Chapter 19 – Adrian
ADRIAN
Cora really doesn’t want to be here. She stares up at the Upper East Side brownstone, squeezing her Chanel clutch in a death grip. She dressed up. I didn’t even know she owned a suit, but she looks like a woman from the office. I don’t care for it.
“What’s the lady’s name again?” she asks. She’s stalling for time, probably figuring if we’re late enough, we’ll have to reschedule.
“Dr. Hoffman.” And we’re not going to have to reschedule. I told the doctor to block out her entire afternoon. I had a feeling Cora was going to drag her feet.
“Where’d you find her?”
I already told her this, too. “Dr. Farhadi recommended her.”
She cuts her eyes toward me and brings out the big guns. The blue grows shiny with impending tears, and her lip quivers. She looks just like Pearl.
“Don’t make me do this,” she says. Her voice trembles, and my gut ties into a knot.
“You said you would.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before we were here.”
I’m going to have to peel her out of the car seat. Johnson is double parked, and we’ve already gotten several irritated honks. The street is narrow. If a truck comes by, we’re going to have to circle the block.
“We discussed this. It’s just talk therapy. This is not going to be like it was for you before. I’m not letting anyone send you away.”
“You won’t have a choice. If they put a psych hold on you, you go.”
“No one is putting a psych hold on you.” I never imagined I’d say this phrase as many times as I have in the past few days.
Since I burnt off a layer of skin sticking my hand into a fire like a maniac, life during the day has been calm, maybe because I don’t let Cora out of my sight. At night, though, she’s been having nightmares. She wakes up drenched in sweat, practically hyperventilating.
Of course, as soon as the girls get up, she’s supermom again, doing Christmas things, wrapping presents and baking cookies.
She fakes normalcy very well, but I had a long, theoretical talk with Farhadi, and he says that CPTSD, which a person who went through what Cora did most certainly has, at a minimum, doesn’t just go away.
He says she’s probably decompensating and that the time for intensive treatment is now.
Cora disagrees.
There’s no real argument—she’s getting help. I wish I didn’t have to destroy our truce for it to happen, but her unhappiness is killing me. I can’t sleep when she’s so unsettled, and I can’t relax when she looks so damn scared all the time.
“I’ll be there, right in the other room. No one is taking you anywhere.”
“They can do whatever they want.” Her eyes are distant, her pupils pinpricks.
She hasn’t told me much about her life as Cara Perkins yet, but what she has said made my blood run cold.
Apparently, when she was at the residential facility, she thought she was never getting out.
A disgruntled staff member told her as long as the state’s check cleared, she wasn’t going anywhere, and she believed them.
I understand how that feels, to be locked away with no idea when or if you’ll get out. It’s an odd thing to have in common with a person, especially one’s wife, but there it is.
“I won’t let anyone take you away.” My voice is rougher than I intended.
“I know that,” she says through clenched teeth. “But I can’t make myself believe it.”
“Okay.” It’s on me, then. I hop out and cross behind the car to open her door. She glares at me. I hold out my hand.
“That’s the burnt one,” she grumbles.
I offer the other. She takes it begrudgingly.
“Good girl,” I murmur. She snorts.
She’s not as taken with me as she used to be. Part of me misses being on that pedestal, but mostly, it’s a relief. The more real she is with me, the more solid the ground feels under my feet.
I lead her up the steep limestone steps and ring the bell. We’re greeted almost immediately by a receptionist, a thin man with wire glasses. I don’t catch his name.
“Mrs. Maddox, if you’d follow me. Mr. Maddox, you are welcome to have a seat here.
You’ll find coffee and tea on the credenza.
” The man gestures to an alcove off the entrance hall, probably the original cloakroom, converted to a waiting area with two overstuffed chairs and an accent table stacked high with National Geographics.
“All right?” I say to Cora.
She stares at me, obviously petrified, her damp hand crushing my fingers together.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” I say softly.
She blinks, and her grip tightens.
“It’ll be fine,” I whisper.
“I don’t trust you,” she whispers back.
I try to gently withdraw my hand. She digs her nails in.
“Cora, we agreed to do this.”
“Who the fuck is we?” she whispers even quieter.
I give her the severe look that generally sends people scurrying.
Her eyes grow rounder, and her chin wobbles.
Instantly, my spine crumbles. Shit. Guess we’re going to therapy.
“Lead the way,” I tell the man.
To his credit, he doesn’t question the change of plans.
He ushers us both into a pleasant, book-lined office with views of a rear courtyard.
