Page 154 of The Last Session

I went to her side, pulling the gun from her grasp and tossing it away before settling on my knees. Her lips—marked with a small stream of blood—opened and closed. I bent closer.

“I can’t move.” Her eyes trained on me, wide and frightened.

“Help’s coming.” My voice shook. “You’ll be okay.” Why was I comforting her, this woman who’d murdered people in front of my eyes? I could get up right now, turn my back on her and walk away. But for some reason, I stayed.

“I don’t want to die.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“It’s okay,” I said. And then, because I couldn’t help but console someone imminently meeting death: “You’ll come back. Right? You’ll come back in the next life.”

Her head jerked: involuntary movement or nod?

“Thea!” Karen’s crunching steps came towards me. “Ambulances are on their way.” She stopped. “Are they…”

“Moon’s still alive.”

Karen exhaled. “I don’t think so, hon. She’s gone.”

I glanced down. Moon’s unblinking golden eyes were fixed on the stars.

61

It was Easter weekend and the trees were budding, little verdant sparkles. It felt comforting to be on a train, rushing through the landscape, watching it whip by.

I wondered again about my urge to leave the city for the weekend. Dom had been supremely supportive over the last few weeks, making me soup and bringing me blankets like I had the chicken pox. During the few days I’d been gone, she and Amelia had gotten into a huge blowout and decided to take a break, so we were renewing our lease for another year.

It had been a big relief to be able to stay put during this time. The news of Catherine’s strange and horrifying death had blown up, both high- and lowbrow outlets covering the cult massacre. Six people had died—including Joe and Steven, who were both gone by the time the ambulance arrived. Seven, if you counted Grace.

Somehow multiple journalists had gotten my name and number, and I now had a dozen voicemails I was ignoring. A photographer had even shown up at my apartment, shocking me with theclick-click-clickof his camera as I unlocked my door. A week later, a scandal with a much more famous actress broke, and the public eye turned away.

I’d started back at work last week, and luckily the patients had totally missed the story. Amani and Rachel had dug for details, and Diane had called me into her office to confirm I was receiving “support.” That plus Dom’s concern had caused me to start scanning the therapist listings.

I realized now that my old therapist Cynthia had handled our termination badly. She should’ve made sure I was in an okay place before cutting off our sessions, and/or supported me in transitioning to someone new. And even though we hadn’t been working together anymore, she could’ve responded to my desperate text.

In my eyes, she’d messed up. But she was human. And even if Istarted with the Perfect Therapist, someone with incredible attunement skills, it didn’t mean that we wouldn’t have disagreements and misunderstandings. This time, though, I wanted the chance to work through them. This process was so inevitable that there was even a therapy term for it: “rupture and repair.”

I’d met twice with a woman named Toni. I hadn’t yet told her what had happened at the Center: it was too fresh, and there would be weeks, months, and years to fully process what I’d experienced. For now we were talking about my alcohol use (which I’d curtailed since being back), my family of origin, and everything that had happened with Pastor John and Adam. They were all so connected, so intertwined: the early emotional neglect and the later abuse, both creating pain that only alcohol—a coping mechanism that was often sanctioned and even encouraged—had been able to soften.

I’d also forced myself to tell her about the orgasm situation. I hadn’t felt at all sexual since the Center, but I knew that would eventually change. Regardless of whether or not I still needed to imagine the shed, there was a lot of excavating and healing I wanted to do in this area. It felt time to integrate those deep threads of dominance and submission, light and dark, that would probably always be with me.

Another thing to eventually discuss: The lingering sense that there had been something inexplicable going on out in the desert. That while Moon had been destructive, using her beliefs to justify horrible things, she’d known things about me—my dreams, details of my current life trauma—that she shouldn’t have.

Maybe it’d be helpful to talk to Karen about it—when she was no longer under investigation and could be in contact with me again. The one time we’d texted, she’d mentioned starting to “deprogram” with specialists and also attending grief counseling. I wondered how long it would take to unravel what she’d believed and what she’d done.

Because I myself felt confused by what I’d seen and experienced. If Catherine and I weren’t deeply connected, if she was someone I’d just met just for a short time, then why was my grief for her so intense that I couldn’t look at it directly? There was guilt too—because if Catherine and I had left at 4:00 a.m., maybe Joe would’ve let us go. Maybe she’d still be alive.

There was no way to know.

To ease this, sometimes I let myself imagine that all of it was true:That Catherine and I had been sisters in a past life. That we’d been given the opportunity to save not the world but each other. She’d clearly sacrificed herself for me on the roof. Maybe I’d do the same for her, in a life far into the future. I remembered the kaleidoscope I’d envisioned in the cave, and for some reason it made me think about all those lives, happening simultaneously. Moon had said it to me first:Time is a construct, right? So these lives are all happening at the same time.Was that the reason Catherine and I couldn’t remember saying yes to the snake spirit? Because we hadn’t decided until we were on the roof, or in the spaceship?

I knew that these far-out musings were just me trying to help myself feel better, less culpable. But they usually left me feeling unmoored and wistful. There may be larger mysteries about death I’d never know the answers to. But the truth about Catherine, at least, was concrete: she was gone.

A text dinged from Mikki:Hey! Still on for lunch next week?

I responded with anOf course!Mikki was finishing up her major outlet story, an essay-like piece about her experience and about how she’d initially been pulled in to investigate Moon’s impersonation of a Mexican woman. I’d told her more about Moon and Sol’s belief in reincarnation, but not the visions I’d seen in the sweat lodge and cave. I didn’t want to give their philosophy more credence, nor prompt any more anonymous hate messages from their unhinged virtual followers.

A new text from Dom:Did you see this????A link to an hour-long documentary on a streaming service:Sex Cult Love. I squinted at the description.They looked for love in the unlikeliest of places—and found each other.

“Wait, what?” I murmured. I grabbed my headphones and clicked play.

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