LONDON
Breaking glass. Twisting metal. Grinding against asphalt. The smell of leaking gas.
I relax my eyelids, trying not to force the memory. “It’s blackness after that,” I say, lacing my fingers together on my lap. “Can I open my eyes now?”
I hear Sadie draw in a deep breath. “Let’s try a little longer. Practice your breathing technique. Let the blackness settle over you.”
With a resigned nod, I fill my lungs. Hold my breath for five seconds, then expel the breath. I do this three times. Each intake sends a sharp pain into my lower back. My hands clench into fists as I release another lungful, freeing a curse.
I open my eyes. “The pain’s too much today.” I flex my fingers to work out the stress. “I’m sorry you came all this way.”
She tilts her head. “I’m not. No matter if we resolve anything in this session or not, I still get to visit my friend.” Her smile is warm yet practiced. This doesn’t bother me, because it doesn’t mean she feels the opposite of what she’s saying. Sadie isn’t able to experience feelings the way the average person does.
Back in college, we discovered early on that Sadie had sociopathic tendencies, which resulted from a kidnapping she suffered as a young adult. She was tortured for days, and then she witnessed her abductor’s death during her rescue. She’s been able to channel this incident into a passionate career as a criminal behavioral analyst.
Only those closest to her know that her practiced mannerisms are a performance to fit in with society. It’s also why I requested she be here today, to help me work through some residual complications from my own past that I was never able to confront. Or rather, refused to confront. Sadie’s candor and insight might be uncomfortable for me, but she may also give me the push I need.
“You’ve gotten really good at that emotions thing,” I say, smiling. “But you don’t need the farce with me. You know this.”
Her features relax into their natural state. “I do it so often now, I don’t realize it. A reflex. Like I’m a real human being or something.” She laughs.
I nearly reach out to her, but decide to pull my string from my pocket instead. Sadie is one of the only people I trust enough to let my guard down. “You’re as real as they come.”
Her expression shifts, more serious as she seizes a change in topic. “Your most recent patient,” she says, “tell me about him.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Nice pivot.” She shrugs, unapologetic. “Well, since I can’t discuss our sessions…what do you want to know?” I tighten the string around my finger.
“How you’re handling it, and why suddenly after all these years you’re thinking about the surgery.”
“Cause and effect.” I unwind the string. “It’s that simple, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
I bury my thread in my pocket and cup my hands together, concealing the scar along my palm that’s started to throb. “I’m experiencing countertransference,” I admit.
Sadie doesn’t react. Countertransference is a normal occurrence in our field. “So this is the real reason for why I’m here.”
“I am considering the surgery…but I also need to know if I should discontinue this particular patient’s sessions.”
Sadie sits forward, and I notice for the first time that she’s wearing a V-neck, allowing me a glimpse of the scar along her collarbone. Something she’s hidden since the day we met. “Are you irritated during the sessions?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Is your back pain distracting? Could the pain be the outside source for projected emotions on your patient? Are you agitated? Anxious?”
Again, I shake my head. “I wish it was that simple. I’ve dealt with that before.” I pause, mentally arranging the words before I’m able to voice them. “I’m attracted to him.” But it’s more than that…
There’s no judgment in Sadie’s green eyes. “Is it purely physical?”
I lick my lips. “It’s physical…and emotional, in part. Grayson is intelligent. Self-aware. Intense.” I inhale deeply. “He might be the first patient I actually believe I can help rehabilitate.”
“And you want that for him.”
“Of course.” Thoughts on our last session spring up. “He’s a manipulator. And I know the danger with manipulators, but I witnessed a breakthrough during our last meeting. I just need to work through what I’m experiencing, because I’m afraid without me he’ll be sentenced to death.”
Sadie leans back. She’s seated in my chair. I’m the patient today. “You said afraid. Fear is a strong emotion. What else are you afraid of?”
I give my head a quick shake, a mock laugh held at the base of my throat. I know these tactics, I know the process, and yet it doesn’t make being in the hot seat any easier. “You want to know if there’s any correlation between my thoughts of surgery and my patient being on death row?”
She ticks her head to the side in a half shrug. “Is there?”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “I don’t think there is. The reasons for why I’ve put the surgery off have nothing to do with how I’m reacting to my patient.”
“London, we’ve never fully addressed your survivor’s guilt,” she says. “Are you taking any steps to finally confront it?”
