Score one for the doctor.
“Of course I have,” I said. I felt defensive and stupid. Of course I thought that it was probably me, my psyche, telling me I was a bad person and deserved horrible things to happen to me. Wasn’t it simply my brain conjuring my own guilt in the form of an angry ghost? What? This doctor thought I was a moron? A dip shit?
“Lemme see that paper again,” I said.
Dr. Merryweather smiled and showed me her writing. Still my name. And birth date.
“Let’s talk about the betrayal,” the doctor said.
“I’d rather not,” I replied.
“Brooke, talking it out helps.”
“What is there to say? I was a horrible friend.”
“So how do you make amends?” Dr. Merryweather asked.
“Really? I thought you were supposed to tell me,” I said, feeling my irritation grow. I crossed my arms over my chest.
“That’s a defensive move, Brooke,” Dr. Merryweather said. “You’re better than that.”
I dropped my arms and huffed.
“Now, I can’t tell you how to make amends. You have to discover your own peace. But I can tell you that it’s no angry ghost haunting your dreams. You’re punishing yourself for the past. Unable to move on. Is there something you think you have to do in order to move on?”
Yes. I needed to do something. I had a purpose once, but I thought now I couldn’t do it.
“Brooke? You’ve got to open up to me. Do these boys have anything to do with your deceased friend?”
I swallowed. “Huh?”
“Well, you mentioned them in the same breath. You told me about your cheating, your friend’s rape, and these boys. Are they connected?”
“Um . . .”
Dr. Merryweather thought for a moment. “Did one of those boys rape her?”
My eyes went wide. Was she a psychologist or an investigator, or were they one in the same?
“I see,” the doctor whispered. She wrote something else down on her pad.
“What are you writing?” I asked quickly.
She ignored me. “Brooke, it’s clear you think you owe your friend. What is it you plan to do?”
What I plan to do? I have no plan. I have nothing.
“Brooke?”
“I’m not planning anything. It’s just that I go to school with this jackass every day, and it’s hard to move on from my friend’s death when I have to see his face.”
“I can understand that,” Dr. Merryweather said.
“No one knows he’s a rapist. Well, no one who counts, anyway,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“The police. People who could put him away. No one knows because girls aren’t saying anything,” I said.
“There are more victims?” she asked. “How do you know?”
I sighed. “I’ve been digging around.”
“Is it dangerous what you’re doing?”
I shook my head. “Just illegal.”
“Well, I’m not your moral compass, but anything illegal may not be the healthiest thing for you right now. How can it possibly help you move on from your grief?” the doctor asked.
I considered her for a half moment. I knew I could trust her. She took an oath or something like that. She couldn’t repeat anything I said unless I threatened to kill somebody. I think, anyway. I don’t know all the details of the doctor-patient confidentiality thing. But I knew I could trust her. Mom and Dad had no clue about the things I confessed to Dr. Merryweather years ago when I started therapy because of my claustrophobia. I knew this to be true because they looked at me every day like I was the sweetest, most innocent child in the world.
I drew in my breath and let it out slowly. Deliberately slowly. Dr. Merryweather knew what that meant. She resituated herself in her large club chair to get comfortable.
“Okay, so, it was like the best of times and the worst of times,” I began.
“Would have been better if you didn’t include the word ‘like’,” Dr. Merryweather said.
I sighed. “I slept with Beth’s boyfriend behind her back.”
“I fail to see the ‘best of times’ in that.”
“Well, the sex was incredible, but the cheating and lying were unforgiveable,” I replied.
I laid out the entire story for Dr. Merryweather, right up to my discovery of the Fantasy Slut League and the boys I suspected were rapists. I even confessed to the doctor my old plan to self-sacrifice but didn’t receive the shocked reaction I expected. I did, however, receive a slew of questions about my emotional state and my struggle with guilt and forgiveness.
I listened politely to the psychobabble wondering what 18-year-old girl with half a conscience wouldn’t be guilt-ridden and have a hard time forgiving herself. I didn’t want my own fucking forgiveness anyway. I wanted Beth’s, and she was no longer here to give it to me.