Session five
When I sit down in the conference room for our session, Williams orders the officer to take off the handcuffs.
The cuffs never bothered me much, and I know she's doing it as some sorry excuse for an apology, but I don't say anything against it. I look at her like nothing's the matter, studying the dark circles under her eyes or the way her hair isn't as pristine as the first day I met her. Dark curls, looking as soft as Mrs. Jeong's, frame her face unlike before, making her look more normal than professional. It baffles me, actually: how a woman can change so much just by doing something so little.
When the officer doesn't move, Williams scoffs. "Oh come on, he won't do anything to me. Just look at him."
They're both staring at me now, which makes me avert my eyes to my hands instead. Some strange silence hangs in the air for about a minute or a little more, heavy, before the officer sighs and takes out a small set of keys from his pocket.
It only takes one turn to be free, and I instinctively rub my wrists even though they hadn't been on for long. "I hope you know what you're doing," the officer says before shoving both handcuffs and keys into his pocket and leaves, slamming the door after him.
Williams rolls her eyes and says something under her breath, so quiet I can't even grasp a word, before she shifts in her seat and says, "How're you feeling?"
I never knew how much I hated that question until she says it. I finally look at her again with weary eyes, watching that tentative smile on her face and the way her thumb glides along the surface of the other. She sits there and waits for an answer, not speaking or moving or anything until I let out a long sigh and slouch in my seat.
"I feel like shit."
"You look like it, but I didn't want to be rude."
I almost laugh at that. I know it's the right reaction, but I can't bring myself to do it. So the only thing that comes from me is a short, quiet huff, and the tapping of my fingers against the table. The scratches from the last session are still there, looking just as angry as the first time I made them.
"Anything you want to talk about?"
That earns another huff. "It's finally up to me now?"
"I just figured you had something on your mind."
She's trying. I can tell. I figure I've screwed around for too damn long, and it almost makes me feel bad knowing I caused those dark circles and unkempt hair. It isn't even a secret that the entire thing is weighing on me too. Thoughts of him haven't stopped. They never will. And the only thing I want to do is run as far away from that room as I possibly can, but instead I say, "I dreamt about him."
"About who?"
"Him."
It doesn't take a genius to know who I'm talking about, and I thank God Williams wasted enough money on higher schooling so I don't have to explain myself. She nods for a moment, thinking, then flips to a fresh page on her notebook but doesn't start writing. Instead, she stares at me.
"A good dream?"
"Not really."
"Nightmare?"
I shrug. "You tell me." When she doesn't say anything, I continue. "I was standing on this lake, see. Not by it or anything, but on it. It happened before. But this time, he was on land instead of in my arms. I tried calling to him and running to him but my legs wouldn't let me and he didn't hear me. Or he didn't want to hear me—I don't know. All I know is he walked away. I was screaming and he just left me there. He walked away, and I couldn't stop him. Then I woke up crying."
"Do you know why you were crying?"
I look down at my hands again right when she says that. They're absently tracing the scratches on the table now, going slowly over them one by one. "I don't know," I tell her, but that's a lie. I do, and I just can't say it.
"Alright." Williams jots something on her page with ease. "Have you had dreams like this before?"
"Shit, a bunch of times."
"For how long?"
"They've been on and off since I was fifteen, I think. Right around the time we first started hanging out."
"And when they were on, how would you cope?"
"Oh, I don't know," I say, surprisingly embarrassed, and run a slow hand through blonde strands. "I'd smoke. Drink. Talk to Nichole." Hurt people. I almost let it slip, but bite my tongue instead. "They just leave after a while. I don't know why or how."
When I look at her again, I can tell she's not buying it. She's got her left eyebrow poised high and pretty, lips slightly agape, but she still doesn't say anything against it. Instead, she shrugs and writes more things down.
"Do you know why they came back?"
