“Or very reckless.”
That drew a small smile from her. “What happened on Monday?”
I stiffened. “Why?”
“You said your physical intimacy didn’t begin in earnest until early Tuesday morning. What was the catalyst?”
“Uh . . .” What was the catalyst? “Beau was at my house.”
“That was the catalyst?”
“Yes. So, opportunity?”
She lifted an eyebrow at me. “Let’s back up. What happened after you left? On Friday?”
“Things were rough after Friday’s session.”
“How were they rough?”
“He was treating me like . . . a refrigerator.”
“Pardon?”
“Like I was broken, and needed to be watched. Like I couldn’t be trusted to function properly.” My stomach pitched and then dropped at the memory, the embarrassment. “Like he needed to babysit me.”
“Ah. I see. And how did that make you feel?”
“I hated it.”
“Do you understand why he behaved that way?”
“I do, but I hated it.” I rubbed my sternum. “One of the reasons I trusted him to begin with was how he looked at me.”
“And how was that?”
“Like I wasn’t broken, like I wasn’t an object. He looked at me like he saw me. But after the session Friday, things were different.”
“What happened after Friday?”
“He stopped by Saturday to check on me, more refrigerator talk. So I told him to leave.”
She nodded, writing something down. “And when did you clear the air?”
“Clear the air?”
“When did you talk things through, tell him how you felt about his ‘treating you like a refrigerator?’”
I stared at her, knowing the truthful answer to her question was going to be the wrong one. “I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly in a way that reminded me of my dad when he thought I was being foolish.
“I should do that.” I nodded quickly. “I’ll do that.” I continued to nod. “It’s just . . .”
She waited for me to continue, saying nothing, her features devoid of telling expression.
“Beau is going through a hard time.”
“Okay.”
“He just found out the woman who raised him isn’t his mother and his biological mother is a sociopath. His adoptive mother never told him he was adopted and now—he hasn’t said as much—but he doesn’t know whether to tell his twin brother, or what to do.”
“Okay.”
“And then there has to be other issues there as well, deep, self-reflective issues. Maybe he doesn’t even know who he is anymore. Maybe he doesn’t—”
“Shelly.”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re taking such good care of Beau. But these are his issues to work through. You being there, being supportive, is the right thing to do. You trying to take on his worries and wearing them like a coat isn’t going to help him.”
“That makes sense.”
“Was this the catalyst for Tuesday? Were you intimate with him because you wanted to make him feel better?”
“No.” I shook my head adamantly, but then had to amend, “I mean, I brought him back to my house because I didn’t want him to be alone, not after that woman was trying to mess with his mind. He was going to go home, but I told him to stay the night—again, not wanting him to be alone after dealing with that psychopath. And then he woke up, and because he found me on the couch and wanted me to sleep in the bed, he was going to take the couch. I was going to offer to give him a blow job to make him feel better—and because I really, really wanted to—but then as soon as we started kissing, things progressed very quickly.”
I was out of breath by the time I finished and bit my lip to stop from continuing, looking to her for a reaction.
She was still wearing her poker face. “Let me see if I have this right. Beau just found out that his mother adopted him. His biological mother—in your estimation—is a ‘psychopath.’”
“She was trying to manipulate him on Monday when she showed up. He didn’t want to speak to her, but she was saying she was his real mother. It made me so angry.”
“I see. So would you say Beau was emotionally vulnerable Monday night?”
I winced, groaning, “Yes.” And then covered my face with my hands.
“Shelly, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about this. Try to think about this rationally. Does Beau seem well? Has he talked about what he’s feeling? Regarding this change in his life?”
“Did I take advantage of him? Have I ruined everything?”
“Shelly, this isn’t about you. Think about Beau for a minute.”
“Okay.” I breathed out. “Okay. No. He hasn’t talked about how he’s feeling. We haven’t been talking about much of substance recently. We talk, but not about feelings. Just a lot of . . . hanging out. And having sex.”
So much great sex. All of it great.
“I’m going to suggest that you talk to Beau about how he made you feel last week after the Friday session. And then, I suggest you let him know you’re open to discussing how he feels about the upheaval in his life.”
“Shouldn’t he know that already?”
“Which part?”
“That I’m open to talking about the upheaval in his life?”
“How often has he brought up his feelings to you? Has he told you how he feels about you?”
“No.” My stomach dropped, my chest ached. “He doesn’t like talking about himself. I think it makes him uncomfortable. He likes helping other people.”
“Like he enjoys fixing refrigerators?”
Dr. West and I stared at each other. Although her features were stubbornly blank, the look in her eyes urged me to see her point.
“If I don’t want to be just a refrigerator to him,” I struggled to put the pieces together, “then I have to get him talking about himself. I have to try to fix his refrigerator?”
Her expression didn’t change. “All people are broken, Shelly. No one is perfect. Some seek help. Some don’t. But no one is ever fixed by another person. We can only work on ourselves. We are—using your analogy—our own refrigerators, no one else’s.”
Dr. West paused, like she was giving me time to absorb and consider her words. “You can be supportive of Beau, hold the tools for him while he works on his refrigerator, remind him to take a break, show interest in his struggles. You can do things, gestures of kindness that show him he’s appreciated, that you care about him. But no one can fix Beau’s refrigerator except Beau.”
28
“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
* * *
*Beau*
Hank had been calling me nonstop, at least twenty times a day, leaving messages each time.