Chapter Fourteen
Rosalie
“Do you feel that you’ve forgotten anything from your past?
Maybe some blank spots you can’t quite recall?
” Mrs. Hartman asks. She’s seated across from me, her legs crossed and her brown cardigan folded over her chest. She’s in her late forties, but doesn’t look a day over twenty-nine with her warm, expressive brown eyes, and dark, shoulder-length bob that stays neatly tucked behind her ears.
Her office is tranquil with its soft lighting and the occasional motivational poster to keep spirits high. I’m currently seated on her leather sofa, in the middle of our regular weekly session.
When Charlie suggested I utilize the campus’s free therapy program, I was hesitant. Talking to a complete stranger about my childhood isn’t something I would have considered without my friend’s guidance. The idea seemed…awkward.
How could I spill my guts to someone I barely knew? Would I just be another face among the many patients she sat with every week? Would my story make her judge my upbringing? Judge me?
It took Charlie coming to my first appointment as moral support for me to give it a shot.
Meeting Mrs. Hartman was surprisingly easy.
She smiled politely and gave me a lot of background about herself before our real sessions started.
I know it was to make me comfortable, and it worked.
After hearing her own story of being lost to the foster care system, I didn’t feel so alone.
Our history is different, but our experiences were so alike that I finally felt seen.
Now, I have therapy every Thursday between my classes.
It’s been hard to revisit all of my trauma, considering it’s so fresh, but Mrs. Hartman has been a wonder to work with.
She doesn’t pry when I’m reluctant, but still offers a helping hand with exercises to break down the walls I built to protect myself.
She’s my saving grace.
“I don’t think so…” I shrug. “I feel like I can remember everything. It’s hard not to when it only stopped months ago.”
She nods, scribbling onto her notepad. “Sometimes, our brains can try to repress things if it’s too difficult for us to manage. It’s called dissociative amnesia, or motivated forgetting. Are you able to go back further? Maybe a time in your childhood that seems murky.”
My face twists displeasingly as I try to remember beyond my thirteenth birthday. I draw a blank, mostly remembering only bits and pieces of events, unable to make out anything specific. It’s like trying to wade through water—the memories are there, but I can’t see them.
Mrs. Hartman tilts her chin down, staring over the rim of her glasses at me. “It’s okay if you can’t remember. I’m bringing it up because I had a speculation. Some cases can improve with further support. If you would like, I have a colleague who specializes in psychotherapy.”
I shift in the leather, causing it to make a terrible crinkling sound as if it’s portraying my inner turmoil.
My therapist smiles kindly. “It’s just food for thought. If you decide to continue, I’ll give you her information. Let’s move on to the next point. How are your night terrors?”
I release the breath I was holding, my shoulders sinking down as we enter treaded territory. “Still there.” I laugh uncomfortably.
She scribbles some more on her notepad. “Is it the same memory?”
What she’s referring to is the night Dad tried to cut my face. A phantom pain travels down my neck as my mind circles back to that night, and I lift a hand to my chin to scratch at the scar.
“Yeah…”
Sometimes things are different, like the electricity is on in the trailer, or my Dad is holding a knife rather than a shard of broken glass.
These variations in my memories are a way my mind tries to make sense of the senseless, adding or altering details as a coping mechanism.
They each vary on their own terms, but the fear and pain remain the same, forever haunting me.
“What was it this time?” Mrs. Hartman asks quietly.
I play with my fingers, staring down at my new jeans. They’re light-washed bell-bottoms that Charlie convinced me to buy while we went shopping the other day. They’re cute, but they won’t save me from the invasive questions being thrown my way.
“A knife…again.” I sigh, chuckling under my breath. “How silly is that?”
Mrs. Hartman turns her head, giving me a stern expression. “We talked about this, Rose. Nothing in your head is silly or grasping for attention. What you feel is valid. Your dreams are manifesting fear, and you have every right to express that in any way.”
I nod as her timer chimes. She grabs her phone off the end table before pressing the button to silence it. “That’s it for today, but I have some homework for you.”
I groan, bury my face in my hands as my therapist sucks her teeth at me.
“Homework is good,” Mrs. Hartman stresses with a smirk. “It helps keep our emotions in check and our heads clear.”