I almost don't want to tell her. I think of backing out—staying silent like I've done for the past six days. But I'm so fucking tired and it shows, I know it shows. Is that why she looks so confident now? So relieved? It pisses me off to the point where I almost tell her off, but thoughts of the dream come flooding back in rapid motion, bringing that god-awful feeling with them.
"I think—" The words get caught for a second. I swallow, breathe, then try again. "I think I'm ready to tell you what happened now."
Williams doesn't look fazed at all, though I know this is what she's been waiting for. Itching for. But she still keeps a neutral face on, back straight, and pen ready to go at rapid speed on her page. "I'm listening."
"No, you have to ask me."
She doesn't make fun of me for saying that. Doesn't even question it, either. She only shifts in her seat again, crossing her legs before she says, "What happened that day, Holden?"
"Listen, it was my birthday. You've got to understand that. It was my birthday."
"Okay."
"Okay." I let out a breath. "Cas came over and we watched movies and shit like we usually do, cracking mediocre jokes and talking about books and poetry like every other day. He asked me what I wanted and I kissed him, but we both knew it wasn't okay. It's been going on for a while and we've just been ignoring it like always, but that day he said—" I stop right when my voice cracks, laying my palms flat on the cool table. They're sweating like mad. "He was out of his mind—didn't know what he was talking about. So I tried reasoning with him, you know? I tried getting him to understand. But then Dad walked in on us and Cas left and I panicked. Everything was happening too fast. I panicked."
It takes a moment for her to respond. Twenty-three seconds, to be exact. "Holden, what did you do?"
I shake my head and shut my eyes for a little, but shutting my eyes only leads to memories of him, so I open them again. I don't even dare to blink. "It wasn't my fault. He got so mad he started talking about kicking me out, and it didn't really hit me until he said something about leaving. As soon as he said that, something in me just snapped. I don't know I just...broke. But it wasn't my fault. It wasn't."
"So you hit him."
I sigh. "Yeah."
"With what?"
"Hell if I remember. A pan, I think?" Saying it out loud actually makes me laugh, which I know is far from what I'm supposed to be doing, but I can't help it. A pan, for God's sake. Williams's pen pauses on the page for a moment and I can almost hear her judging me, but she doesn't say anything about it.
"After you figured he was gone," she continues, "what was running through your head?"
"I felt angry still."
"At him?"
"More at myself, really. I mean, I still needed him."
"For what? He was going to kick you out, anyway."
"I didn't just need him for a home, you know."
And then it all finally clicks. I swear I see something switch in her head; maybe it's the way her eyes grow a little wide, or her lips spread apart a bit more, but I can tell that in that moment, she finally understands what really went on. She gets it.
Williams goes mad on her page like always, writing for a few minutes until she asks, "So you went and got Casper to run away together after that."
"Yeah."
"But he didn't want to go with you."
"He was delusional. He wasn't thinking straight."
Williams gives me a look I can't stand. "So you forced him?"
"Listen, he had all these crazy ideas in his head and it was making him go a little nuts. He wasn't thinking straight, alright? So I had to get him out of there. I knew if we left and I spoke to him once he calmed down, he'd understand. I knew he would."
"How did you know for sure?"
"I told you," I say, getting a little impatient. "I knew him better than anyone." Or at least I thought I did.
Shit.
Williams writes this down in her notebook, but with slower, careful strokes. After a while, her pen just stops, and she looks at me dead in the eyes. "Can I ask you a question?"
"What is it?"
"If your mother never left, would you have done the same thing?"
"Excuse me?"
"If your mother were still here, right now, would you have made the same choices back then?"
I want to answer her, I really do, but I can't get my brain to work anymore. So I look back at my fingers again and trace the scratches like before, thinking about the two smokes I still have and pretending I didn't even hear her. God, it'd be bliss if I didn't.
After a moment of utter stillness, Williams closes her notebook and rests her hands on top of it. "You can go back to your room now," she says in a quiet, soft tone. "I think I've got all I need."