“I feel like you’re being unfair and hostile,” I tell her.
“Good,” she says.
“Good?” I ask. “You’re glad that I think you’re coming across like an officious nag?”
“Huh,” she says. “Usually another word entirely follows officious in my experience.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes a little. Smiling, she says, “I don’t think it’s the actual fighting that’s the problem. As strange as this may be to hear from someone sitting where I’m sitting, I’d say overall, it’s been a net positive in your life. That is, assuming the fighting stays in the ring.”
“I don’t get in real fights anymore,” I tell her. “Not for a long time.”
“Okay,” she says, “but you used to?”
“Frequently,” I answer.
“So, would you say that the main way you’ve learned to deal with your problems is by trying to get them all out by fighting?” she asks.
“I was wondering when you were going to say something like that,” he says. “It’s not a cover.”
“I’m not saying it’s a cover,” Dr. Sadler says. “I’m saying it’s a catharsis. Human beings are very good at transferring their feelings into whatever they’re doing. With something like fighting where there’s a definite struggle, you can come out the other side feeling like you’ve just had a hundred sessions talking with a therapist. The only problem with that is that you get none of the insight, so there’s nothing to prevent those same feelings from creeping back in, and when that happens, they’re usually more intense than when they seemed to go away the last time.”
I’ve actually noticed that.
“What do I do?” I ask.
“Well,” she says, “we’re nearing the end of our time today, but earlier you kind of glossed over an experience with Ash and her mom. I want you to talk to Ash and explain to her why you felt so strongly about this situation. Did this happen before or after your brother’s arrest?”
“After,” I answer.
“Okay,” Dr. Sadler says. “I want you to take a little time before you talk to Ash to do a little introspection, maybe see if whatever was going on with Chris may have affected what happened with Ash and her mother.”
“But you don’t know what happened with Ash and her mother,” I tell her. “How do you even know there’s a connection?”
“I don’t think there’s a connection to them,” she says. “I think there’s one to you, though. Maybe I’m wrong. If that’s the case, you’ll figure it out while you’re introspecting and you can come back here next week and call me an idiot.”
That sounds pretty tempting.
“Okay,” I tell her. “Is our time up, up, or do we have a few minutes?”
“Is there something else you wanted to cover before we end?” she asks. “We have a couple of minutes.”
“No,” I answer. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
I get up and walk to the door.
“Hey, Mason?”
I turn. “Yeah?” I ask.
Dr. Sadler gets up, removes her wig and sets it on the desk. Now with her natural hair showing, she walks over to me, saying, “I know this is a troubling time for you and you’re not used to asking for help, but if Ash feels the same way about you that you feel about her, she wants to help. Maybe it’s time to start letting her in.”
“Yeah,” I mutter and open the door.
I leave the office, feeling—I don’t know what I’m feeling. It’s good, though. I almost feel lighter, more clearheaded.
Funny thing is I don’t feel like she really told me anything I didn’t already know. It’s not quantum physics.
Maybe it’s not the advice itself, but just getting that motivation, some vague permission to be open, vulnerable. It was strange that Dr. Sadler was so accurate about so many things before we really got talking, but I guess she’s just that good at her job.
Whatever the case may be, I don’t worry about calling first, I just head straight over to Ash’s place. I’ve been holding back, but I didn’t know what to do about it before. I guess I still don’t really have a definite plan of action, but I feel like talking to Ash.
Right now, that’s enough.
I knock on the apartment door. Jana opens it.
“Hey,” she says. “She’s not here.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry to swing by without calling. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Not really,” Jana says. She looks me up and down like I’m some sort of stranger and then, almost casually, she says, “Judges do the sentencing, right?”
“Wait, what?” I ask. “She’s in jail?”
“Yeah,” Jana answers. “She wanted me to call you, but I never really got around to it. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“What was she arrested for?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Something to do with student loans and—oh, I remember someone saying the word ‘fraud,’ but I didn’t really catch much more than that. It was kinda scary, you know, having police show up at your door.”
“Where did they take her?” I ask.
Jana furrows her brow. “Jail, probably,” she says.
“County or city?” I ask.
“There’s only one jail in town,” she says. “They probably took her there.”
“Were they local or state police?” I ask.
“How should I know?” Jana asks, narrowing her eyes. “Anyway, you should probably go check on her or something. Last I knew, she’s still not talking to me after I had a perfectly innocent conversation with her mom, so maybe it’s a good thing she’s got some time to cool out.”
I just got back from my therapist’s office and I really don’t want to start yelling at someone within the same hour, so I just shake my head and walk away.
From the conversation between Ash and her mom I overheard through the bedroom door, I already know why this happened. Ash’s parents just used her as their fall guy.
Chapter Eighteen
The Life and Style of Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq.
Ash
The water in jail tastes like sulfur. The food in jail tastes like sulfur. Everything is brimstone for about five hours and then I’m jarred by a piercing screech from near the cell door.
“Butcher!” a harsh voice barks through the intercom. It’s so seldom anyone refers to me with my last name attached, much less by surname only, that it takes a couple of seconds before it clicks that he’s talking to me.
“Yes?” I respond.
My cellmates chuckle at my very non-jail-hardened tone. At least that’s what I think they’re laughing at. They haven’t really talked to me since I was put in here. They just giggle and nudge each other at irregular intervals.
It’s kind of like high school, but here, if you get on the wrong side of the “popular girls,” there’s a decent chance you’re going to get shanked…whatever that means.