Matthew sat shotgun in his mother’s minivan and stared out the window without really seeing what was passing. The radio in the car blared some of Sarah’s music that he did not know, so he tried his best to tune it out. He was already angry enough without having to listen to what he considered crappy music.
Ever since the morning he found out about Brooke’s death, Matthew’s whole life had gone downhill. His mother had been on his back every day, pelting him with questions like “Are you okay?” and “Do you want to talk about it?” every time he tried to be alone. All he wanted was to sit in his room and sort through everything he was feeling on his own, or with Ira.
As angry and afraid as Matthew had been with him after the dream, Ira was the only person he felt comfortable telling anything that might make him seem even the slightest bit vulnerable. He had always hidden his anger over his father except around Ira, and he was doing the same with his pain and sadness about Brooke. He knew his mom would not be able to handle listening to him all the time. No matter how strong Sarah had always been, he was the real pillar of strength in the house simply because he hadn’t shown his weaknesses. He had blocked everything out and focused on school and sports, which also helped take his mind off things, and because of it he had always been strong. Now, with Brooke's death weighing so heavily on him, his cool focus had been broken, and he needed his time alone to rebuild it.
Sarah, however, had other plans. She did not know about Ira, for obvious reasons, and therefore had no idea how Matthew managed to handle his grief so well. As a mother, she thought she needed to step in to help her son through his sadness. She took matters into her own hands and set up monthly, hour-long sessions with a teen grief counselor. Matthew protested long and hard not to have to go, that he was fine, saying over and over that he could handle himself, but Sarah would hear none of it. After weeks of arguing, Sarah finally laid down the law and now, this very morning, she and Matthew were in the car heading nearly two cities away from their home to get to this counselor’s office. Matthew’s eyes never left the window until they arrived at the office.
Sarah pulled the car into the parking lot and unlocked the car doors. Matthew watched her step out of the car, adjust the strap of her purse on her shoulder, and slam the driver-side door before disappearing from view. He opened the door slowly, savoring the coolness of the metal on his warm fingers as he pulled the handle toward himself. He was stalling for time, delaying the inevitable; he hated the very thought of coming here, to this building full of people who thought they knew everything about him when all they knew was his name and number.
He thought suddenly of Brooke. Her memorial service had been a week ago already, yet it seemed to still be going on in his head. He bit his lip, remembering the day all too well—the people all huddled together in a tight circle around the grave, black suits and veils and gloves all blending into one large mass of mourning. Most of the school had turned out, the entire cheer squad dressed for once in black, their blonde hair all tied back into tidy buns beneath black hats. The new captain had spoken for them in the chapel, recalling memories of when Brooke had led them all the way to the state championship. Her mascara ran through the whole thing, and she hadn’t even cared. Natali stood beside her, co-captain now, but as morose as anyone had ever seen her. Matthew found he couldn’t meet her eye.
It had been a maddeningly sunny day, the very kind Brooke had once loved, though now the blue sky and billowing clouds seemed to taunt them, as if to show them how even beauty was gone after her light went out. Matthew had stood in the back, no heart to watch them lower her casket into the ground. She almost wished he had gone out with her, let her have that one thing before…this.
Once successfully out of the car, Matthew strode past his waiting mother, walking through the automatic sliding doors before she had even turned around. As soon as he got inside, he walked into the waiting area and slumped into a big red armchair. He watched his mother pay the five dollar fee, noticing the way the bill crinkled under the pressure of her shaking fingers. When she sat beside him, he turned purposely away from her worried, motherly gaze.
It was a small waiting room, with brightly colored pictures of human brains and cartoon germs lining the walls and maroon, faux-leather seats and footrests dotting the green, waxy carpet. There were children playing at a small, red table beside the door to the main offices, which was painted a dull green. Matthew stared at this door for the duration of his stay in the waiting room, looking endlessly at the worn bronze handle without really seeing it. His thoughts wandered to school, Josh, and, as it always did nowadays, Brooke. He was biting back tears at the memory of the fateful news report when the green door suddenly opened and a large African woman wearing a pink nurse’s uniform stepped out. She glanced at the paperwork she had pinned to a thin wooden clipboard and, in a deep, booming voice called, “Thorne, Matthew Thorne?”
Matthew sat straight in his chair and took a breath. He did not want to do this. He did not want to surrender his mental health to scrutiny by some stranger. He felt Sarah’s slight weight leave the row of interconnected chairs and could see peripherally that she was waiting for him. He took another deep breath, then, leaning heavily on the armrests, he pushed himself out of the chair and forced his legs to carry him down the hall behind the African woman.
