ME: No. He used to have some kind of therapist, in the Navy, but he didn’t like it.
DR. LEWIS: Let me get this straight. It sounds like you’re telling me that your father has untreated post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in the Navy, that he has a temper that is triggered by even small things, and that if he knew you were pursuing this treatment, he may harm you or jeopardize your recovery. Is that a correct summation?
ME: I don’t know about harm. He wouldn’t … hasn’t … hurt me. But yeah. Apart from that.
DR. LEWIS: Apart from that, you’d agree with my statement? This is important.
ME: Yes.
DR. LEWIS: In that case my view is that it is in your best interests that he should not know.
ME: Mine too.
DR. LEWIS: Okay then.
ME: Okay? Seriously?
DR. LEWIS: (nods)
ME: You called it a treatment though. I thought it wasn’t a treatment.
DR. LEWIS: (smiling) You’re right. I can see that these are going to be interesting sessions.
ME: I—
But then a guy comes in the door, trailing Paris behind him. He’s skinny, nervous looking. Maybe thirty. He’s wearing Dockers and Timberland boots, a denim shirt. My first thought is, construction. I am wrong about this. I am wrong about so many things.
“Hey,” says the guy.
“Sorry, Doc,” says Paris. “It’s five after.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Well. Time flies. Cass, this is Dwight. He comes every week.”
Dwight nods at me. “Nice to meet you, Cass,” he says. He still has a little acne on his cheeks. I’m thinking now more like twenty-two.
“Uh, you too.”
“I think,” says Dr. Lewis, “that the group may be a little much for your first day, Cassie. Come back next week?”
“I … Yeah, I think so.”
He smiles. “Good. Welcome to the group.”
Dwight winks at me. “It’s like a family, but better.”
“Nothing that’s like a family is good,” says Paris.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Dr. Lewis turns to Paris. “Are you joining us?”
Paris shakes her head. “I’ll walk Cassandra home. Like a gentleman.”
“Of course. Well, we’re always here. