paternal figure to them to some degree.
That’s a big commitment for her to make without first discussing it with you and Cal. Tell me what you were feeling.”
I think back to that moment. It’s been a week, but I still remember the steel infused in Selene’s words.
The fear in her eyes when she turned around and looked at me and Cal, clearly worried that she’d promised more than we’d be willing to give.
The hugs she gave us when we told her that we’d been talking about the future and what it might look like to have a family.
The hope we all felt at the thought of potentially building that family around two amazing kids like Isis and Imani.
“Excited,” I admit, pulse kicking up a bit. “And scared.”
“Fear is understandable. The girls seem to have a complicated home life.”
“Their foster mom is….something.”
Joanna’s suggestion that Cal and I were…
I can’t say the words, can’t even think them, that’s how fucking sick they make me.
When I was done being angry though, I felt kind of sad for Joanna.
She said she grew up in foster care too.
I can only imagine what kind of horrors she must have lived through to have such a warped view of the world.
Still, it doesn’t give her the right to draw conclusions like that about me or Cal.
“Do you think she’ll pose a threat to the bond you and your partners are trying to establish with the girls?”
“Absolutely.”
There’s not a bit of doubt in my mind about that. Joanna has been dealt a bad hand, and she can’t imagine an outcome for Isis and Imani that’s any different than her current reality. Because of that, she’s determined to keep them from anything and anyone that might bring them any joy or hope.
Dr. Pike’s brows raise like her interest has been piqued by my certainty. I’m prepared to elaborate, but then she shifts in her seat, signifying a change in subject. “Is the fear you feel rooted in the potential obstacle? Or is it related to something else?”
I fight the urge to analyze, to look past the brick she’s just laid in my path in search of the destination.
That’s the hardest part of therapy for me, staying present and being mindful.
I’m always putting the outcome before the process, trying to mold my answers to fit whatever point I think Dr. Pike is trying to make instead of just answering honestly and letting the chips fall where they may.
“Mostly, the obstacle.” I say. “I’m worried about what it might do to my partner if the foster mom doesn’t allow her to see the girls anymore. That’s a real possibility since legally she’s not obligated to do so. My partner would be devastated though. She loves those girls. We all do.”
The words feel almost foreign on my tongue, but they’re true. Imani and Isis are easy to love, innocent in that way children are but also full of wisdom that reflects the pain and loss they’ve experienced too early in life.
She nods. “Those are valid concerns. Let’s imagine for a second that it all works out. The foster mother is not an issue. The girls are in the care of you and your partners. What fears come up for you then?”
Knowing it helps me envision things, I allow my eyes to fall shut and breathe, listening for the honest answer to her question.
“Normal things like if I’m doing a good job and setting a good example.
If I’m too hard on them or too impatient.
If they know that I only want what’s best for them.
If the love we give them will be enough to heal whatever has been broken in them. ”
“Good,” she says, voice soft. “And beyond that? Are there any concerns about worthiness? Any doubts about whether you deserve this life with your partners and the girls?”
If I would have followed my original desire to try and map the conversation, I would have known that we were going to end up here.
Because I didn’t, I’m a little caught off guard.
I shouldn’t be, though. We’ve been doing this work since I returned to therapy, following the thread that started with my belief that I am a monster all the way back to being given up by my birth parents.
Apparently, I’d internalized that early trauma, allowing it and the neglect and abuse that followed to make me believe I was unlovable.
Some bad, broken, monstrous thing that was rotten from the start.
From that point on, every loss, every hurt, everything I did and even the things that were done to me became proof of that fact.
I’ve held tight to that belief for so long, allowing it to send me into spirals of shame and feelings of unworthiness.
Once we unpacked that, Dr. Pike introduced EMDR into our sessions, walking me through reprocessing specific memories related to the negative belief so we could install new, positive ones.
I reach for that belief now, holding tight to the affirming words that tell me I deserve good things.
“Some,” I admit, knowing better than to lie and pretend I’m fully healed. “But those thoughts aren’t louder than the love.”
A smile curves my lips, and I open my eyes, watching Dr. Pike watch me.
“Diana used to say that,” I tell her. “She’d get mad at me for something and still want to hold my hand or cook dinner together.
I could never understand it. When I asked her why, she’d just smile and say ‘the anger isn’t louder than the love’. ”
I rub at my chest as a pang of fondness hits me. “God, I miss that woman.”
“Do you find yourself thinking of her and Cameron more or less often now?”
“I think of them every day. They never leave me.”
“That’s not in question. I asked if you think of them more now that you’re on the verge of building this new life with your partners and, potentially, these young ladies you’ve all grown to care for.
” She crosses her legs, assessing me. I’m sure she sees the discomfort knotting my muscles.
