ANNASOPHIA
Rachel Hamilton suggests we—Soshanna included—go outside. “Fresh air often helps in these kinds of situations.”
My insides jiggle.
Nerves. Plus an intense need to urinate ten minutes after emptying my bladder. I exhale and visualize tightening muscles in my pelvic floor. Like static on TV, another image interrupts. Me, duck-walking a hundred steps to the restroom …with pee running down my legs.
Damn, what message would that send?
That I’m so stressed, I can’t control the body functions three year olds manage.
That I’m so scared I need a diaper.
That I’ve lost all judgment and obviously can’t help drive my daughter’s therapy.
Aware Soshanna and Rachel Hamilton are watching me as if I’ve failed a timed exam, I lick my lips, shake my head, and take control. “I prefer staying inside.”
“Fine,” Rachel says, but her tone yells, Stubborn. Negative. Uncooperative.
“Where do you want us to sit?”
“Where would you like to sit?”
Oh, shit, not that answering a question with another shrink-question shit.
“On the floor. My back hurts.” I flinch at the whine in my voice, but cross my legs and lower my butt to the thick carpet. “What about you, Sanna?”
At first, I think my best friend is going to support me and sit on the floor, too. Instead, she chooses a spot on the sofa. She’s less than an arm’s length away, but my pulse pounds as if I’m alone in a hostile country where I don’t understand the inhabitants’ language.
Rachel chooses an armchair on my other side. For three or four breaths, I focus on her dainty feet. They dangle two, three inches above the carpet. When I face her, I can’t see Soshanna. Is the shrink deliberately stoking my paranoia?
She lays a notebook on her lap, opens it to a clean page, rubs the seam with her thumb, and looks up at me, her huge eyes luminous behind the over-sized glasses. “Where would you like to begin, AnnaSophia?”
“Give me some idea of how I get Alexandra back home.” The belligerence in my tone proves shock and fear bring out the worst in me. Too bad, Doctor Shrink. Deal with it.
“Without your cooperation, I’d say three months. With your cooperation, we can hope for quicker results.”
A hot jolt of adrenaline shoots into my limbic brain. I jump up from the floor and slap my hands on my hips. “What kind of answer is that?”
“Anna—”
Rachel wiggles two fingers at Soshanna, but speaks to me. “The kind of answer your question merits. I could—if I chose—send Alexandra home tonight. Shoot her up with drugs. Turn her into a zombie. Cripple her spirit. Guarantee she’ll make another attempt at suicide—”
“She never attempted suicide. Soshanna has that all wrong. I’m her mother, dammit. I should know ...” Tears thicken my voice, and the bang of my protest runs down to a whimper.
A box of tissues held by a disembodied hand appears under my nose.
Go to hell. I shake my head, and snot slides along two parallel paths to my upper lip. Snuffling, I drag the back of my hand under my nose, feeling an icepick jab to my chest that travels down to my bladder—ready to pop like a water-filled balloon. My mind rattles, tries to snag a fragment of lucidity, but merges with the slow-mo frames of Alexandra and that razor.
The precise angle over her ankle.
Practice makes precise.
The razor sliding off her ankle.
A shallow cut—this time.
The image loops in my brain, leaving a toxic trail with each iteration, making it harder and harder to cling to my denial. Rachel Hamilton sits still as a sniper.
At that second, I hate her. I’d love to yank on one of her little feet and pull her off that chair onto the floor and yell right in her face, What do you know? She’s my daughter. I love her. She can’t be BPD. I won’t let her shut me out. I won’t. Not matter what. I won’t. I won’t.
Imagination and reality collide. In my rage, I yell my mental proclamation. I want the shrink to hear me.
Really hear me.
She doesn’t blink so I’m unsure. The box of tissues remains right in front of me.
All I have to do is reach out ...