“I understand, Emma. You had a very troubled childhood, where the idea that you weren't worthy of a life was constantly reinforced. But we've moved past that. You're an adult now, and you can do anything you want.”
“Anything I want?” she guffawed. “Doctor, I can't even leave my house right now. I'm required to come here three times a week, whether I want to or not. I can't get a job, I can't open a bank account, I can't do anything.”
“See? This is exactly what I'm talking about – you're thinking in the now. I'm asking about the future. There will be a time after this one. Maybe it's far away. Weeks, months, possibly years, but it's coming, and you should start getting ready for it.”
Months? Possibly years? As he spoke those words, she felt the life draining out of her body. If she had to be under Margo's rule for another month, Emma would find another way to end everything. And this time, she would cut the right artery.
“What do you like to do?” Dr. Rosenstein continued, barreling through her silence. “Everyone has things they like, has hobbies. Running? Music? Painting figurines?”
Stalking. Obsessing. Hurting.
“Running,” she managed to cough out. “I used to run.”
“Ah! You like to run?”
“I wouldn't say I like it,” she added hastily. “I did it for exercise, and as a way to get out of the house. I used it to get away from life, even if only for a little while.”
“Okay, so maybe not running. Anything else?”
Listening to Church speak. Watching him breathe. Thinking about him. Loving him. Doing anything for him.
“I like ...” she spoke slowly. “Watching people. Understanding them. Figuring them out. Knowing why they choose to do the things they do.”
The doctor grinned at her.
“Ah ha, I should've guessed it. It's so obvious.”
“Uh ... it is?”
“Psychology, or sociology. Maybe you'd like to be the one sitting in this chair,” he chuckled, patting the leather arms of his seat. Emma snorted.
“I don't think they allow people with severe depression to become psychologists,” she pointed out. He shrugged his shoulders while he made notes on his pad.
“Psychologists are people, too, with the same problems as everyone else. We just tend to be better at coping with them.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Or better at hiding them.”
That caused him to pause in his scribbles.
“Yes, I suppose we would be better at figuring out tricks to hide our own issues. You could always go into sociology, the study of society and relationships and culture.”
“I bet that pays well.”
“We're just kicking around ideas, you don't have to go out for you PhD just yet,” he teased. “But I will say this – you're intelligent, Emma, more than you give yourself credit for. And you're very observant, it's something all your doctors have noticed about you. You're very good at dealing with people and other patients. We'll have to talk more about this tomorrow and the weeks to come. I'd like to talk with you and your mother about eventually getting you into a work placement program, sometime after New Year's, that way we can ...”
And Emma was tuned out again, looking back out the window. The soccer teams had entirely disbanded, though the crier was still at the edge of the field, sobbing away.
Yes, Emma knew she was good at “dealing” with people. It's how she'd managed to fit in with the real world for so long. But it wasn't reality. She spoke the way people expected her to speak, and she acted the way they expected her to act.
That's why Church had been able to infiltrate her defenses to easily. She could say anything to him, act anyway she wanted, and he didn't care. He accepted her. Or at least she thought he did, or had, or whatever.
Did you, Church? Did you really? Or was it all pretend, just to get me to do whatever you wanted? I don't know anymore.
She did what she did best and she babbled off all the appropriate responses to the rest of Dr. Rosenstein's comments. He wound their session down, then he led her out of the room before welcoming Margo inside for a recap. Mother and daughter glanced at each other as they passed in the doorway. Green eyes, wide and alert, slightly wary. Brown eyes, narrowed and glaring, warning the observer.
Then the door was shut and Emma was back in the hallway.
“Hey, Emma Long Legs,” a voice teased from behind her. A shudder ran up her spine and she just barely managed to conceal her disgust before she turned around.
Seeing Drew Casperian after what she'd witnessed the day before, it was unsettling. There was a certain sort of leer men had when they got it into their heads they wanted to fuck a mother and her daughter, almost like they were proud of themselves. Like it was a challenge akin to fucking twins. Two hot family members for the price of one, or something. She'd never understood it and was personally grossed out by it.
It had been a long time since she'd seen the look, but there was no mistaking it in Casper's eyes. He'd hooked up with the good looking mom, which was awesome.
But could he land the even better looking daughter? Clearly he wanted to try his odds.
“Hey, Casper,” she said, keeping her voice light.
“Could've used you today,” he said, leaning casually against the wall to her left, effectively boxing her in between him and a bench. “We had a little soccer game. Legs like yours, my team would've won for sure.”
“Oh, I'm not much of an athlete,” she chuckled. “Long legs tend to trip over each other.”
“Could still be fun. Maybe next time, Em?” he asked.
“I don't think so, but thanks for the invite.”
She was just about to walk away when he abruptly reached out and hugged her goodbye, pinning her arms to her sides. She repressed a groan. During her stay at Sunshine Ranch, she'd learned to avoid his hugs. But one week away from the place, and her defenses were growing lax. She held completely still while he gripped her tightly, and she willed away dark thoughts about sharp implements and copious amounts of blood.
His blood.
How's that for a fantasy, Dr. Rosenstein? I see a future filled with blood and gore and the terrifying knowledge that Church didn't turn me into a murderer ... he simply unleashed one.
CHURCH.
THE CIGARETTES BURN like her. They carry the memory of her in their smoke, and just knowing she'd licked the rolling paper that now disintegrates between my lips ...
I don't like smoking. But I love these cigarettes.
After Emma was taken away to the emergency room, after Margo and Jerry showed up and she put on her caring, doting mother routine, I went home.
I went back to my bedroom.
I pulled the covers off my bed.
And there she was.
Three or four pints of her, soaking into fiber, imprinting onto cotton.
The mattress would have to go, obviously. Mold would set in, it would attract bugs. Possibly worse. Besides that, I couldn't stay there anymore, and if I left it behind, then Margo would definitely have it thrown away.
Unacceptable. No one should be allowed to come near Emma's life force.
So I laid down on the bed. Stretched out next to her, breathing in the scent.