My foot wouldn’t stop bouncing while I waited for the good Doc to finish up his notes. I probably wouldn’t have noticed myself except he’d lifted one gray eyebrow to look at it. I stopped for a second, but like a happy dog wagging its tail, it began bouncing furiously again.
“Have you consumed anything you shouldn’t have?” he asked me, closing his leather-bound book and placing it in a drawer.
“Only feelings.”
“Hm.” He folded his hands in front of him and it made me laugh nervously. He was so stereotypical that it was comical. “You’ve consumed feelings?”
“I think the kids are calling it ‘catching feelings,’” I said. “But either way, they’re there.”
“And that makes you nervous.”
“I think that’s obvious.” I pushed to my feet to look out over the section of the city his office space occupied. It was a dreary day, all gray and cloudy, the wind sending umbrellas tumbling down the sidewalks, unhindered by their owners’ hold. I loved this kind of weather. Loved it. So then why did I feel so miserable?
The reason didn’t require rocket science to figure out. “Why do people use rocket science as a measure to determine whether or not something is intellectually difficult to understand?” I asked, not really meaning to, but committed to it now that I’d brought it up. I looked over him from my place at the window. “I mean, surely there are other studies that are harder to comprehend than rocket science?” Not that I could name a single one.
“How well-versed are you on the subject of rocket science?”
“Oh, I’m an expert, obviously. The shit you learn in prison.”
“Why do you think you do that?” he asked me.
“Do what?”
“Bring everything back to your past. Your time in prison. You weren’t in there terribly long—especially considering the drug charges. So why do you use it at every opportunity to make self-deprecating jokes?”
I blinked. “Oh, we’re going to dive right in, then? I guess I thought we’d talk about rocket science for a minute, but no,” I flew up my hands in the air, “you want to dive head-first into my psyche. Good luck, doc. You’d probably drown in there.”
“There you go, doing it again.”
Flustered, I stalked across the room to the other window. “Sarcasm is how I cope, Doc.”
“Sarcasm—any humor, really—is a healthy way to cope with mental illness, but like with anything, there is such a thing as too much.”
I rolled my eyes.
“So, what I’d like is for you to tell me something you are genuinely good at.”
“Stealing shit.” I sniffed, and knew the reaction he’d give me before he did. “Fine. Oh, let’s see—something that doesn’t put me back in prison?” I could give him a number of answers, but all of them sardonic and not what he was seeking from me. “I’m funny.”
“You are, I’ll give you that.”
“Then why don’t you laugh at my jokes?”
“Because I’m not here as your audience. I’m here as your therapist. When you’re making references to the Bourne movies but trying to pass them off as being your life, I’m not thinking about how entertaining you are—but the purpose of your acting.” He wiggled a finger at me and then pushed his glasses up his nose. The air conditioner kicked on, humming in the background. “For example, the night you made your chair flop over. When Mr. Lockwood helped put you back to rights. Why’d you do that?”
“Maybe I fell because I was bored listening to the resident zombie’s story of the week.”
“You know I don’t buy that.” He scribbled something in his notepad and tapped his pen on his pad. “You seem intrigued by him.”
“Zombie guy?” I made a face. “No way. He doesn’t even believe in hygiene.”
“No, Mr. Lockwood.”
“X.” Until that moment, I hadn’t thought about how weird it was not knowing what it stood for. I shook the thought away. “Yeah, well, we’re not just acquaintances.”
“Oh?” He perked up like his coffee had just finally hit him. “That’s interesting.”
“Shouldn’t you be telling me it’s not a good idea to be seeing him outside of group?”
He shook his head. “You’re not colleagues here. You’re individuals. You aren’t bound by any ethics. What happens outside of group is between you, unless you feel compelled to talk about it with me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t feel compelled to talk about it with you.” I shook my head. “There isn’t even an it. It’s nothing.”
“It’s nothing?”
“That’s what I said.” I wasn’t sure why I was getting so defensive. “He’s…” I rolled my hand in the air, trying to explain what I wanted to say without actually saying it. “And then there’s me.” I swept my hand down my front.
“What does that mean?”
Fucking Doc. If I wasn’t court-mandated to sit here once a week, my ass would be out the door. I slumped back into my seat. “I mean, I’d have to be blind to not know he’s, you know, loaded. Even if I was blind, I’d be able to smell that one-hundred-dollar-per-ounce cologne he wears. And that’s his group counseling cologne. I manage deodorant. I save my nice shit for date night only. And he’s wearing cologne that I know to cost several thousand per bottle, to our weekly meetings. Who does that?”
“Are you offended by his cologne?”
“No. No, he smells like a million dollars soaked in ‘out of my league.’ He’s so far out of my league that if he was playing in the major leagues, I’d be playing in the sewer, with a bunch of turtles and garbage.”
“Again,” he said softly, a small smile forming on his lips. “This time, it’s not just sarcasm. You’re comparing yourself to someone else in an unsavory way.”
“Come on, Doc. Let’s not pretend we’re not both thinking the same thing here.”
“We’re not.” His expression was placid. “When you compare yourself to someone, you lose every time. X might be wealthy, and he might wear very nice cologne, but why does that make him someone you don’t deserve?”
Yeah, no. I didn’t want to examine these feelings tonight. I shook my finger at him. “We’re not going to talk about this tonight. My feelings aren’t on the table. They’re off. I left them outside, in fact. Tied to a tree and I hope someone steals them, so let’s just talk about something else, like rocket science.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“We were making good progress, Lucy. I’d like to continue this discussion, but perhaps we can reframe it in a way that would make you more comfortable.”
