The Therapy
Catherine POV
It took four weeks, and eight sessions before Catherine opted to do something else other than greet Cara Guzzi from the floor. The therapist barely batted a lash at the sight of Catherine sitting on the bench in the window nook that overlooked the back property.
“Anything to see out there?” Cara asked.
The woman opted to stand rather than take a seat beside Catherine.
“Not at the moment,” Catherine said. “All the snow should be gone by now, but it’s not.”
Cara gave Catherine one of her soft, warm smiles. “So, what exactly does it look like to you?”
Catherine looked out the window again, and took in the property. She chose to say the first things that came to her mind at the sight, and not filter her words like she might with someone else. Cara didn’t like when Catherine filtered her thoughts and feelings.
“Cold and barren. There’s no one out there, and none of the things that usually decorate our yard. The snow is far beyond the pretty point of winter—you know, when it’s clean and bright, and sparkles somedays. Now, it’s at that ugly stage where you can see everything it has killed as it made its way in. It’s like the weather can’t decide if it wants to be winter or spring right now.”
“And so what does that do?”
“Well, it leaves you with a mess.”
Cara laughed softly. “Or, you could be seeing something incredible at work here. Say … a new start. A recharge, or a rebirth. The beginning stages of healing that a colder, lonelier time has left behind.”
Catherine snuck a glance at Cara. She didn’t think the woman was only talking about the snow and yard anymore. Cara did things like that quite often—delivered cryptic words meant to be advice. Catherine found herself spending days deciphering things Cara had told her.
On more than one occasion …
“Did you try to do what we talked about during our last session?” Cara asked.
“I seriously considered it.”
Cara openly frowned—something she didn’t do very often. “But it sounds like perhaps you didn’t actually follow through.”
“No.” Catherine looked toward the entryway. “Where are my parents today?”
“I believe your father said he was going to take your mother out for lunch. Don’t worry, no one is listening in on our conversation, Catherine.”
“No one ever does,” Catherine replied. “You make sure of that.”
Cara smiled. “I’m glad you trust me enough to believe that I will continue to keep that promise because I will.”
Well, truthfully, at the moment, Cara was the only person Catherine trusted. She was the only person Catherine currently felt comfortable enough to have a conversation with that went deeper than the things on the surface of her life.
No one wanted to push Catherine.
Everyone was scared of hurting her.
The silence in her home was sometimes deafening. Not that she blamed her parents, or the rest of her family. What could they really do or say for her when they couldn’t possibly understand her? It wasn’t like she gave them anything to go on.
It was what it was.
“What stopped you from talking to Dante and Catrina?”
Catherine shrugged, and looked back at the window. Shoving her hands under her armpits, she wished in that moment that her oversized sweater would just swallow her whole.
Where she couldn’t be seen …
Where she didn’t have to talk, or think … or hurt.
Where she wasn’t constantly being examined.
“I’m not ready to talk to them about my rape,” Catherine finally said.
“But you have talked with me about it on several occasions,” Cara pointed out.
“You’re not them.”
“Fair enough.” Cara sighed, and then asked, “What do you think is the reason you’re holding back—what is the issue keeping you at this not-ready stage, Catherine.”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do. Or you have a good idea of what it is. Otherwise, you would have no reason not to tell them, so they could help you and understand you more.”
“But what if they don’t?”
“Hmm?”
Catherine abused her bottom lip with her teeth until she could taste blood. Once she finally let her lip go, she clarified, “What if they don’t understand at all—what if all they can do is find fault?”
“You think they’ll blame you.”
“I think that I don’t want to find out.”
“I genuinely believe that if you were honest with your parents, their response would probably surprise you.”
Catherine scowled at her reflection in the window. Something she hadn’t felt a lot lately came bubbling up before she even understood what was happening.
Irritation and anger.
The only thing she ever seemed to feel was lonely and empty.
It was strange.
And good.
“Why is it up to me?” she asked sharply.
Cara’s calm demeanor didn’t falter as Catherine turned on her. “What do you mean, Catherine?”
“Why is it always the victim who needs to tell—like it’s our only fucking duty to report what happened to us? Why am I the one who’s expected to relive my trauma again and again just to satisfy everyone else around me? I was raped—me. Not you, and not them. Just me. No one should ever have the right to demand a victim to do anything if they don’t want to do it.
“It’s not your trauma—it’s only mine,” Catherine finished.
She was a hell of a lot quieter at the end than she had started.
Funny how that worked.
For a long time, the women simply stared at one another. Cara said nothing, and Catherine waited the silence out.
She had said what she needed to say, after all.
Nothing more was needed.
“You’re absolutely right,” Cara finally said. “It’s not my place to ask you to trigger yourself again and again by telling your story.”
“Thank you.”
“However …”
Catherine knew that however was coming. With Cara, there was always something else to be said or done.
“What?” Catherine asked.
“The longer you keep yourself in that mindset—the one of a victim—the harder it will be to leave it behind. Many women who have been assaulted don’t like to think of themselves as victims, but survivors. See, they have come out on the other side of their attack, handled the trauma it caused, and walked through the destruction it left behind.”
Cara smiled, adding, “In other words, Catherine, they survived. A victim is still processing, and not yet beyond that mindset.”
“So, maybe that’s what I need to be right now,” Catherine replied, shrugging. “A victim. Maybe I’m not ready to move beyond something I have barely allowed myself to think about, not to mention, considering telling someone else.”
“Maybe,” Cara agreed. “Or, maybe this place is comfortable and familiar to you. This place is easier to control how it leaves you feeling. It probably allows you to control how close you allow others, too.”
Catherine didn’t like how a lot of what Cara said made a hell of a lot of sense. She wasn’t ready to do anything.
“Maybe I don’t want them to see me as a victim, too,” Catherine mumbled.
Cara nodded. “I can understand that.”
“You don’t agree, though.”
“Catherine, this is your journey, not mine. I may push or encourage you in certain directions, but ultimately, it will always be you who chooses which road you want to travel.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” Cara said quietly. “Now, I was thinking … why don’t we take a drive today? Go somewhere—do something new for this session.”
Catherine’s heart thumped hard in her throat at the prospect of getting out of the house without one of her parents practically holding her hand like a child. “Seriously?”
Cara pulled out a set of familiar keys. They belonged to Catherine’s matte black Lexus. Her father kept them well hidden.
“Where did you get those?” Catherine asked. “My dad took them away months ago.”
“I explained to him why he needed to give them back.”
“And why was that?”
“Because you are an adult, and not his child to punish. While I know he didn’t take the keys to punish you, I bet it still felt like it. Right?”
“Kind of.”
“Exactly. That certainly won’t breed anything good between the two of you. Contempt, maybe. He couldn’t hand over the keys fast enough at that point.”
Catherine swallowed hard. “Huh.”
Cara jingled the keys. “Wherever you want to go, Catherine, we will go today.”
She grabbed the keys faster than she thought was possible.
“The beach. I want to go to the beach.”