“Is this your first time here?” the woman asked as they advanced down the rows of doors leading to the offices of different people whose names all ended in MD or PhD.
“Yeah,” Matthew said, eying a gold nameplate that read “Martin Gordon, MD” along with the years he had been a counselor. He calculated that he had been in the business for almost twenty-five years. Matthew shuddered.
“Well, don’t worry, sugar,” she said warmly, capping him hard on the shoulder, “you’ve got Phillips, who’s been working here for almost fifteen years, so you’re in good hands.” She smiled at him.
Matthew smiled politely, the gesture never reaching his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, nodding a little. The woman smiled more widely, seemingly glad she had been able to help.
They all stopped in front of a door near the end of the long, dark hall. It had some kind of paper covering it so it looked like stained wood, and the doorknob was a tarnished gold one. Beside the door, the gold placard bore the name “Angela Phillips, PhD”. Matthew groaned. Sarah placed her hand on his shoulder while the nurse knocked on the door, announcing softly, “Angie? It’s Thorne out here, he has an appointment at three?”
“Send him in,” came the response, a woman’s voice cool and clear, like a silver bell.
The nurse nudged Matthew slightly in the lower back. “Go on in, sugar. And if you need anything, either ask her or call for me, Betty. Okay?”
Matthew nodded, the line from Pulp Fiction about being far from okay ringing in his head. Betty turned the knob and pushed the door open a little, waving him through. Matthew placed his hand firmly on the fake wood and pushed through the door into the office.
“I’m Matthew Thorne, call me Matthew,” Matthew answered stupidly. What else would she call him? Mr. Thorne? Ha.
“Have a seat, Matthew,” Angie said, waving her arm towards the couch.
“Do I have to, like…lie down?” Matthew asked warily, eying the long, maroon couch with contempt.
Angie laughed, as though she’d been asked that very question many times. “No, no, you don’t have to. You can if you like, but you can sit. Just be comfortable.”
Matthew sat on the faux-leather once again, although he felt a lot less comfortable this time. Angie started to sit as well, but she straightened when she saw Matthew’s mother start to enter her office.
“I’m sorry, you can’t be in here,” she said firmly, the bell-like quality gone from her voice. “These are private sessions.”
“But I’m his mother!” Sarah said, the surprise evident in her voice. “I have ID.” She fished about in her purse for her wallet and pulled out her driver’s license, but Angie was shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t come in. During the sessions, I need to be alone with the patient in order to get a feel about what is troubling him or her and how I can help resolve the problem.” She said this slowly and calmly, as though she had rehearsed it for years and had repeated it many, many times.
Sarah looked hurt for a moment as she gazed into the doctor’s ever-patient eyes, but then she straightened herself up and looked at Matthew. “I’ll be in waiting room if you need me, okay?” She tried to smile, but it was forced, broken. Just as Matthew smiled lightly back, she turned suddenly and walked quickly but sullenly down the hall behind Betty.
Throughout this exchange, Matthew studied Angie. She was relatively attractive, with light brown hair she had pulled into a loose bun with chopsticks, and lightly tanned skin. Her eyes were hazel, leaning more to the side of green than brown, and were blocked slightly by black, wire-rimmed glasses. She was not wearing any makeup, at least not any Matthew could recognize, and her business suit was thin and form fitting, making it look both stylish and professional. She was thin with sharp angles to her body, and she had no identifiable curves at all. He thought she was nice-looking, but he knew by the tiny age-lines around the corners of her thin mouth she was at least thirty, far too old for him.
Not that I would have chased after my counselor anyway, Matthew thought quickly. He shuddered on the inside—the mere thought of it was just wrong.
Angie shut the door behind Matthew’s mother, then turned and looked at Matthew with a small, professionally polite smile.
“So, Matthew.” She sat in her leather swivel chair with her legs crossed, her high-heeled pumps dangling just below the hem of her pant leg. “Your mother set up this meeting because she thinks you might have been going through a rough time recently.” She raised her eyebrows and interlaced her fingers on her lap. “Do you think she’s right?”
“Well…” Matthew started, shifting on the long couch. “I can see why she would think I was going through a rough time.”
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, then,” Angie said, taking off her glasses and setting them casually on the desk next to a pad of paper. “Off the record. No one knows but us.”