I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t uncross my arms.
“You like discussing things as if you’re reliving a movie. So, let’s talk through these things with a movie as our guide. Any movie that you think fits.”
In a way, I did want to talk to Doc tonight. But not about X, not directly at least. I wanted to talk about the frozen body in his freezer, though. And the moral dilemmas of X, long term, dealing with it, of living with what we’d done. I wracked my brain for a minute, trying to figure out what would be the safest topic to go along with. I knew this wouldn’t be a conversation X could have with Doc, without Doc suspecting something. But there was a way for me to phrase it that didn’t make X the focus.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “The Bourne movies, since you’re familiar with them.” I ran a hand through my hair and began playing with my ends. “Do you think he ever felt guilty for killing all those people?”
“I confess, I haven’t read the novels the movies are based off of, but from the movie adaptations, I’m not sure that I’d assume he suffered with any conflicting feelings about it.”
“I mean, he was assigned to kill those people, right? But he didn’t really know if they were bad guys. They could’ve been no one.”
“Does that mean a bad guy would have been more deserving of being assassinated?”
“I don’t know, Doc. What do you think? That some single dad, just doing his thing, is more deserving of being gunned down than some felon?”
“Who determines who’s more deserving? I think we need to know who is the one judging here.”
“Agh,” I moaned. “Forget it. You’re taking this too deeply.” I shook my head. “I just want a straight answer: Should he feel guilty for killing those people?”
“I think if you live your life saying what you should be doing, that wouldn’t be a productive way to live.”
“You’re still not answering my question.” I needed something more literal. “I mean, all the people I sold drugs to, for instance. What if I caused someone to overdose? What if my selfish choice cost someone else’s life?” It wasn’t a thought I entertained too often, but now that it was out in the open, it was as if I’d purged it from my conscience.
“If I walk outside right now, and someone’s runaway umbrella impales my heart, do you think the owner of that umbrella should atone for it the rest of their life?”
“Well, geez. Didn’t have to get gruesome. But, maybe on some level, yes.”
“And, in your opinion, what benefit would there be if she feels guilty forever?”
“She’d probably never carry an umbrella again,” I said drily.
“Would not carrying an umbrella ensure that no one else would ever die as a result of her actions?”
“Of course not. She could run over someone by accident and then she’d be like me, sitting in here, listening to you chirp at her every week—probably addicted to things to help her forget the mistakes she’s made.”
“Not if her umbrella killed me,” he reminded me. “I wouldn’t be able to chirp at all.”
“Oh, it jokes.” I clapped. “I guess I don’t see the point of the umbrella.”
“Guilt is natural. I don’t think there’s been a single person born on this earth who hasn’t experienced guilt in some way—small, or all-encompassing.”
“Born on this earth? So the aliens among us are probably prancing about, guilt-free.” I uncrossed my arms. “Fuckers.”
“My point being that you can feel guilt—that’s perfectly normal. But it becomes a problem when you let it sow a seed, living in you. I’m not saying that you should continue making the same mistakes, but if you dwell on the mistakes you’ve made that you can’t right, you’ll miss out on a whole lot of life. Ultimately, we, as individuals, are responsible for the actions we take every day. If Mother Nature strikes me down with an umbrella through the heart today as I leave this office, then that’s it. There’s no coming back from that. Expecting someone to be crippled with guilt over it won’t change the action. She can take precautions in the future, but sometimes we become better people for making mistakes—small mistakes and big, fatal ones too. It’s not ideal, but that’s life.”
“So, if my actions resulted in someone else’s death, I shouldn’t let guilt eat me alive?” My actions had indirectly resulted in Ron’s death—but it was X who would live with the guilt of that.
“You can feel regret over what happened—I’m not suggesting that acting like it didn’t happen is healthy. But if you let that regret manifest into something larger than yourself, your actions will ultimately cause two tragedies.”
My elbow was propped up on the armrest and I rubbed my hands over my knuckles in thought. I had to be careful with my words. “Do you believe in an eye for an eye?”
“I do. But the general, biblical interpretation of that phrase is often wrong. The Bible instructs people not to take revenge—to let the courts of law decide the appropriate justice for a crime. That being said, and off the books, I understand vigilante justice in certain circumstances. Our court of law is deeply flawed, and while I’d never condone that kind of frontier justice, as a human, I can understand it.”
He wrote something on his pad while I thought. What X had done wasn’t exactly vigilante justice. But knowing what I knew about Ron, it wasn’t a tragedy that he had been swept off the streets. Who knew how many deaths he’d contributed to, indirectly and directly? That being said, I still didn’t know how to let go of the guilt I felt for roping X into this mess with me, and for the lifelong emotional consequences we might both suffer with.
“Hey, Doc?”
He lifted his head and his glasses slipped down his nose.
“How do you suggest letting go of the guilt?”
He set his pen down. “Talking it out, especially with someone who understands, could be helpful. Understanding it. It sounds silly, but you can’t let go of it until you know exactly what it is you’re letting go of. Where it comes from, what it means. You can talk to a professional,” he tapped his chest, “find compassion for yourself, and make reparations by counteracting what it is you’re feeling guilty over.” He pushed his glasses back up. “But ultimately, you alone have the power to let it go.”
At the end of the appointment, when I reached down to grab my bag, Doc said, “And Lucy?”
I raised my head, securing my strap to my shoulder. “If you’re seeking approval for your, well, relationship with Mr. Lockwood, you don’t need it. It’s not about who is out of whose league if both parties are content. Relationships aren’t rocket science.”