Page 19 of The Last Session

“You’ve been through testing and observation, so you’ll probably come back to our unit soon.” I cleared my throat. “We can help you figure out next steps. Like where you’d like to be transferred.” I hated bringing it up, but Catherine clearly needed support.

“Great.”

I slipped my hand in my pocket for my phone and my fingers brushed crinkled paper. “Hey, did you have a therapist in LA?”

Her eyes remained blank.

“Dr….” I pulled out the note. “… Clint?”

Her eyes widened in recognition. “Clint. Yeah.”

“Great.” I couldn’t read her expression. “I can give you his number if you’d like to coordinate with him.”

“Sure.”

I handed her the paper, suddenly certain this man hadn’t been her therapist. Her fingers were cold and they closed tight around the scrap. I’d taken a picture of the number before coming upstairs. I wasn’t sure why, but I’d wanted to have it.

“Anything else you’d like to talk about?” I asked.

“No. See you later, Thea.” She closed her eyes, and I left the space feeling strangely giddy. Catherine O’Brien knew my name.

And more than that—she’d commented on our likeness and our birthdays. It felt strangely validating to my thirteen-year-old self. Even if she’d soon be whisked out of here, back to California. Even if I never saw her again.

11

The next morning, Lydia accosted me by the break room. “She’s back. Your friend.”

My friend? Before I could say anything, she went on. “Why is she still here?”

“Catherine? It’s because she needs help.” I said the words gently.

“This place isn’t for fucking rich girls.” Lydia’s blue eyes narrowed.

I sighed; I hadn’t even had coffee yet. “She’s having a hard time, too, Lydia.”

“Oh, I get it.” Lydia sneered. “You rich girls stick together, huh?”

“You thinkI’mrich?” I scoffed, unable to keep the irritation from rising. “So I just work here for fun, right?”

“You won’t be here long.” Lydia crossed her arms. “You’ll get your practice hours or whatever and then you’ll jump ship. I know how you see us. You look down on us.”

The words stung. I put a lot of effort into making it clear that I respected the clients here, even the ones who sometimes challenged me. I understood how dehumanizing it could be to survive here, when you had no other choice.

And yet. There was something to her words, a truth deep down that I could only catch a glimpse of. Maybe I didn’t look down on patients, but in some ways, I did distance myself. Because of my role, I got to stay on the side of helper versus helpee. And in the process of helping those with mental health challenges, I was able to plant myself firmly in the category of: sane.

Lydia grinned, as if she could see my discomfort. “Guess what, Red. You’re just as crazy as any of us. You just hide it well.”

The words caused a sliding sensation, like I’d been standing on a cliff and the ground was dissolving under my feet. My heart pounded as panic spread through my chest. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed past her into the break room. I sucked in a deep breath. My hands were shaking.

What was happening? I hadn’t had a panic attack since college. This wasn’t a full-blown one—it was more like hovering on the edge, but still. I took deep breaths as I poured a cup of coffee, relieved when the distress started to abate.

It was just stress, that’s all. I’d been attacked two days ago, for god’s sake. Plus all the Adam and Pastor John stuff had gotten kicked up by Melissa’s messages and the twenty-year reunion. Throw in this confrontation with Lydia, and of course I was a little on edge.

I’d never been good at conflict. Growing up, my parents never fought in front of me; in fact, the angrier they got, the more polite they became. But I wasn’t an idiot. I could always sense it, bubbling just below the surface. Mom had been a fiery-haired small-town beauty queen who’d wanted a full household of kids. But they’d run into fertility issues after having me, and my dad had declared that it was God’s will for them to stop trying. Her postpartum depression had never really gone away, and she spent her years as a homemaker cleaning the house to what I now knew was an obsessive degree. Dad seemed not to notice; he was often traveling for his pharmaceutical managerial job anyway.

When fighting, they’d retreat to different parts of the house—Mom to their bedroom, Dad to the living room. Sometimes I’d hear Mom crying behind her closed door, on the phone with her sister. But Dad, relaxing on the couch with a newspaper, was always stoic. After all, he was the man, and in our Christian family, that meant that he automatically won.

On my rounds, I stopped at the conference room. Inside, Catherine sat across from Amani, listening to her large headphones. Seeing her gave me a burst of energy. Catherine had stayed! It wasn’t because of me. That would be ridiculous. But maybe it had a tiny something to do with it?

---