“TELL ME YOU haven’t driven.”
That’s how he starts our session. I cross off any chance of an enjoyable chat and pop my gum loudly into the phone, a habit I know he abhors. “I haven’t driven. But I can drive. I’m fine. We’ll never know if I can handle things like this if I don’t try.”
Dr. Derek sighs, the sound heavy. “You’ve lost control, Dee. The car, the trips outside… your boyfriend. We haven’t changed your medication and you’ve had no reduction in your… desires. I’m starting to think that you are a danger to others.”
A danger to others. The four words that can get me put in a padded cell, my arms through a straitjacket. Medication dispensed via syringe if necessary. My jaw tightens, and I regret every time I have opened my mouth and told him the truth. He has never taken this path. Never threatened me before. “I’m not a danger.” I say the lie quietly, in the sanest voice I can manage. I cannot be locked up and medicated. I will behave. I will restrict myself more. I can do it. I can do anything to avoid that.
“What happened the other night? The night you called me. You still haven’t told me about it.”
“Nothing. I had a panic attack. I stayed in the apartment. Simon showed up.”
“To lock you in.”
“Yes.”
“Listen to yourself, Dee. You need help.” He pauses, and I tighten my fists as I wait for what is next, as I wait for what I already know is coming. “Maybe now is the time. When you get help. When you move somewhere where you can interact with others in a controlled environment.”
“I’m not being locked up.”
“You’re already locked up. Might as well be getting help through the process.”
“You don’t understand. All these calls, all these years, and you don’t understand.”
“Neither do you.”
I hang up the phone, stare at it. Stare at the blinking duration of our call, twenty-one minutes too short, and wonder what he will do.
He could commit me. If he thinks I’m a harm to myself or others, he could have me committed. I have impressed him, so far, with my dedication to seclusion. But he doesn’t know what happened in Georgia. If he finds out, I’m certain that he will fill out that form. First, turn me in for murder. Then, send me to the loony bin. Either way, seems like it’d be bad for our friendship.
But any action Derek eventually takes will be difficult. He doesn’t have my address. I filled out a client information sheet when I first hired him. Put on it a bogus address. Requested that billing be done via e-mail. He knows my real name: Deanna Madden. Nothing else. All he has is my phone number, a number that Mike has protected in some superhacker fashion that guarantees me anonymity. So if he does call the goons, they’ll knock on a few empty doors, waste a few hours wandering through Harrisville, Utah—then scratch my name off their list and move on. Committing potential criminals is pretty low on their priority list.
I could end it right now. Pay his bill and move on. Find a new psychiatrist, be less truthful about the depravity of my mind. But what little success I’ve had these last three years, I owe in part to him. He knows me. Will call me on my shit. Has the greatest chance of keeping me in line. I, in some way, shape, or form, need him.