Group Therapy, page 9
Thomas
Meanwhile…
IN THE FIVE MINUTES since Lou got up from the table, I heard what sounded like someone being slapped repeatedly in the kitchen, felt the building shake when something—or someone—fell into what must have been a vat full of scrap metal and tin cans in the room Lou had just run into, saw a woman get assaulted with a pump-action water pistol at the Anxiety table, and now, I’m watching the “therapist” behind the bar pass a stack of papers out to her clients.
“Y’all are gon’ do some autonomous art therapy real quick while I go under this bar and have myself a little nightcap,” she says, slapping a handful of crayons down on the counter.
“But these are just kids’ menus,” the bloke in the Polo shirt declares.
“Exactly,” the therapist snaps, pointing a finger at him. “That’s some nostalgic, feel-good shit right there. Go on; express y’alls’ selves.”
Then, she grabs a bottle of Patrón off the counter and ducks beneath the bar just before Lou comes barreling out of the Employees Only door.
No sooner does it swing shut behind her than a chorus of synchronized screams erupts on the other side. She doesn’t even flinch.
What the fuck is this place?
“Everything okay?” I ask as she slides into the booth across from me, looking a bit frazzled.
“Primal scream therapy,” she says with a smile, as if five full-grown adults screaming bloody murder is absolutely nothing to be concerned about.
“Primal scream therapy,” I repeat, letting my skeptical tone speak for me.
“Mmhmm.” Lou nods. “It’s great for releasing repressed anger from childhood trauma.”
“In that case, perhaps we should give it a try,” I tease.
Then, I do the second-stupidest thing I’ve done since I met Dr. Luna Sterling—asking her out taking the number one spot. I reach out and wrap my hand around her wrist.
My intention was to pretend as though I were getting up from the table and taking her with me, but the moment my skin touches hers, a bolt of electricity courses through my body, rooting me to the spot.
Lou’s eyes go wide, and her lips part as she slowly looks down, as if needing visual confirmation of the fact that her client had the audacity to actually touch her.
No, grabbed. You bloody grabbed her, you daft prat.
I release Lou’s arm immediately and run that same hand through my hair, needing something else to do with it. I open my mouth to apologize but stop when Lou reaches down to the end of the table and picks up a stack of large white cards that I didn’t notice was sitting there.
“Primal screaming won’t help you write books,” she says, glancing back at me with a tense smile.
She shakes her head a little, encouraging her hair to fall around her face, and I wonder if it’s an attempt to hide the pink flush now staining her cheeks.
Well done, arsehole.
“What’s on the cards?” I ask Lou, eternally grateful for the change of subject.
“Inkblots,” she says, clutching the stack to her chest like a shield. “I’m going to place one down in front of you, and I want you to tell me what you see.”
I see a bat.
I can’t tell her it looks like a bat. Everybody probably says that.
“Just say the first thing that comes to mind. Don’t overthink it.”
I shrug in defeat. “A bat.”
She cocks her head to the side and raises her eyebrows. “Okay, maybe overthink it a little.”
I huff and stare down at the symmetrical black design again. “Fine. I see … a sandwich. Somebody cut it diagonally and left space in the middle for a bowl of soup, but then they tripped and spilled the soup all over the plate.”
“Better … but you write psychological thrillers, not cookbooks,” she says, using the same tone she used the last time I was being an uncooperative prick. “Try to make it scary this time.”
“Right. Okay.”
I prop my elbows on either side of the card and rub my temples as I consider the black splash of ink in front of me. It reminds me of blood, honestly. A lot of it. At night. The bat is gone now, but I still see the sandwich, which gives me an idea.
“So, whoever made this sandwich didn’t trip. They served it … to their captive, a man called Julius, who’d been chained to a pillar in the basement for weeks. After finally torturing the information they wanted out of him, they asked him what he’d like his last meal to be. He said a cheese toastie. He didn’t even know why. Perhaps it’d reminded him of his mum. But he never got to eat it because as soon as they returned with his request, he stabbed his captor in the eye with his own sharpened finger bone, which they’d severed the day before and left lying on the ground.”
Without reacting, Lou points to the card. “So, all this splattery stuff around the sandwich is …”
“Blood. From his captor’s eye socket, yes.”
She nods, obviously unimpressed. “B-minus.”
“B-minus?” I frown.
“You are a New York Times best-selling author. Think outside the box.”
Ugh.
I clench my teeth and stare at the card again.
Clang-clang-clang!
A sweaty man with a bandanna tied around his head rings a large bell behind the bar. The therapist from that group emerges from under the counter right next to him, holding a bottle of tequila in one hand and covering her ear with the other.
“Gotdamn. Warn a bitch next time,” she sneers.
“Dry your eyes and pack up those daddy issues!” the man calls out. “Y’all don’t have to go home, but ya sure as hell can’t stay here!”
While Lou is distracted, I reach to the end of the table and grab a plastic bottle of ketchup.
B-minus, my arse.
“And remember,” the man adds, “what happens at group therapy stays at group therapy!”
Once his speech is over, Lou turns back to face me, and her mouth instantly falls open. I want to beat my chest with pride, but instead, I lean back in my seat, cross my arms nonchalantly, and wait to receive my new grade.
