“I’m as loving as ever. Ask my mother. You, I’m not so sure about, seeing as your kid might have an emergency and you’re not answering your phone.”
She pretends to write words, but draws small squares. “Irritability? Outbursts of anger?”
“Zen as ever. Ask my therapist.”
She blinks at the phone.
“Maybe I’m projecting my own experience, but you are freaking me out by not answering that phone. Answer it. Seriously. I don’t care.”
“Normally I would never allow an interruption on our time. But that was my emergency ringtone. I promise this will only take a second.”
“I won’t tell,” I stage-whisper.
Ricker says a deep hello, pressing the curve of her hand into her top lip as she listens. She sets the phone down and stares at it for a second.
“I was just yanking your chain about your daughter. Is everything okay?” I ask.
She smiles tightly at her lap, and when she looks up, she’s the composed Ricker again. “I apologize. Where were we? Oh yes. We know for sure that you have the final symptom: inability to recall aspects of the trauma. That said, I’d like to hypnotize you.”
“Whoa! What?”
“It will be like falling asleep. When you’re fully under, I’ll regress you to those lost moments.”
“Can’t we just wait for my memories to return?”
“It doesn’t always work that way. Repressed memories can stay repressed for a lifetime. They’re not like seeds. Shoots won’t rise from the ground without some nurturing,” she says.
“I’m not so sure of that. Ever hear of the yellow tansy? It’s the worst invasive plant in North America, and it grows better when ignored. Pretty, fragrant, and totally poisonous.”
“Once we understand the past, we can move forward.”
My master plan—to humor Man Hands while secretly rejecting her textbook dogma—suddenly seems wrongheaded. If she wants to understand what happened in the woods, we’re on the same page.
“I’m all for understanding,” I say.
The secretary’s light tap at the door signals Ricker’s next appointment is waiting. I lean across the couch, reaching for my bag on the floor.
“Julia,” Ricker says suddenly. “The reporters. They’ll be back.”
I sit up slowly, frowning. “Why would you say that?”
“Slow news cycle.” Ricker rushes over her words. “Or they might try to make a big deal out of the one-year anniversary. It’s less than two weeks away.”
“I’m aware.”
“You need to be prepared to reject them completely.”
“You make it sound as if I actually like the attention.”
“I simply want to be clear about where you should put your energy in the days ahead. The media is in the business of selling stories. Our business is healing you.”
I consider pointing out that, unlike the media, not one of the persons supposedly concerned with my healing has used the word brave to describe what I did. As in, Brave Teen Saves Friend, Brave Girl Fights Off Predator, or Lucky Teen Escapes Attacker Because of Brave Friend. Nor do they take advantage of the delightful wordplay my name affords: Meet Julia Spunk, a teen whose name suits her perfectly.
“If your business is healing me, then isn’t it in your interest that I stay broken?”
“Maybe I’m not being clear. I’m advising your mother that you should stay away from all press.”
Deep in my belly, the black thing shifts. “I can handle it,” I insist.
“When it comes to the press, it’s your mother’s job to handle it. I know it’s hard to hear this, but the work we have to do is here, in this room.” She sits back and sweeps her hand in front of her head—“Here”—and her chest—“And here.”
She’s losing my favor fast. I roll my eyes so hard I see stars. “We’re done, right?”
Ricker nods, tucking her lips. I scramble off the couch and yank my cuff down to cover the metal doorknob, one of many tricks for never being cold again. The door opens and there is Mom, a shudder through her springy, dark curls.
“I apologize! It was me knocking,” she calls to Ricker, then leans in and says in her shrink-shop undertone: “I need a few minutes to catch up with Dr. Ricker, and I wanted to make sure she had time for me before her next appointment.”
“Sorry I used every minute. I won’t do it again,” I say.
Her smile falls. “You can’t think I minded.”
“I didn’t. I was teasing.”
“Oh!” She reaches to smooth my hair, then stops. “I won’t be long.”
I watch Mom slide through the door, a sliver of a woman, birdlike, with a small head and hollow bones. I take over her chair, feeling ungainly, stretch my legs, and scan the room, daring someone to say something. A fat kid with emo hair and a mole on his cheek points his phone at my head and takes a photo.
“For real? I’m right here!” I lean over my knees. “I. Can. See. You.”