Kick (Songs of Perdition #1)(8)
Author: C.D. Reiss

“Chapman.”

Jack puffed out his cheeks and released slowly, an expression of overwhelming sympathy.

“What?”

“Hardass.”

“Really? Seems nice enough.”

He shifted on the couch until he faced me, one leg bent on the cushions, the other with toes tensed against the floor. “It’s his job to be nice. Listen. Do you want out or in?”

“Out, of course. What person in their right mind would want to stay here?”

“The question kind of answers itself. But if you want out, you have to do it in the seventy-two-hour window, six therapy sessions, or shit gets indefinite. Like, they keep you in thirty-day increments and revisit, and it gets less and less likely you’ll get out unless your parents start making a stink. In my case, they won’t, so I can stay as long as I want.”

He didn’t look at me for the last sentence, as if he couldn’t bear the shame. I didn’t blame him. I’d be ashamed too, if I had any.

“I’ll convince him I’m sane.”

Which meant I’d face charges. If I convinced him I was nuts, I’d be stuck in Westonwood with their no touching rule and scheduled meals. If I faced charges, would I get to see Deacon? Or would I just be out and arrested and as separate from him as I was in the hospital? Only he knew what happened. Only he could say what I’d done and hadn’t done.

Staying in, staring at a flat screen of flowers with bars on the windows between Deacon and me, wasn’t going to cut it. I had to take my chances with the real world, which meant no more tantrums. No more attacks on the doctor or anyone else. For the next two days, I would be a model citizen.

six.

“How was your morning?” Doctor Chapman—no, Elliot—asked. He had a tiny scratch on his left eyelid. Otherwise, he looked no worse for the wear.

“Fine,” I said. “Sorry about attacking you. I’m not usually like that.”

“You’re repressing a slew of emotions and memories. Stuff can only stay in lockdown so long.”

“Speaking of lockdown…” I curled my lip to the side. Elliot’s hands were folded in front of him, and his attention was fully on me. I didn’t know if anyone outside of Deacon had ever paid me such razor-sharp attention. “Is it even legal to have solitary confinement in a hospital?”

“I told Frances you needed an hour of restraints so you didn’t hurt yourself. I didn’t know how the tranq would affect you. Where did you get the idea of solitary?”

“She mentioned it. Like a threat. Not a fan of threats.”

“What about the thought of it scares you?” he asked.

“I didn’t say I was scared.”

“Okay. Why bring it up? I’m sure she told you plenty of rules. Why does that stick out?”

“Because it’s a legal issue.”

“Is it?”

“According to Amnesty International and a whole bunch of entities who think it’s wrong.”

“We’re a private institution serving a specific segment of society. We get some leeway,” he said.

“Meaning there’s enough money getting passed around that you can do what you want.”

“Money flows both ways. But if you need reassurances, and you might, it’s not something I’d sign off on for you.” He watched me, reading me, observing me like a thing in a cage.

I wiggled in my seat, as if that would throw him off, but it didn’t. The grip of his gaze only got tighter.

“You’re making me uncomfortable,” I said.

“You’re not here to be comfortable.”

How many times had Deacon said that when the backs of my knees bordered my face? Or when I didn’t sit right at breakfast and he straightened me out?

“I hear you’re a hardass,” I said.

“As long as you contribute to your treatment, you’ll have nothing negative to say about me. If you shut down or fail to participate fully, I will take note.”

“That’s hardassy.”

He smiled, and his face curved from chin to forehead. Somehow, those two words had either delighted him or thwarted his expectations. I didn’t know how to respond to his smile except to fidget and suppress my own grin.

“It’s the world outside your bubble, Fiona. What you call hardass, other people call real.”

“Where are you from, Doctor?”

“Elliot.”

“Elliot. Tough Loveland? Toobad City? A mile outside Hardscrabble?”

“Menlo Park.”

“Oh, sweet. Tech geek?” I asked.

“My dad actually knows how a microchip works. It’s fascinating and utterly boring at the same time. I ran as fast as I could.”

“To Los Angeles.”

I could imagine him on the train in the middle of the night, running from a world where people found practical applications for calculus. He’d fail as a writer/actor/musician and put himself through school as a therapist, finding a hidden talent, yet always yearning to spend his nights with that one creative task that fulfilled him.

“Pasadena,” he said.

“What’s in Pasadena?”

“I went to school there. Let’s get back to you.”

He was evading. It had been all over his face since he mentioned the city where his school was. Would he lie? Were therapists allowed to do that? I didn’t know if making our session about him would hurt my chances of release, but I wanted him to know if I could hold a conversation, act sane, function.

“Okay. Back to me,” I said. “I’ve been to Pasadena. I was screwing a skate kid who ollied the six sets at Cal Arts. Did we meet then?”

“No.”

“Pepperdine?”

“No.”

“Four Twenty College?” I mentioned the name of the pot school, where one could learn how to deal marijuana legally, with a lilt in my voice.

He took a deep breath then, as if resigned, said, “Fuller.”

“Fuller? That’s a seminary.”

“That a problem for you?”

“Did my father pick you personally?”

Elliot laughed again, rubbing the arm of his chair. “No. At least, I don’t think so. But I’m aware that your family is, if not religious, Catholic in a way that’s in the blood. I have no idea where you stand on it.”

“I’m a C and E.” I knew he’d know the term for Christmas and Easter Catholics.

“Why bother?”

“It’s nice to touch base twice a year. Jump the hoops. You know, show face. So you’re a priest? Or did you just say no to celibacy?”