“A-plus,” she whispers, admiring the blood-like spatter I added to the inkblot for emphasis. “A-plus-plus.”
As Lou and I make our way to the exit, we pass the therapist at the bar, collecting her clients’ children’s menus.
“Good job. Good job. Ooh, you are in a dark place. Good job …”
The man who rang the bell holds the door as everyone flows out. He winks at me as I pass. Americans in Atlanta seem to be a completely different species than in New York, where my publisher is based. There, people are more likely to push you into oncoming traffic than hold a door open for you.
And winking is out of the question.
In the car park, the other clients gather in loose circles, laughing and processing whatever just occurred in their respective groups. Some are teary-eyed. Some are tense. A few have lollipops. One is soaking wet and talking incessantly. But they all have one thing in common.
None of their therapists walked them out.
As we approach my rental car, the lights inside illuminate, and a blue trident logo shines on the ground like a welcome mat. I hear Lou gasp quietly next to me.
“What kind of car is that?”
“A Maserati.” I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. “In my defense, I didn’t know it did that when I rented it. A bit ostentatious, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful.” I love the way she looks at it. Like it’s a work of art instead of a symbol of wealth. “Your publisher must really like you.”
“They’re not that accommodating.” I laugh. “I rented it. I don’t really need it—my flat is just round the corner from your office—but there’s so much open space here. It reminds me of the roads back in Oxford.”
“Oh yeah. I guess you can’t really drive around in London, can you?” she asks. “It’s probably like New York.”
“But with less public nudity,” I quip, regretting my choice of words immediately.
“That’s … unfortunate.” Lou looks down as she smiles at her own inappropriate joke.
We’ve stopped walking, and for the first time in a very long time, I have no idea what this woman wants from me. Why did she walk all the way out here in the cold when she could have easily said good night in the building? Why did she react to my touch like it pained her, yet now, she’s standing so close that her elbow is nearly grazing my arm? Did I misread the situation? Does she want me to take her home? No, she wouldn’t even agree to have a drink with me.
Perhaps she just wants a nice, private place to tell you to bugger off.
I turn to face her, propping my hip against the driver’s side door, which I will never get used to being on the left side of the car. “Well, that was … an experience,” I say with a smirk.
“Yeah.” Lou glances from the inky-black paint, back to me, and then to the ground as she pulls her blazer closed over her chest with a shiver.
The silence stretches on between us as a parade of BMWs, Porches, and Teslas file past. These people are her clients as well, I assume, yet she doesn’t even wave at them. She just stares at her trainers, waiting for … for what?
“Do I get homework after group therapy as well, or do you save that particular punishment for in-office sessions only?”
Lou lifts her head with a small smile. “Inkblots,” she says. “You can make them at home to help get your creative juices flowing. Just use whatever you have—ketchup, coffee … tea. You probably drink tea …”
She’s stalling. It’s like she doesn’t want to leave or …
I scan the car park again now that the other clients have gone and realize that the car-to-therapist ratio is off. That must be what she wants. Of course.
“Do you … need a lift?” I ask, hearing a tinge of hope in my voice that should definitely not be there. “If so, I should warn you. I have very little practice driving on the right side of the road. You’d be taking your life into your own hands.”
Lou lets out a polite laugh and takes a step backward, away from me.
“Oh, wow, um … thanks for the offer, but”—she glances over her shoulder in the direction of the man in the bandanna, who is swearing under his breath as he tries to shove five yoga mats and five rolled-up posters into the back of a Smart car—“Mark is my roommate, so … I’ll just ride with him.”
“Right.” I force a tight smile. “So …”
“So, um … good night.” She takes another step backward, stumbling on an errant pine cone before righting her posture. “Try the inkblots.” Another step. “And the treadmill …” Step, step. “And, you know …”
“Keep it in my pants?” I say with a teasing smirk.
Lou’s eyes widen before she turns and speed-walks over to her waiting roommate. Mark. He watches her approach with a look that tells me I should definitely wait to leave until I hear whatever it is he’s about to say.
“Ooooooh-wee!” he howls as Lou hustles over to her side of the car with her head down. “Looks like somebody’s in a hurry to get home and diddle her Skittle.”
He winks at me again, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud.
Thankfully, the roads are mostly empty as I drive home because the image of Lou diddling her Skittle makes remembering which side of the street to stay on damn near impossible.
Lou
Monday, 10:00 a.m.: Shy Sheryl
SHERYL SEEMS DIFFERENT THIS week. Her posture is straighter. Her eyes are brighter. And her voice is actually at an audible human volume.
“What did you think about the Life Coaching group?” I ask, almost afraid to hear her answer.
“It was great.” Sheryl beams. “Last night, I told my husband that if he wanted another helping of mashed potatoes”—she looks down and smiles to herself—“he could get it himself.”
She does a tiny little head waggle to show her pride, but her eyes are still trained on the floor.
“That was very assertive of you.”
Sheryl finally looks up, still smiling. “Coach Beth walked me through the whole thing before I did it. She even held her finger over her lip like it was a mustache and pretended to be Mr. Grayson, so I could role-play it with her.”
