Perfectly Flawed (6 page)

When I first walked into her office—cowering
behind my aunt, obviously—I was eight. She was fresh out of school
and excited to be my doctor. And I mean overly excited. “My name is
Caroline Jett,” she told me with perky enthusiasm, shaking my tiny
hand vigorously. Back then, she was different; her blonde hair
curled wildly, framing her face in a naturally fluffy cloud, and
she wore mostly comfortable work clothes. She wasn’t fancy and I
usually forgot that she was a doctor, or psychiatrist. At some
point, she was pregnant with her first child. That was when I
learned that she was married. After that, she started dressing more
professionally and styled her hair differently, less wild.

I still don’t know what spurred the change
and I never wanted to ask.

Dr. Jett, throughout the time that I’ve know
her, tried her hardest to seem like my friend in the beginning. She
tried to get me to trust her. It was useless; I didn’t trust anyone
easily. I still don’t.

Makes sense, right?

Still, she tried. I didn’t speak much in the
beginning. At all, actually. Sure, I told her the basics; how my
day went, if I was making any new friends at school, how me and my
aunt got along. Mostly, I answered any questions that she asked
that pertained to my present. I never told her anything about
before, nothing about what happened.

“Good afternoon, Joey.” The sound of her
voice, low and throaty like she’s been smoking for the past ten
years, catches my attention and I stop looking around the room and
try and focus on her and her designer suit. On the small wooden
table between us, next to the box of Kleenex, is the small tape
recorder she’s used since I started seeing her. It’s black and
silver with six buttons. Three dots above the buttons light up; one
green, one red, and one blue. The steady green means that the small
machine is recording; the blinking red means that the tape is
nearly full, and I’m not sure what blue means. I’ve never seen it
flash before. Right now, the only light blinking is the green.

“What’s up, Doc?” She smiles at the Bugs
Bunny reference, a tired joke that I’ve said since I was nine. I’d
be polite and ask her how she was doing, how her life is going,
maybe take an interest and ask follow up questions, but she made it
quite clear years ago that this was
my
time, not hers. So I
just sit and wait for her to fire the first question.

“How are you doing today?” Dr. Jett asks. Her
hand holds a black Pilot G2 pen, not a Montblanc you would normally
expect with someone like her in her perfect suit and coiffed hair.
She tucks a loose strand of golden blonde hair behind her ear as
she waits for my response.

“Fine.” I bite my tongue before
And
yourself?
slips from my mouth. It’s a habit of mine.

“And school?” she continues, trying to probe
something juicy from me, anything that she can pounce on. “How is
that going?”

“It’s school,” I answer, matter-of-fact. What
would she expect me to say about school?
Oh, I dropped out and
decided to join the circus as a trapeze artist. So no more school
for me anymore
. Maybe then I’d have something to say that’d
shock her.

But I don’t.

However, this is the typical dialogue during
our sessions. I don’t understand why she wants to record them. I
mean, she has my permission to do it. I don’t really care if she
has my voice—all my thoughts, all my problems, every one of my
delusional issues—on tape. It’s just that she could hand write the
entire thing like a minute keeper and still have too much useless
information.

I don’t really have a problem with the tape
recorder. It’s not like she just announced one day that she was
recording my worst moments for playback for the hell of it and she
didn’t care if I agreed or objected. No. I willingly let her
because I didn’t really give a crap when I started these
sessions.

Somewhere in this building, in the deep, dark
abyss of all things disturbing and chaotic, I grow on tape.
Physically—no one can see that. They can speculate when listening,
my voice changes. Mentally—I’d say that was minimal growth, but I’m
biased and self-critical. Eh, I’m mostly self-loathing and
wallowing in my own self-pity.

I’m also a little vain, can’t you tell?

“It started last week,” she continues, not
meaning it as a question, but simply stating the fact. Her eyes
glance down at the blank page on her lap. I haven’t given her a
reason to write yet. “Do you like your classes, Joey?”

I shrug, saying, “They’re okay.” Instantly,
with her simple question, I feel weak, I feel vulnerable. I hate
feeling as if my walls are down, like they’ve fallen with her
words, and I’m exposed. Completely bare. I try and suppress the
feeling. “I’m in four AP classes, so it’s not
too
hectic for
me.”