“There’s no right or wrong answer here, Lance. ”
“So, it would be okay if I said it’s less?”
“As long as it’s true,” she says.
“It is.” I swallow, feeling sick to my stomach. “That doesn’t feel right, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because it feels like I’m forgetting, and I don’t get to do that.”
“Is that what you’re doing? In the last few minutes, you’ve shared something of your wife that I’m going to take into my own marriage and told me that you think of her and your son every day. That doesn’t sound like forgetting to me.”
“But it’s not like it was before,” I protest. “I used to spend hours lost in memories of Dianna or daydreams of Cameron. Now, I get so caught up in Cal and Sel—” I follow the rest of the syllables in Selene’s name and start again.
“In Cal and our other partner, the challenges we’re facing and the life we want to have together. It feels like forgetting.”
“Or maybe it’s simply moving on.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No, Lance, it’s not. Forgetting would mean wiping them from your mind.
It would mean you don’t think of them at all, and you’ve just told me that isn’t true.
What you’re doing is crafting a life for yourself that honors new love while holding space for the love that’s been lost. That is a beautiful, brave thing to do, and you shouldn’t feel guilty about that, only proud. ”
An hour later, I’m standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the packed deli Selene is currently obsessed with to pick up the lunch order I called in for me, her, Cal and Monique before I made the thirty minute drive across town from Dr. Pike’s office.
I was hoping to beat the lunch hour rush, but apparently it started early today.
It was packed when I walked in here, but I was lucky enough to grab a spot right by the door, which is where I’ve been for the last thirty minutes, turning the pearl of wisdom the good doctor gave me before the session ended over in my mind.
Her even tone and genuine expression left me with no choice but to believe she was being sincere, but I’m still having trouble accepting her assessment.
“Order for Beckham!”
Eager to get out of the crowded space, I rush to the counter, grab the food and drop a tip in the jar at the register for the clearly overworked staff.
I push through the crowd, sorting through the bodies that stepped into the space I cleared when I approached, and find myself face-to-face with Mason Woodard and Patrick Garrison.
I only know their first names because Agent Shaw sent us the internal memo that went out about their ‘promotion’ just before her access to her email was revoked.
They’re dressed for work, but Aubrey would never come this far out for lunch, and if he was around the entire block would be shut down.
Neither of them seem to recognize me at first, so for a second, we’re just staring at each other.
Me, seething and murderous. Them, entitled, mediocre and confused.
“Can we help you?” Garrison asks. He’s taller than his counterpart with blonde hair that hugs his scalp.
Woodard sizes me up and then grins, bumping Garrison with his elbow. “It’s one of the boys we had to throw out of the White House on their ass. Which one are you? Beckham or Drake?”
“I’m the one who’ll put his foot up your ass if you keep talking.”
Garrison whoops loudly, drawing the attention of the other customers. “You hear that, Woody? Fucker thinks he can handle us both all on his own. You couldn’t even take us when your sorry ass partner was around.”
“Let’s step outside and see.”
He balks, clearly expecting me to be intimidated by being outnumbered.
Cal being here would certainly make it easier to lay them both out, but his absence doesn’t impact my confidence nor my ability to do so.
Garrison tries to step forward, but Woodard stops him with an arm across his chest, shaking his head in warning.
“Not here. Not now.”
I look between them, smiling when Garrison steps back. “Soon,” I promise him, bumping his shoulder on my way out the door.
When I get to my car, I’m still put off by their appearance.
I don’t know anything about the men, but they hardly seem the type to be wearing suits in the middle of August when they don’t have to.
Thinking back to the discussion Selene, Cal, and I had about their spots in the Service being funded by someone other than Aubrey, I decide to do a mini stake out and see if they’ll lead me to the unidentified benefactor.
They emerge from the deli twenty minutes after me, climbing into a sleek, black Audi with DC plates.
I snap pictures from afar even though I’ve already committed the plate to memory, making sure to capture the two assholes getting into the vehicle so the link between them and whoever owns the car is concrete.
When they pull away from the curb, I wait a beat before following and then get into the same lane they’re in, just a few cars behind.
As we approach a stoplight, my phone starts to ring. I use the button on my steering wheel to accept the call, smiling even though Cal’s about to rip me a new one for taking so long with lunch.
“I know. I know. I should have been there already, but I ran into Garrison and Woodard and—”
“Beck.”
The smile falls off my face immediately. “What’s wrong?”
Any thoughts of following the lead that fell into my lap were pushed to the side the moment I heard the graveness in his tone, but when Cal starts speaking, detailing the development of an old threat finding fresh life while we were focused on untangling the web that is Aubrey Taylor, they dissolve completely.
All that’s left is the familiar clang of metal dropping into place. The grinding of gears. The churning of an engine. The awakening of a machine made for destruction. The pending promise of certain doom.