“I’m considering the surgery, aren’t I?” I glance at the fish tank. “Sorry. I’m snappy today.”
“No, you’re right. It is a major step to finally confront the fact that you are not responsible for your father’s death.”
Like a slap to the face, her words smack hard and fast. My reflexive response is just as sharp. “I have never admitted that I blame myself—”
“You’ve refused surgery that will correct your L-five and L-three injuries since the accident,” she presses. “You live with the pain daily because you were driving the car that night. It doesn’t take a professional to see the guilt you suffer, that you force yourself to suffer, London. And now that a patient, who you believe can make progress for the better, is about to be sentenced to death, you want to suffer that guilt, also. You’re projecting your shame onto a patient who—if you don’t save—you will bear the guilt for his death. Do you want to risk your career because you refuse to deal with this guilt? Have you ever asked yourself why you feel this need to seek mercy for murderers in the first place?”
Brutal honesty. The reason why I allowed Sadie into my mind. I wipe the perspiration from my forehead. When I look at my hand, I glimpse the inked key beneath the layer of makeup. My temples pound in sync to my increasing heartbeat.
“I need a break.” I stand and head toward the mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. I take a long pull before I bring a bottle back for Sadie.
She accepts and sets the water on the floor. “Too deep for a reentry session?”
I huff a laugh. Then more serious, I look into her supportive gaze. “I killed my father.”
I’ve never said those words out loud.
Sadie doesn’t flinch. “The car wreck killed your father.”
I nod, even though I know better. “I identify with him,” I say. That I’m referring to Grayson is understood. “My patient is the Angel of Maine. He kills ruthlessly. Without mercy, though his moniker suggests otherwise. And there’s not a bone in my body that can find fault with his logic. All his victims were deserving of punishment. And I identify with him, because I’m glad they’re dead.”
Silence falls between us, the quiet growing too loud until I can’t stand staring at the floor any longer. I glance up. Sadie’s expression still harbors no hint of judgment, and somehow, that makes this worse.
“I know.” I clear my bangs from my vision. “I need to stop the sessions with him.”
“No,” she says, shocking me. “You need to delve deeper, trusting yourself to explore both transference and countertransference for you and your patient.”
My brow furrows. “Psychoanalysis? I thought you agreed long ago I was not good with Freudian methods.”
“You’re terrible with them.” Her smile is sincere. “But it would be a shame to allow a challenge to deter you from a great discovery just because of a little fear.”
“Challenge myself,” I repeat, hearing the fear distinctly in my voice. “Is that doctor’s orders?”
Her dark eyebrows raise. “In fact, it is. You don’t need me to tell you what to do, or give you permission. If your patient is sentenced to death, you have to accept it, and accept that it is not a reflection on you or your life. The danger isn’t whether or not you’re developing personal feelings for your patient. That can be remedied. A few sessions together and we’ll resolve them and you’ll go on with your career.”
I hang on to her last words, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s always a downside.
She leans in close. “The danger is in discovering the why. There are certain doors our minds close to protect us. Whether it’s blacked out memories or denial—” her gaze doesn’t waver “—we’ve chained those doors closed for a reason. Once you break the locks, there’s no going back. You may have to accept a new reality for yourself, and that can be dangerous.”
I knew in asking Sadie here I wouldn’t be able to continue to hide the truth. She’s mastered her abilities. “I’m scared that I’ve already begun the process.”
She reaches across to take my hand, and I let her. It’s the kind of comfort you offer someone when they’ve lost a loved one—the pure desolation of one’s soul. Although Sadie is here with me, I’m embarking on this journey alone.
I’m not afraid of what lies beyond the blackness. I know what’s there lurking, waiting. Threatening. I’m afraid that once I set the truth free, I’ll lose the last of my humanity.
“Tell me what happened before the wreck. Let me be your anchor.” Sadie’s hand closes over mine, holding on to me tighter.
Her question lashes out like a whip, cracking the seams of time, and the past bleeds into the present. First, a hazy red at the corners, then the blood covers my memories.
So much blood.
If Sadie knew the truth—if she knew the whole story—then her advice to pursue a deeper connection with my disturbed patient may be different. Beneath my professional obligations, a voice whispers from the dark recesses of my mind. A warning. To protect myself, I have to escape Grayson.
He’s a danger.
I swallow hard. Once I begin, I don’t stop until I have no breath left to tell another soul. “He wore a key around his neck…”
