Page 20 of Deranged
“Where is your father?”
I snorted. “Well, Stanley Milgrim, like so many individuals today, I don’t have one of those. Of course, biologically, I do, but my mother found it works perfectly for her demographic to appear the hard-working single mother. So I have no idea who my father is.”
He studied me and scribbled on his notebook. “How does that make you feel?”
I shrugged. “When I was younger, I wondered more about him, but now, I don’t care. He’s never been here, I expect he never will, and I just don’t really think about it anymore.”
He nodded and scribbled some more. “And what happened five years ago?”
Suddenly, I felt like gagging, like every internal organ shoved themselves into my throat and refused to back down. I took a long breath focusing on his question and how I would answer. “Why do you ask?”
He narrowed his eyes and surveyed me again. “Because the records I had start about that time, so I’m wondering if your first admittance was in response to an event.”
He leaned out and scanned me chin to forehead. “I can see something happened. It’s written so clearly in the pain in your eyes and the way your fingers are clawing the chair right now.”
I looked down and then released my hands, folding them and shoving them in between my closed thighs. “I…”
“Honesty…remember. We agreed.”
If my mother found out I, for some god-awful reason, considered telling him, she’d probably skin both of us alive and leave our corpses in the ocean. I swallowed and looked at him. Everything in me told me I should trust him, and yet, my experience withhis kindtold me I couldn’t. That I should make something up and then run away. Keep the distance he’d already started to put into place.
I reached out a hand. He stared at it a moment. “Please…” I whispered.
He wrapped his warm hand in mine, and I let out a shaky breath. I’d tell him, but I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes when I did.
“I was a kid. My only friend and I were out late, and on the way home after a long night of dancing. I was sober, but tired. There was an accident. I was driving. My best friend died.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it on the news.”
“That’s because my mother covered it up. She cleared everything up and even a whisper of Cynthia’s name would get someone fired or worse. She’s very good at hiding away the dirt, my mother. If she even knew I told you that, she’d have you fired and probably get your license suspended.”
His forehead gained a line down the center as he stared at our joined hands. “Are you scared of your mother?”
“No. But you should be.”
“What’s that mean?”
I sighed and pulled away from the warmth and comfort he provided. “It means she wouldn’t physically hurt me, but she can make those I care about suffer. She can get them fired, arrested, attacked in the court of public opinion. Anything to keep her name clean and her daughter out of the media.”
He sat back and tapped the pen on the paper. “I wondered why you didn’t have more of an active presence in her campaign life.”
I held my hands open. “Look at me. I was always nothing more than a burden to her. I wonder if I’d have had a better life if she had just put me up for adoption. It seems like it would have been easier for both of us in the end.”
My foot brushed his, and I jerked it back. I couldn’t afford to touch him if I was supposed to keep things professional. I only needed his hand because I wasn’t going to be able to talk about Cynthia otherwise.
I peered up at him. He sat there watching me carefully, then frowned. “Do you ever dream about the accident? Have nightmares? Or maybe think about it randomly during the day?”
“All the time.”
He stared at me longer and then leaned in. “Well, for a start, I believe you are suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, aggravated by the fact you were never able to get help, to talk about it.”
I opened my mouth to deny it. To tell him for the hundredth time there was nothing wrong with me, but I couldn’t. Not this time, since he was right.
I closed my mouth and stared at him. “And if I did, what would the treatment look like?”
He waved between us. “This. Talking about it. Identifying triggers, so you can prepare for them or avoid them. It’s not a life-sentence, but the longer you wait to get treatment, the worse it can fester.”
“But I don’t have any wounds to fester.”
