When the warm cashmere wrap is gently tucked around you and smoothed over your shoulders, it has the desired calming effect.
You take in a shuddering breath.
You are told what you need to hear:
It was not your fault.
There is more for you to share, but this is enough for today. You are nearing exhaustion.
You are rewarded through words of praise. Not everyone is brave enough to face their demons.
You absently stroke the taupe-colored wool draped across your shoulders as you listen. This is self-soothing, a signal that you are now in the recovery phase. A new, gentler conversational rhythm eases you into safer terrain.
When your breathing has steadied and your cheeks are no longer flushed, you are given subtle clues that the session will soon end.
Thank you, you are told.
Then a small reward:
It’s so chilly out. Why don’t you keep the wrap?
You are walked to the door, and when you leave, you feel the brief pressure of a hand squeezing your shoulder. The gesture is one that conveys comfort. It is also used to express approval.
As you exit the building, you are visible from three stories above. You hesitate on the sidewalk, then you reach for the wrap and loop it so that it hangs like a scarf, flipping one end over your shoulder.
Though you have physically departed, you linger in the office for the rest of the day, through the final client scheduled for twenty minutes after your departure. Maintaining focus to assist him on reining in a gambling addiction is more of a challenge than usual.
You are still there as the taxi weaves through congested Midtown traffic, and in Dean & DeLuca while the cashier rings up a single medallion of beef tenderloin and seven spears of white asparagus.
You don’t award confidences easily, yet you yearn for the relief that comes with the release of a secret.
Presenting an unremarkable facade to the outside world is the norm; superficial conversations comprise the majority of social encounters. When an individual trusts another sufficiently to expose the true self—the deepest fears, the hidden desires—a powerful intimacy is born.
You invited me in today, Jessica.
Your secret will be kept in confidence . . . if all goes well.
The front door to the town house is unlocked and the bag from Dean & DeLuca deposited on the white marbled kitchen counter.
Then the new, ecru cashmere wrap that was purchased only hours before your session today is removed from its bag and placed on a side shelf in the coat closet.
It is identical to the one you are now wearing.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Tuesday, December 4
The air is sharp and gray; during the short time I’ve been in Dr. Shields’s office, the sun has dropped beneath the skyline.
I should have worn my heavy peacoat rather than my thinner leather jacket, but Dr. shields’s wrap keeps my chest and neck cozy. The wool holds a faint scent of the clean and spicy fragrance I now associate with Dr. Shields. I inhale deeply and it prickles my nose.
I stand on the sidewalk, at a loss about what to do. I feel drained, but if I go home, I doubt I’ll be able to relax. I don’t want to be alone, yet calling Lizzie or another friend to meet for dinner or a drink has no appeal.
Even before I realize I’ve made a decision, my feet begin to move, taking me toward the subway. I ride the 6 train to Astor Place, then exit the station and turn west on Prince Street.
I pass by the shop windows displaying designer sunglasses and cosmetics in jewel-like cases. Then I arrive at the French restaurant.
This time, I go in.
It’s still early, so it is fairly empty. Just one couple occupies a booth near the back.
The maitre d’ takes my jacket, but I hold on to the wrap. He then asks, “Table for one? Or would you prefer the bar?”
“Actually, how about that table near the window?”
When he leads me to it, I select the chair Dr. Shields used when I followed her last week.
The wine list is a thick, heavy document. There are nearly a dozen options for glasses of red wine alone.
“This one, please,” I tell the waiter, pointing to the second-cheapest. It’s twenty-one dollars a glass, which means dinner tonight will be a peanut-butter sandwich at home.
I never would have found this restaurant if it hadn’t been for Dr. Shields, but it is exactly what I need. It’s hushed and elegant without being stuffy; the dark-wood walls and velvet-topped chairs are comfortingly substantial.
It’s a safe place to be anonymous but not alone.
The waiter approaches. He’s wearing a dark suit and balancing my glass of wine on a tray.
“Your Volnay, miss,” he says, setting it down before me.
I realize he’s waiting for me to approve of it. I take a small sip and nod, like Dr. Shields did. The burgundy liquid is a perfect match for my nail polish.
When he leaves, I glance out the window, watching people pass by. The wine warms my throat and isn’t overly sweet, like the stuff my mom drinks; it tastes surprisingly good. My shoulders relax as I lean back into the soft leather of my seat.
Dr. Shields finally knows the story I haven’t even shared with Lizzie: It was my deliberate negligence that ruined the lives of everyone in my family.
As I sat on Dr. Shields’s love seat and stared at the soothing blue waves in the painting on her wall, I described how I was supposed to watch Becky that summer while my parents went to work.
It was late on that August afternoon when I decided to go to the corner market, the one that sold penny candy and Seventeen magazine. The new issue had recently come out. Julia Stiles was on the cover.
I was tired of Becky; I needed a break from my seven-year-old sister. It was a long, hot day toward the end of a long, hot month. In the past few hours alone, we’d run through the sprinklers and made ice pops by pouring lemonade into ice-cube trays and sticking in toothpicks. We’d caught bugs in the backyard and made homes for them in an old Tupperware container. And still, my parents weren’t due back from work for a couple of hours.
“I’m bored,” Becky had whined as I’d tweezed my eyebrows in the bathroom mirror. I was worried I had overplucked the right one and now wore an awkward quizzical expression.
“Go play with your dollhouse,” I said as I turned my attention to my left brow. I was thirteen, and newly concerned about my appearance.
“I don’t want to.”
The house was warm, since we had only two window air-conditioning units. I couldn’t believe I was looking forward to going back to school.
A few moments later Becky called out, “Who’s Roger Franklin?”
“Becky!” I yelled as I dropped the tweezers and ran into my room.
I snatched my diary out of her hands. “That’s private!”
“I’m bored,” she whined again.
“Fine,” I told Becky. “Don’t let Mom and Dad know, but you can watch some more TV in their room.”
My parents had a one-hour-a-day rule, which we routinely exceeded.
On that long-ago afternoon, I put three Chips Ahoy! cookies on a paper plate and gave them to Becky as she lay sprawled on my parents’ bed. “Be neat,” I instructed. On the screen, Lizzie McGuire began telling a friend to stop mimicking her. I waited until a glazed look came into Becky’s eyes. Then I crept outside and hopped on my bike. Becky didn’t like being alone, but I knew she would never even notice I was gone.