“
Not too hectic
?” she replies, her
right eyebrow arced, repeating my statement before she continues
with, “Most students can’t handle that kind of workload.”

That
is
true.

“But
most students
,” I say bitterly,
darting my distracted gaze to the open window, “are not me.” It’s a
bold point to counter with, but I just cock my head to the side in
challenge, stating the obvious. “I like the challenge. I welcome
the challenge. Anything to keep me busy.” My hands grip each other
in my lap, my fingers weaving together and unweaving. Anyone that
knows me, even minimally, despite my efforts, could tell that, at
this moment, we are about the breach a topic that I would rather
not discuss.

Dr. Jett? Well, she knows me
very
well.

“Why do you need to be busy?” she asks. Her
hand glides across the page, the pen dancing and bouncing as she
finally finds something noteworthy, something that needs to be
documented for future reference.

I bite my bottom lip, lightly nibbling,
trying to figure out how I want to answer this question. If I
mention the nightmares, she might force me into another sleep
study. Oh, who am I kidding, she would definitely force me into
another sleep study.
Damn me for being a minor
. I don’t want
to go through that again. Soon, out of nervousness, my hand
replaces my bottom lip and I’m biting my nails as the session
continues in awkward silence.

“I like to be busy,” I answer simply with my
finger in my mouth, hoping to leave it at that and move forward.
It’s an easy answer; it’s a good answer. I should leave it at that.
But no, I stupidly open my mouth and add, “I like to be
occupied.”

“Occupied?” Her head cocks to the side
slightly, the loose hair falling from her ear gracefully, a blonde
curl falling down the front of her right shoulder. She makes no
move to tuck it back.

Crap! Crap! Crap!

I blame my stupid mouth for that.

Wrong word to use, why did I say
occupied
? That was a stupid slipup. My teeth transition from
my index finger to my middle finger, clamping down on the nail
until my teeth click together. I’m a compulsive nail biter,
obviously, though I did stop for two months. That’s a personal
best. Now the habit is starting again. I can picture my hands by
tomorrow, nails bitten down, red and bloody. It’s not
attractive.

It’s too late to take the word back and
substitute something different. I can’t just be like,
Did I say
occupied? I meant
—
substitute any other word in the
dictionary that makes sense
.

“What needs to be occupied, Joey?” Dr. Jett
presses, hoping that I’ll openly tell her, that I will confide in
her like a
good little patient
.

My ring finger is next.

“Just answer the question.” She sighs. I
didn’t know that waiting on me to talk was so exhausting.
Not
like it’s your job or anything, Doc
.

I roll my eyes. “Me.” The easy answer escapes
my mouth in a mousy squeak. I feel bare, I feel open now.
Thanks, Doc
. I’ve never been this open with her. I’ve never
admitted anything to her, not even when she was begging me to trust
her, not even as she tried to build and gain a friendship with
me.

“You?” Her eyes narrow as she tries to
analyze the statement to better understand what I’m trying to say
so she can better understand and decipher the thought that I refuse
to tell.
Good luck with that
, I really want to tell her, but
it never leaves my lips. “Do you mean your mind, Joey?”

My eyes cast down to the speckled carpet
beneath my feet. It is gray, overall, with tiny flecks of brown,
black, red, yellow, and other colors I’m too nervous to mentally
identify. It’s not an attractive carpet. I’m avoiding her gaze by
trying to pretend that I care about her stupid carpet in her stupid
office.

“Have the nightmares started again?”

Crap!

With her words, I feel my metaphorical wall
crumble to the metaphorical ground. I’m open for the battle, I’m
open to be wounded, and I am weak.

Slowly, my eyes rise from the carpet, locking
with her steely blues. She knows. Of course, she knows, she’s a
trained professional prepared to read people. From my noticeable
discomfort and my uneasy body language, she nods her understanding
and jots something down. I know that she’ll want to talk about it;
she’ll want to drag it out of me kicking and screaming.

Damn, I hate body language.

