"I liked it."
"What was it about?"
"Myself. And that tattoo."
"I see. And did you see that woman ...” Her eyes dropped to her clipboard as she thumbed through the sheets of paper. “What was her name? Audrey?"
I cocked my head, suddenly suspicious. "How did you know I saw her again?" Had she been there, too?
"Just making an educated guess," Dr. Travetti replied, smiling gently. "So, what exactly was so terrible about your weekend? This all sounds fine to me."
"Well, first of all, I didn't want to see Audrey."
"You didn't?"
"Hell no. That's the last thing I wanted." Her lips trapped between her teeth as she eyed me with suspicion. I laughed easily. "What the hell is that look for?"
"Oh, nothing." Dr. Travetti dropped her gaze to the lapel of her jacket and brushed an invisible piece of lint away. "I just think you did want to see her."
"Oh, really?" I challenged. "And what makes you think that?"
She raised her eyes to mine, challenge igniting a fire within. "Because you read a poem that you never intended to keep, and it just so happened to be a poem about the tattoo you put on her. You sent out a Bat Signal for her, and she answered the call."
I chuckled at the reference. "Doc, I never would've pegged you for a DC girl."
She smiled fondly. "I'm a Marvel fan, personally, but I have a soft spot for Batman."
With a nod, I pointed at her. "Keaton or Bale?"
"Ooh ..." Dr. Travetti sucked in a breath and tipped her head back. "That's a tough one, but if I had to pick, I'd say Keaton."
I pushed forward with my fist extended. "Same, Doc."
With a laugh, she pounded her knuckles against mine. "How was your encounter with Audrey this time?"
Settling back in my chair, I considered the question. I remembered the push and pull of my desire to be in her presence. The internal battle. "It was hard."
"Hard?"
"Yeah," I sniffed and turned to look out the window. "It was nice, until I thought about what I was doing, and then I wanted to get the fuck out of there."
She nodded, slow and steady. "And why do you think you felt like that?"
I knew what she was doing. She wanted me to look deep within, to chisel out the secrets from the darkest corners of my heart, and then reveal them to her. Because it was her job to figure me out and fix me. But I already knew the answer to her question, and without hesitation, I stated, "Because I don't deserve nice things, and Audrey is ..." I blew out a drawn-out breath. "Well, she's a nice thing."
"And this brings us back to our last session. You don't give yourself a chance. You don't allow yourself to feel good, proud, happy ..." She shook her head and tapped the tip of her pen against the clipboard. "We need to—"
"I'm not done telling you about my weekend."
She sighed and shifted her gaze to the clock ticking away on the wall. "Okay, I'm sorry. Continue."
I swallowed and hurried to speak before she could weasel her way in again. "I had a good time with Audrey while it lasted, and then I got the fuck out of there before I could do anything really stupid. And you know, I started to regret that the next day, on Sunday. I started asking myself, why couldn't I hang out some more? But then, I went over to my parents’ place for dinner. Jake threw a fit, you know, I told you about his mood swings."
"Yeah, you’ve mentioned them," she nodded sympathetically.
I gripped the back of my neck with a sweaty palm. "It'd apparently been a continuation of something that had been going on all day, and my parents told me they think he needs to be put into a place,” I spat with disgust.
"What kind of place?"
A sour taste flooded my mouth as I choked out, "An assisted living facility or some shit."
Dr. Travetti eyed me with concern and sympathy. "You don't agree."
"No, I don't fucking agree."
"Why?"
My palms clapped to the chair's leather arms and my fingers dug into the upholstery. "Because he’s fine! He likes his teachers; he likes the daycare. He needs a routine, and we have one, and I don't know what the hell it'll do to him to change."
"Are you more concerned about him, or you?"
"What?" I balked, flabbergasted. "Him!"
"Are you sure about that?"
I thrust forward, mashing my elbows to my knees as I pointed at the good doctor and her pantsuit and that know-it-all mouth of hers. "Don't act like you know better about this than me, Doc, you understand me? I know Jake better than anyone. I know what he needs, I know what he wants, and I know how to deal with him. He needs me, okay? Not some fucking strangers at a place that’s gonna treat him like a nuisance. He needs me."
I pushed my back into the chair and tucked my shaking hands into my lap. I returned my glare to the window and the world outside. To a sunny autumn day and pedestrians free to live their lives as they saw fit.
"Blake."
"Yeah, Doc?" My voice scraped against my throat and I wanted to claw at my flesh, to relieve the itch. To feel something other than this relentless tugging at my heart that hurt so goddamn badly.
"Let's do something, okay?"
I smirked at the sky. "Isn't it against the rules for a doctor to do something with a patient?"
"Very funny," she drawled. "No, seriously, let's try an exercise."
"Yeah, fine. I'll play."
"Excellent. Okay. I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to answer with the first thing that comes to mind."
I laughed. "How is this different than what we always do?"
"Because you're not going to contemplate your answers for once."
I sighed and turned away from the window, fixing my glare on hers. "Okay, fine. Let's do it."
She picked up her pen and placed the tip on the paper. "Why do you hate religion?"
"Just a week or so ago, you asked me why I hated my brother. Now, you're accusing me of hating religion. Maybe you're the hateful one here, Doc."
Exhaustedly, her pen flopped to the paper. "Do you hate your brother?"
"No."
"Do you hate religion?"
"Yes."
"So, it's not simply that you don't believe in anything; it's a hatred."
I nodded. "Yes."
"Why?"
And so, I told her that a god who was good, a god that was just, would never have allowed a horrific accident to happen to someone as talented and wonderful as Jake was. That a god painted to be so righteous and fair would’ve instead punished me, the bad egg, the black sheep. Dr. Travetti wasn't expecting the answer, her surprise made evident in her wide-eyed stare and softly parted lips. I wanted to ask what she had assumed I'd say. That I’d had an awful upbringing in the Church? That my parents shoved the Lord and His book down my throat until I couldn't recite a passage without gagging on my own tongue?
"So, you blame God for what happened to Jake."
"No," I corrected her with a lift of my finger. "I don't believe there is a god. I'd have to believe in something to blame him or her, or whatever."