Sheryl actually refers to her husband as Mr. Grayson. Every. Single. Time.
“Can you maybe … share with me what that experience looked like?” I ask, hoping she can’t hear the underlying fear in my voice. “I haven’t gotten a chance to observe Coach Beth’s role-playing technique just yet.”
“Um, sure. I guess. Do I …” Sheryl looks around, obviously flustered at being put on the spot. “Do I need to stand up?”
“Oh, no. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Sheryl’s shoulders relax. “Okay. Well, she was like …” She holds her finger above her upper lip and scowls. Then, in a comically deep voice, she says, “ ‘Yo, Sheryl. Where’s my fuckin’ dinner?’ ”
I have to bite my lip to keep a straight face.
“So, then I said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson. I just had a really long day.’ And then Coach Beth was like …” She furrows her brow and lifts a finger to her lip again. “ ‘Doing what? Spending my money and growing that fuckin’ lady beard?’ ”
My eyes go wide.
“I didn’t know what to say to that—”
Uh, yeah. Me neither.
“But then Coach Beth told me to ‘woman up,’ so I pulled my shoulders back, and I said, ‘I don’t need to justify myself to you.’ ”
“What did Coach Beth say?” I realize that I’m leaning forward, not because I was trained to, but because I’m hanging on her every word.
“She said”—Sheryl puts her finger above her lip again and frowns—“ ‘Then, I don’t need to justify puttin’ my foot in your ass if you don’t fix my plate in T-minus—’ But she never got to do her countdown because”—Sheryl grimaces and puts her hand next to her mouth, like she’s about to tell me a secret—“I slapped her.”
She covers her mouth with that hand in shame as mine falls wide open.
“You slapped Coach Beth?”
“I didn’t mean to!” she whispers. “It just … happened. I felt so bad.”
“What did she do?”
“Well”—Sheryl smiles wistfully as she looks down at the massive rock on her left hand—“she said that if I ever have to do that to Mr. Grayson … that I should turn my ring around.”
She holds up her left hand to show me the substantial diamond that is now twisted around to the palm side. “Are we meeting again this Sunday?” she asks. “I can’t wait to tell her how it went.”
Tuesday, 11:00 a.m.: Day Trading Dan
The man sitting across from me in a five-thousand-dollar suit has made—and recently lost—more money than I will ever see in a lifetime. He’s legitimately addicted to stock trading, and he’s been pretty depressed ever since losing his ass on a series of bad picks a few months ago. His wife wants to leave him over it, but the irony is that they can’t even afford to get divorced now. Needless to say, things have been better for Dan, but today, he greets me with a smile.
“How was your week?” I ask.
“Good actually.”
“I can tell. You look … refreshed. Have you been sleeping better lately?”
“I have … thanks to Dr. Dawson.” He drops his eyes, and I swear I see his cheeks redden. “It sounds silly, but … she had us color these kids’ menus on Sunday, and I swear I can’t remember the last time I felt that relaxed. I came home and slept like a baby.”
He pulls out his phone and taps on the screen before turning toward me. It’s a black-and-white outline drawing of a bouquet of flowers in a vase, and all the segments have been filled in with bright, solid colors. “I’ve started coloring on my phone before bed every night.”
I smile, resisting the urge to reach out and pinch his cheek for being so adorably embarrassed about his new hobby. “That’s fantastic, Dan.”
“Thanks,” he says, closing his floral still-life coloring app and pocketing his phone. “That Dr. Dawson is a miracle worker.”
Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.: Perspectively Challenged Penelope
“… and then she was like, ‘No hablo Ingles,’ and I was all, ‘If you no hablo Ingles, then why did I see you watching The Kelly Clarkson Show on the nanny cam yesterday, Maria?’”
Penelope has never lived anywhere that didn’t have a heated pool and a helipad. She’s what I like to call perspectively challenged. Unfortunately, as someone who currently lives on the south side of town in a bungalow with bars on the windows that I need a roommate to help me pay for, I’m a little perspectively challenged myself.
I am also not a morning person. If I’m going to have to deal with this level of entitlement on a weekly basis, I should really do it once I’ve at least finished my coffee.
I write, Move appt to afternoon? on my notepad. Then, on the bottom corner of the page, I scribble the name of a restaurant and tear it off.
“So, remember how we identified empathy as an area to work on?” I ask, handing her the triangle of paper. “Your homework is to go to this restaurant for lunch or dinner one day this week. The employees only speak Vietnamese, and the menus are in Vietnamese as well. I want you to go there by yourself and try to figure out what and how to order without using Google Translate. Then, take a few moments to consider how hard it must be for Maria to live in a country where she doesn’t speak the language.”
Penelope scowls at the piece of paper. “Are we doing group therapy again this weekend? Because that primal-scream thingy was way better than this.”
Thursday, 1:00 p.m.: Anxious Andy
Anxious Andy’s knee is bouncing at a rate of thirty-two beats per second.
“I only locked the door once this morning. Once. I only locked it once.”
“Really?” I lean in. “How many times are you up to now?”
“Five. Five times.”