Matthew stared at her a long time. Either she was very good at what she did, or she genuinely cared. “One of my friends from school, Brooke—” Matthew choked on her name as he said it. He hadn’t mentioned her in so long, speaking of her was painful. But he wasn’t getting out of this office without saying something. He could at least play nice patient with the good doctor, right? “My friend Brooke died a couple weeks ago. She was murdered, and they haven’t made any headway into finding her killer. The sick bastard was pretty good at covering his tracks.”
The office was silent as Angie studied Matthew’s face. She didn’t seem shocked or amazed in any way. She looked totally calm, like she’d heard stories just like his, and worse, millions of times before.
“How did you find out about her death?” she asked after a moment of silence.
Matthew explained about the morning when he had watched the news with his mom and told her what the reporter had said. Angie stared at him intently, like she was deeply interested, nodding and saying things like, “Go on” every few moments to keep Matthew’s momentum going. Soon he was pouring his heart out in ways he never thought he could. He was getting ready to tell her about his fears that he might have killed Brooke, getting ready to reveal his life-long secret of having Ira inside of him, when he felt the familiar tingle start to spread through his stomach.
“No!” he heard himself shout. He clapped his hand over his mouth at the realization of his cry.
Angie stared at him for a moment, lifting one eyebrow in curiosity and asking, “No what?”
Matthew looked at her with urgent fear. He couldn’t tell her, not now. She’d think he was a crazy freak and send him to an insane asylum if he told her after randomly shouting in the middle of her office.
He wouldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t tell anyone. Ira was his secret, and no one else needed to know about it. Just as he thought this, as though Ira were satisfied with his decision, the warmth in his stomach dissipated. Matthew settled back into the maroon leather of the couch, laying his hand protectively on his stomach, as though the warmth that emanated from it needed to be shielded from the environment around him.
He gazed at Angie, in her sleek black suit and wire rim glasses. She sat majestically in the leather chair, her right leg crossed casually over her left. She was so beautiful, so normal—he couldn’t let her think he was different. Even though he considered Ira a blessing—most of the time, at least—he couldn’t let anyone know. His gaze focused on her thin, nondescript face until he finally found the courage to speak.
He had to lie to her. He hated lying, especially, for some reason, to girls; it made him feel like scum—like his father.
“Nothing,” he breathed. His heart was racing. “I, uh…” He was thinking fast, trying to come up with an explanation that would satisfy her professional caliber mind. “I just…don’t want to talk about Brooke anymore.”
This lie was not only to Angie, but to himself. He did want to talk about Brooke, to voice the fears that had been ever-present since hearing how she died. But he couldn’t. Not if Ira was planning to sabotage the confession.
Angie put her hands into the air at shoulder-level, signaling her withdrawal. “This session is about you, Matthew. Only you can decide what is said in this room. If you want to stop, we’ll stop. What would you rather talk about?” She gave him a quick once-over with her eyes, then added, “Maybe something about athletics?”
It was Matthew’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What?” he said dumbly.
“You look like an athlete,” she said, shrugging a little. “I would guess you’re either a runner or a swimmer, based on the lean muscle.” She smiled mischievously. “Am I right?”
“Y-yeah, I run track and play basketball…” Matthew answered, floored at the accuracy of her response. He had actually never thought of swimming.
Angie’s smile widened. “I’m pretty perceptive. My scores for observation made up for the lower ones in business management.” She laughed. “So…do you play for your school?”
“Yeah, I do,” Matthew replied, and before he knew it he was telling Angie all about how he’d gotten into sports and meeting Josh at camp and everything else he could think of. He rather liked talking to her—she was too genuine for him not to like her.
After explaining all he could about sports, the conversation came to a lull.
“Er…” Matthew said, nervously looking at the clock.
“There’s no time limit here, Matthew,” Angie said. “Until someone else knocks on that door, I’m all yours.” She gave him a small, mysterious smile that seemed to be full of meaning and possibilities. It gave Matthew the chills.
“Unless you want to go now,” she added. She was always careful to give him decisions. “But I’m free all day. I try not to book more than three people a day, so I can give them undivided attention for as long as I need.” She leaned forward. “Anything you want to talk about? What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
His father’s contorted face flashed in Mathew’s mind. He could see him clearly as he walked out the door and got into his car and drove away. He could hear his dad’s greasy voice as he yelled at Sarah, making Matthew’s stomach tighten in anger. His hands balled themselves into fists, clutching ruthlessly at the fabric of his jeans.