“Tell that to my voice instructor,” I mutter.
“For tonight, I want you to limit your screen time before bed. No bright lights, and the meditation worked last time, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she hums as she uncrosses her legs and rises. “Mediate for thirty minutes before bed. You want a clear conscience before going to sleep. Can you do that, Rose?”
I follow behind her as she opens the office door. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“I’ll see you next Thursday,” she smiles before sending me off.
As I leave the office, I pull on my thick lavender coat, thankful for the job Charlie and I have at a local bar near campus. It’s nice having my own money now to spend how I see fit, and working really makes me feel normal.
This whole new life makes me feel utterly mundane, and it’s the biggest blessing. My classes are going amazingly, I’m working at a job I don’t hate, and I’m free.
The dorm I share with my best friend is another gift. It’s our own space that’s always kept tidy and clean. Charlie is the best roommate, never questioning my random cleaning sprees as she helps keep our space sparkling. I think she knows dirty things bug me, but she doesn’t let it get to her.
I check my planner on the phone I purchased right after moving to Manhattan, and see that I have vocal classes next.
It starts in twenty minutes, which gives me plenty of time to enjoy the scenery.
Since my therapist is located on campus, I slow my pace as I stroll past students.
The air is cold, biting into my jacket as the sun rises high into the sky, but it isn’t unpleasant.
If anything, it reminds me that I made it.
Past the trauma and the darkness. All of it.
I’m still here.
The rest of the day passes like a dream, each sequence viewed through rose colored glasses as I finish up projects and listen to lectures. By the time my night shift at Varsity Vat rolls around, I’m beaming with an unnatural energy that’s been hard to get used to.
Even as I tie my black apron to my waist and fix my standard-issued shirt with the bar’s logo on it, nothing can dampen my mood.
“There she is!” Damion, the bar’s owner and our manager, opens his arms when I exit the bathroom. “Just the woman I was looking for!”
He’s a few inches taller than me with sweat-slickened dark hair that curls around his ears. He’s in his late thirties and always has a too-bright smile on his face. He’s far more sociable than Charlie, which is saying a lot.
That girl would talk to a brick wall if it could talk back.
“Hey,” I mumble as I step behind the bar that stretches along the back wall.
The tables and booths that make up the center of the dining area are slowly filling up for the nighttime rush.
On every wall, large flat screens show football, basketball, and hockey games in full swing.
It’s a noisy atmosphere, but I like the busy work that comes with it. It makes the time pass quickly.
Damion has a few glasses propped on the bar as he cleans them. Stephanie, another server, has her back to the customers as she makes a mixed drink.
“I have a favor to ask, Rosalina,” my boss smirks.
The nicknames are probably my least favorite part of the job. Rose Bud, Rosy Rosy, a Pocket Full of Posies, and Rose Dog are the worst ones he’s come up with. Rosalina is when he’s trying to sweet-talk me into doing something I don’t want to do.
I sigh as I clock in at the kiosk. “What’s up?”
Damion slides me a few glasses, and muscle memory kicks in as I begin hanging them on the overhead racks. “The band for tonight quit on me at the last minute…”
My brows jump. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” He hisses exaggeratedly before giving me ridiculous puppy dog eyes. “Charles told me that you are a beast with a mic.”
Charles?
Oh, Charlie.
“Did she now?” I mutter. “It seems Charles has an abundance of information.”
Truthfully, this isn’t the first time Damion has tried to convince me to sing for the bar. He tests my willingness at least once a month, hoping I’ll finally give in to the request.
“You know I don’t do well with crowds,” I say as I hang up the last glass. “Sorry, but maybe you should find someone else?”
My boss slaps his hands on the counter, causing me to jump. “How are you going to face your fears if you don’t perform in front of people? This is your opportunity!”
I place a hand on my hip as I give him a withering look. “You just want free entertainment.”
He points at me. “I am paying you if you’re on the clock. Please, Rosalina!”
“What’s he begging you for?” Charlie asks as she rounds the counter and clocks into the kiosk.
I give her a pointed stare that I know she can feel. “To cover entertainment for tonight. His best friend, Charles, told him I’m a beast with a mic.”
She pauses in entering her code, her eyes flickering to me. “Never heard of him…”
“Mhm,” I hum as I bump her hip.