“I don’t remember them,” I tell her before
she can fire the first question at me. “I just…” How do I say this?
“I just know they’re bad and they scare me—terrify me.” I shrug my
shoulders, seemingly defeated. “That’s it.”

If
only
that was it.

Immediately, I try and rebuild my shattered
wall, the wall she seemed to demolish with one question—five words,
to protect me from anything else she may ask. We shouldn’t talk
about this, I’d rather we not talk about it, or anything close to
this topic. She is paid to listen to me but I just want to pretend
the nightmares don’t happen—they don’t exist. Since I can never
remember any of them, it’s easy to do.

Until she brings them up.

Dr. Jett, because she
must
know, or at
least speculate, tries to press the issue more. She tries to get me
to explain what I mean and what happened, but my lips seal
themselves and I don’t reply to any of her questions for the rest
of the session. After a while, with a loud, long sigh, she gives
up, clicking her pen closed, and checking the clock. Our session
ends,
thank God
, and I’m on the road heading home to finish
my calculus homework.

Hilary sits at the dining room table wearing
her dark blue robe when I walk through the door. It’s speckled with
golden stars to appear like the night sky. Her robe is open,
revealing her flannel floral-printed pajama pants and baggy white
t-shirt. I fling my purse into the nearest chair in frustration;
drop the keys in the hideous bowl by the door, then take a seat on
the overstuffed couch. I fight the urge to prop my legs on the
coffee table in front of me. I tend to get lectured for doing that.
A lot. I’m a repeat offender.

With all the noise I make, she doesn’t
stir.

“Hello?” I call when she doesn’t notice me in
the living room. I’m basically sitting next to her. She snaps to
attention, shuffling something in her hands. It looks like the
mail. I can see envelopes of various sizes and different
colors.

“Hey, Joey,” she says nervously, her voice an
octave higher than usual. I raise an eyebrow, staring at her
skeptically. She’s up to something. “When did you get here?” Hilary
asks; obviously flustered for some unknown reason. I want to know
the reason.

“Two minutes ago…” I answer, trailing off and
dragging out the words, confusion and wonder apparent in my voice.
If I asked why she’s nervous—around me, of all people—would she
tell me? Probably. Probably not. I don’t want to press it.

“How was your session with Dr. Jett?” Her
cheeks flush pink, briefly, clashing with the orange of her
hair.

“Fine,” I reply–half lying—while I watch her
pick through the mail; some envelopes opened, a few still sealed.
She selects one envelope and stares at it, her eyes narrowing
slightly as she reads the front of it.

“That’s good.” She tucks that envelope into
the largest pocket of her robe. It must be something for her,
that’s why she’s nervous. It’s something that she doesn’t want me
to see. I wonder if it’s something that I could use to embarrass
her, blackmail her, anything to get that extended curfew that I’ve
always desired.
As if
. If that’s the case, then it can’t be
anything good. An admirer, maybe? That’d be cool for her, assuming
it wasn’t some crazed stalker with an Oedipal complex. I just want
to know what it is. “I’m going to get ready for work, okay?”

I won’t be asking about what’s in her pocket,
now.

“Cool,” I answer her as she walks past me to
the stairs on the other side of the room. My glasses slide down my
nose and I push them up before looking toward the stairs, following
my aunt as she walks. Hilary turns to look at me. It’s something
that she’s always done when she worries about me.
What’s going
on, now?
Her green eyes cast over me, the sadness in her eyes
dark and obvious, turning her emerald gaze into a hollow pool. She
pities me, she cries for me on occasion. It seems that she is
sadder that I lost my mother than she is about losing her
sister.

It makes sense. Her own mother died when she
was young, leaving her within the custody of a father that didn’t
want her. He didn’t take the time to be a father before he decided
that it was too much effort to raise a little girl. He never cared
about her. He’d leave her anyplace he could sneak a child within as
he dated, screwed around, and snorted so many drugs; he forgot he
was
a father. Then, after he left her in a bar at three in
the morning, the state took control of the situation, placing her
within the system that would almost lose her, ruin her, destroy
her, creating a little girl that thought love was a fleeting thing.
A girl that believed abandonment was the best she could get.