The Outlaw

23

TWENTY THREE

The first time I sat on Dr. Kornfeldt's couch, I'd come braced to, yet again, fail to connect with the good doctor like the other three before him. I couldn't figure what it was, but my reaction to them was instinctive. No matter how hard they tried, I'd shut down, vehemently unwilling to share. Before I completely decided therapy wasn't for me, Travis' stepfather put me in touch with Dr. Kornfeldt—or Eric as he'd liked for me to call him—and claimed that he was the best damn psychologist in town.

Eric must have been doing something right because I'd felt a instant connection. There was nothing wrong with the other therapists, I'm sure they were experts in their field. The reason I couldn't quite trust them: they were women.

With Eric, though I was disoriented and nervous, I felt a strange calmness. Eric was a tall man, appeared to be in his forties, soft-spoken and contemplative. His office incorporated a wide variety of earth tones, his walls a muted yellow, complemented with dark wood accents. A whole wall was dedicated to a neatly stacked bookshelf, which most of them were ironically battered and well-loved. At first glance, I'd noticed The Velveteen Rabbit and that had soothed me immensely.

That first session, we spent the entire hour chatting about topics unrelated to the mile-long issues. Inconsequential ramblings flowed from my mouth when Eric asked question after question, of which amazingly never steered the line of discussion, only followed my direction.

Five sessions later, Eric made me understand why I'd subconsciously undermined the other psychologists. It turned out that my mother leaving me and my father precedented the relationships I would have with the same gender. A lot of things made sense in sharp clarity after that. It was why I immediately gravitated towards Cameron in foster care, and rarely attempted to form camaraderie with girls. Why girl best friends were a scarcity for me, with the exception of Scarlett, who I still hadn't given a chance to fully trust yet, but breathed easier around her twin brother, Milo. And especially why I was adamantly opposed to meeting the mothers of significant others.

It sucked but it was the cold, hard truth.

We made headway quickly. But that didn't make me like therapy. I dreaded every session. However, I kept and made appointments once or sometimes twice a week because I liked Eric. His strong, steady presence built a bridge of trust.

Somehow, I managed to scoop up scattered memories, vague impressions, and vomited feelings to line them up into a loose narrative leading up to the present. The telling was difficult. Trudged up unwanted emotions from events I had filed under my trusty steel trap door. Some adolescent years I had buried so deep, it was alarming to discover they'd disappeared entirely. I had to work through the frustration of not remembering, and then work through the frustration of not being able to articulate what I was feeling.

But time went on, and as we dug deeper, it strangely became easier to spill.

Now, I settled into the sofa comfortably, a little less tense than the weeks before.

As always, Eric said nothing, leaving it up to me to throw the opening serve. He sat in his wingback chair with his hands folded over the tablet in his lap. Patient. His pale blue eyes were kind as he regarded me.

And as always, I'd start with a hidden agenda, a comprehensive list of things to talk about, ranked in order of importance. Mundane tidbits about college, exams and my dwindling patience for my job came first. Then we hit the heavy stuff.

"Cameron is flying out to New York next weekend. He and his girlfriend found an apartment that is to their liking. Well, Cameron's mostly. Talia wanted a studio because open spaces encourage her creative juices but Cameron insisted for a two-bedroom," I rambled.