That afternoon I found my way to Dr. Mosely’s office, scared as hell. He was a well-made, handsome, gray-haired man, about my size, thin and athletic. He gestured me warmly into an elegant walnut-paneled office. I sat down nervously on the black leather couch, my mind in the wilderness. Another therapist. He doesn’t know us. What if he’s mean. He doesn’t look mean. Mean? Uh oh, lots of leakage going on here.
We talked for a few minutes; I tried to keep my eyes moving so they wouldn’t lock on one thing and build that gateway to nowhere. My face started to numb up. Uh oh, I’m losing it. Shudder, switch, and Clay was out.
“I’m C-Clay,” he said, his body tight as a cello string.
Mosely jumped like a cartoon character, socks and shoes popping off, eyes bugging out, hair sticking up, teeth jumping out. “What?! Who’s Clay? Why are you talking like a child?” His voice sounded harsh, scared. Jeez, it’s just Clay. Testing this fucker.
“I-I’m eight.” Clay held up eight fingers.
“What? What do you mean you’re eight?”
“I’m eight.”
“Well, you’ve got to grow up, Clay.”
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs ... shudder, switch, and I was back. Inside, Per told Stroll and Bart to get Clay to the Comfort Room right away. My mouth was trying to form words, but all that came out was “jjjbbbsss.”
And suddenly Leif was there.
He sprang off the couch, feral and angry, and Dr. Mosely leaned back in his chair looking up, eyes wide.
“Hey, Mosely. You’ve got no business talking to Clay that way!” Leif barked, punctuating his words with finger jabs. “Grow up? Jesus, are you kidding?! Are you outta your fucking mind? Don’t you know anything about DID?” He paced back and forth, and Mosely’s worried eyes followed him.
Mosely backpedaled. “I-I just thought he should grow up—shouldn’t talk like a child. I-I guess I shouldn’t have said that.”
Leif wheeled and faced him, glaring. “I guess not!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt Cal’s feelings.”
Leif didn’t bother to correct him. He whipped out my checkbook, scribbled a check for a hundred dollars, signed Leif, scratched it out, signed Cameron West, and stuck it in Mosely’s face. Mosely took it feebly, not knowing what to say.
“Thanks for your time, Doctor,” Leif hissed and walked out with the rest of us in tow.
We sat in the car for a few minutes trying to put all the bottles back on the shelves, checking for cracks. Nothing broken. Good. Leif went inside and I came out, jangling like a janitor’s keys. Shit. I fired up the car and slowly backed out, wondering if Mosely was trying to peek out at us through his shutters without being seen. Way to go, Eddie. You screwed us. Mental note: Trust no one.
Finding my way home was a bitch, reading the directions in reverse, but I made it to Route 680 North, and once I got up to sixty, things eased up inside. My resolve hardened. I’m going to become a psychologist.
But first, on to Ted’s list.