Page 25 of You Can't Hurt Me

It was verbal at first but quickly escalated. The soundtrack of that time still stays with me: the crack of knuckle on skin, the pop of bone on slate as the back of Tony’s head met the flagstone floor. I would cry and plead with my father to stop but he wouldn’t listen. Then there were those moments, short-lived, when he tried his best to make up for the bad nights, teaching Tony how to use a camera for the first time, making a skateboard for him.

I could never predict what would push him to extremes, why Tony was the catalyst for his outbursts. Did he recognize a part of himself that he found unbearable? Or did he look at Tony and see my mother’s first husband staring back, perhaps the only man she ever really loved?

Tony’s reading of our childhood, in those rare moments he pauses for self-reflection, is that his upbringing was as deprived as mine was privileged. I was the indulged one and he witnessed me being indulged, he maintains, yet I see it differently.

For me, my childhood was more like a series of isolated moments that I never understood at the time, standing alone outside closed doors, speculating what was happening on the other side. Violence pulsed at the edges, nudging closer each day. Growing up, Tony and I quickly learned to read the temperature of a room. Like a seasoned weather-watcher, I was hyper alert to signs of potential conflict ahead; storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

I look up, try to focus on the neat rows of malt whiskeys behind the bar, the animated faces of other drinkers, the fuzzy halo of light encircling them. I take an enormous breath, steadying myself.

Tony returns. “One more for the road?” He looks unsteady as he plonks himself back down.

“More?” I say.

“Come on. It’s a special occasion.”

“Any excuse.” I realize how much effort it’s taking not to slur.

“So come on, what’s this Dr. Reid really like?” He swerves us back to the here and now, his eyes glinting for the gossip like a shark at feeding time.

“He’s...you know, normal. A bit up himself...” I shrug, trail off.

“You can do better than that, surely.”

I sigh. “I guess, supersmart too. Obstructive, wary of journalists.”

He takes out a pouch of tobacco and rolls a cigarette. “Interesting. What did he say about Eva? The rumors?”

“He’s pretty guarded about her—so far.”

“But you’re going to work your magic on him?”

“Something like that.”

His smile is vaguely twisted, his mouth weirdly distracting. His lips are stained a mauve from the red wine, his front teeth ashy gray. We regard one another for a moment and I recognize that look in his eyes: hollow. Numbed by grief, and now by alcohol. I let the dig slide.

“I want a cigarette.” He screws up his mouth. “Let’s get out of this shithole and go somewhere else.”

Outside, he stumbles slightly on the step and steadies himself for a moment in the doorway. I feel my phone vibrate, check it quickly. A single text from Priya lights up the screen.

I know it must be about the job but I don’t check it for now, decide to stay in this moment with Tony a bit longer. “This way.” I let him lean on me, steering him away from the pub. He lights his roll up, which we share as we sway across the park, the sky dark and velvety. My shadow, my other half.

“I’m sorry for being an arse about everything,” he says, and I can tell his regret is heartfelt. “You know I only want to protect you,” he says, softly.

“I know,” I echo. “I know.”

Eva’s Self-Reflection Journal

15 February 2019

Today, six months from the start of my training, I sat face-to-face with my first patient. For the record, I’ll refer to them as patient X (Janet advises us to avoid real patient names, and even gender, for reasons of confidentiality). Unsupervised. No more trial runs, simulated setups or role-playing. After weeks of almost quitting, convincing myself I shouldn’t be on the course, I felt like a fully fledged therapist.

I started with my rehearsed preamble, how I could work with them, what I hoped they could take away from our session, but I needn’t have worried about formalities. The patient knew everything I could possibly say, having already been familiar with my work, my condition. They were fascinated with my capacity to absorb and objectively understand the pain of others is potentially greater, simply because my brain is wired in a different way.

Within minutes of hearing their full story, listening and reflecting back my thoughts, we both knew we were a suitable match. By the end of the session, I could already see the hope of change—in me and them. When they said goodbye, they told me how different they felt, as if a weight was already lifting.

Later on, at home, I told Nate how promising my first session had been and he barely looked up from his book. I assumed that my reflections on pain and emotion, how it can be of benefit in a therapeutic setting, would be of interest to him. Instead, his eyes flashed with irritation and all he could say was, “I’ve never seen any clinical data on that,” before sloping off to his study. It’s as if he’s shutting me out, closing me down. Understanding pain is his domain, his empire. Am I only of value as data for my condition?

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