And it’s not only them I’m interested in, it’s him, too, Dr. Statler. Hearing the way he speaks to his patients—the comfort with their vulnerability, the sympathy—I can’t turn away. And just because something isn’t right doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It’s not like I’m putting children in cages. In fact, I think what I’m doing is good for Sam’s patients, another dose of positive energy, as I am genuinely rooting for every one of them.
Well, everyone except Christopher Zucker, VP of Idiots at a new widget company where he earns enough to spend a half hour blabbing to Sam about his blind adoration of David Foster Wallace. Skinny Jeans, that’s my pet name for him, after I saw him sauntering out of Sam’s office in those ludicrous three-hundred-dollar Diesels. He’s Sam’s only male client, and just the kind of guy I’ve always hated. Pretty boy with a model girlfriend. His is named Sofie with an f. She’s Czech and, according to Skinny Jeans, crazy in bed. Eastern European girls are known to be this way, he explained, assigning it to “all that Communist oppression,” and it took every ounce of restraint not to shout at him through the vent, reminding him that the Czech Republic returned to a liberal democracy in 1989.
Sam and Numb Nancy talk for a while—her husband says she’s being too strict with Angela, but he’s not in touch with what today’s world is like—when the room goes suddenly quiet.
“Something happened the other night,” Nancy says. “I was making dinner, and out of nowhere, this memory pops into my head. My mom, going out at night and leaving me and Jill alone.”
“How old were you?” Sam asks.
“Six, probably. Which would mean Jill was three. I can see it so clearly. Getting out of bed, finding the house empty, her bed made. I was terrified.”
“Where do you think she was?”
“I have no idea.”
Sam waits a moment. “How often would this happen?”
“Definitely more than once.” Her voice is strained. “I called Jill the other day, asked her if she had any recollection of this. She didn’t.”
“Have you asked your mom?”
“No. I’m afraid I’m making it up.”
“Why would you make it up?” Sam asks.
“You’re the doctor. You tell me.”
“Okay. You’re not making it up. Rather, it’s an experience you’ve had to suppress, even in the moment, dealing with the fear of knowing you and your sister were in the house alone. As the oldest, you were in charge, which heightened the anxiety. It’s natural for the brain to shut down in some ways during traumatic moments like these, suppress the memory so that it can’t be easily accessed.”
“Traumatic?” Her voice is strained. “Isn’t that a little much?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Sam pauses, and his tone takes on a more gentle quality when he speaks. “I’ve been working in the field of childhood trauma for most of my professional career, and trust me, trauma comes in many forms.”
I imagine what he looks like right now. At ease in his chair, his legs crossed, his fingers tented in front of his mouth.
“Let’s talk a little bit more about your childhood,” he quietly suggests. “What was it like in your house?”
I close my eyes. My house? I ask. It was a disaster. I left as soon as I could. I do this sometimes, I pretend it’s me down there, sitting across from Sam on the couch, admitting to things I’ve never told him.
I hate to say this, Dr. Statler, but I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, I would say.
For instance?
For instance, I’m not the self-assured person I portray, the one with the sunny background and two devoted parents. In fact, my parents hated each other, and neither had any idea what to do with me.
I want to believe that he wouldn’t be mad. Instead, he’d suggest we explore why I felt the need to lie to him. After a good forty-five minutes discussing it, we’d agree that I wanted to believe the lies I’ve told him. In fact, there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to be part of a happy family, so I devised an alternative reality.
It wasn’t my intention to lie to him. After all, if there’s anyone equipped to handle the truth of a messy childhood, it’s the man who coauthored “Stored Childhood Trauma and Symptom Complexity: A Sample of 1,653 Elementary Students,” appearing in the January 2014 issue of the Journal of Personality and Psychology. But then I met him, and he was so accomplished and impressive—a PhD, a teaching position at Bellevue Hospital—and what was I going to do, tell him the truth?
“This was useful,” Sam says. “Let’s be sure to come back to this next week.”
Startled, I open my eyes and look at the clock on the floor beside me. It’s 10:46. We’re one minute over the end time of Numb Nancy’s session. I’d lost myself daydreaming.
“It’s crazy,” Nancy says with a laugh, sounding a little less numb. “I came in here today thinking I had nothing to say.”
“Always my favorite kind of session,” Sam says. “I know it’s not easy, but it’s good to delve into this.”
As I hear Sam lead her into the waiting room, I wonder if I’ll ever be brave enough to tell him the truth and finally show someone who I am.
Because if not Sam, who?
Chapter 7