The bare trees are decorated with vintage-style hanging ornaments in red, blue, green, and gold.
Inside, white poinsettias sit on a side table and on the window ledges. Everything is very tasteful and cozy.
Cora lowers herself to the edge of the leather sofa like her joints are rusted. I sit a little too close so our thighs touch.
I find her anxiety deeply disquieting. My instincts look for the thing I need to fight, but there’s nothing but Rothko and Frankenthaler prints and a wicker wastebasket.
I can’t get comfortable in my seat. We must look like we’re about to bolt, which might be part of why Dr. Hoffman does a doubletake when she walks in and sees us both.
She recovers quickly. “You must be the Maddoxes.” She offers Cora her hand.
Cora blinks at it like it’s a rattlesnake. I reach into the breach and give the doctor a hearty shake with my left.
“I see you’re playing injured,” she says, nodding at my bandaged right hand.
“Not enough to bench me,” I say, returning the doctor’s friendly smile. The burn turned out to be second-degree, but it’s healing well.
Dr. Hoffman folds herself into the Eames chair across from the sofa and crosses her long, boney-kneed legs. She looks exactly like you’d imagine a Manhattan shrink would look. Gray hair in a tight bun. Houndstooth slacks, blouse, and pearls. Expensive watch and sensible shoes.
She’s not the least bit threatening, but Cora is trembling beside me.
“So, Maddoxes, I was under the impression that I would be meeting with just Cora today. May I call you Cora?” Cora jerks a nod. She’s clammed up tighter than a drum. I’ve become very familiar with the look. “Were you interested in couples counseling?”
I glance at Cora. She stares straight ahead, giving away nothing.
“Maybe. Eventually. But first, uh—” I didn’t plan for this. I figured once I got Cora here, my job would be done. I should have known better. If I’ve learned anything about my wife, it’s that she’s stubborn as hell. She’s not going to warm up; she’s going to wait Dr. Hoffman out.
How do you make someone do therapy?
How do you get anyone to do anything? Go first, I guess. Show them the way.
Fuck.
“I, uh, I’m going to go first.” I tug my slacks straight, lean forward, and blow out a breath. We’re doing this. “I’m your patient today.”
“That’s, rather, ah, unconventional. In general, individual therapy is conducted—well, individually.”
Dr. Hoffman’s gaze sharpens. I meet it steadily.
In some ways, I did come prepared. Dr. Hoffman and I have already had a conversation.
She understands what she stands to gain by working with the Maddoxes—and she has a sense of the consequences of crossing us.
I didn’t come down too heavy. I don’t want her resentful when she works with Cora.
Dr. Hoffman raises a thin eyebrow and settles back in her chair. “All right, then. We’ll be unconventional.” She offers Cora a smile. Cora stares stonily back at her like Wednesday Addams.
Without batting an eyelash, Dr. Hoffman turns to me. “So, Adrian. I may call you Adrian?”
“Of course.”
“Please, both of you, do call me Deborah. Is it all right if I jot down notes while we speak?” She grabs a yellow legal pad from the table beside her. “To help me remember from session to session?”
“That’s fine,” I say. Logan can have someone destroy her notes easily enough when we’re done with this.
“So, Adrian, why don’t you tell me what brings you in today?”
I glance over at Cora. She’s still staring at the doctor like a mouse cornered by a cat.
I can’t bring up the car or the breaking shit.
Cora would probably make a run for it. I don’t want to bring up Delaney.
I don’t need Deborah thinking I brought my wife to a shrink so she can make her forgive me.
That’s not the root of all this, anyway. Our marriage—the one I set up—was always going to collapse. I get that now. I just sped up the breakdown when I did what I did.
I clear my throat. “Well, uh, I guess I have issues.”
Deborah’s pen is poised over her pad. She blinks like she expects me to go on. What am I supposed to say? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. She’s the expert.
“Can you tell me more?” she asks.
What else do I have besides issues? What is she asking? The clock on the wall ticks. Beside me, Cora stares at the Moroccan rug.
Deborah sets down her pen. “Do you have a sense of where these issues are coming from?”
They’re coming from my head. That feels like the wrong answer, though. Damn. This is harder than I would’ve expected. It’s like talking to a stoner. Where do issues come from? This is therapy. Isn’t the answer always your childhood? “I guess, um, maybe from things that happened when I was young?”
“Can you talk about that?”
Why does this lady pose every instruction as a question? It’s like Jeopardy, but even more painful.
“I—uh—well, I was kidnapped.”