Angie sat still while she watched this transformation in him. Matthew snapped back to reality as he saw her hand move to make a note on her paper. He watched her hand move fluidly with the pen. Then she set it down and laid her hand back in her lap so it looked like she’d never moved. Matthew let go of and smoothed the denim of his pants, then stared at Angie, waiting for her to say something. She was waiting for him too. They were silent for a long while, then Angie finally ventured to speak.
“What did you think about?” she asked innocently, as if instead of rage taking over his body she had seen him chuckle under his breath.
Matthew hesitated before answering, but eventually he decided that if he was going to tell anyone about his dad, she was the one to tell. He inhaled the sweet scent of the faux-leather, then began to recount his story.
“My dad, he…he left my mom when I was eight, and I saw the whole thing. That was the first thing that came to my mind.” He swallowed and continued. “He was an ass. I hated him. He worked a lot, so he was never around, and he was mean to my mom all the time.” His hands were shaking, but for the sake of his jeans he tried not to clench his fists. “The night of my eighth birthday, Mom was yelling at him about not being home when I woke up, and he got pissed and walked out.”
His heart was beating a million miles a minute. He had been staring intensely at the carpet as he spoke, but now he looked up and stared into Angie’s eyes. He could see her processing what he’d said, choosing the words that would be perfect for the situation. He could almost see her come to a conclusion.
“Well,” she began, re-crossing her legs the opposite way, “many men take offense when their work goes unappreciated. It might have been that he was just angry for that moment and then felt too guilty to admit it.”
“He never came back,” Matthew said tonelessly. He could see the Jag as it pulled out of the driveway, the way the sun gleamed on the paint as it drove down the street, never to be seen again. “He moved to Hawaii. Mom saw the charge on his credit card.” He was still gazing at Angie keenly, gauging her reactions. But she was careful not to allow her face to change with what she thought.
She shook her head slightly, shrugged, and offered, “Then I don’t know what to say. What do you think?”
Matthew was quiet for a moment. “I think…” He blinked furiously. “I think that my dad was a selfish prick, and that I would have no qualms about kicking his ass if I ever saw him again.” He felt nothing even resembling guilt as he said this, only anger.
Just as Matthew uttered this, there was a sharp rap on the door. Angie stood and moved swiftly to the door and opened it, revealing Betty’s large frame. She was talking in hushed tones, but her naturally loud voice allowed Matthew to hear anyway.
“Angie, Jon’s out in the waiting room, and he’s adamant about seeing you within the next hour because he has somewhere to be. You did schedule him four six, and it’s nearly that, so—”
“Just tell him I’m with a patient and will get to him when I can,” Angie replied curtly. Her voice was cold, and it made Matthew shiver. Betty protested again and Angie finally conceded. She closed the door and looked at Matthew sadly.
“Unfortunately, Matthew, I have a very stubborn client waiting for me in the waiting room.” She smiled weakly, her clear eyes tired, and for a moment she reminded him immensely of his mother. “I’m sorry to cut this session short, but if you’re willing, I would be more than happy to schedule a follow-up meeting so we can talk some more.” She raised her eyebrows hopefully.
Matthew nodded. “All right,” he said, standing and yanking his jeans higher on his hips. Angie extended her arm, offering him her hand. Matthew took it without hesitation and gripped it firmly. “Thanks, Angie,” he said. Then he walked out of her office and followed Betty back to the waiting room.
Angie lowered herself into her chair, her body slouched lazily. For the first time, she had showed a hint of emotion in a session. When Matthew had said that he would be willing to hurt his father if he ever saw him again, she knew her eyes had widened in surprise. She had worked with patients who seemed violent or fantasized about hurting people, but never had she encountered someone who could mention violence and actually mean it. And Matthew was such sweet kid; he just didn’t seem the type.
She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to talk to her next case. The kid she was counseling, Sari, was a sweetheart, but her father was horrible. He seemed like a good enough father to Sari, but he was distant and derogatory, and he never missed a chance to complain about something. She sighed and rested her eyes for a moment. She glanced at the roster on her desk.
Interesting, she thought as she closed her eyes again. Matthew and Sari have the same last name…
She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to talk to her next case. The kid she was counseling, Sari, was a sweetheart, but her father was horrible. He seemed like a good enough father to Sari, but he was distant and derogatory, and he never missed a chance to complain about something. She sighed and rested her eyes for a moment. She glanced at the roster on her desk.
Interesting, she thought as she closed her eyes again. Matthew and Sari have the same last name…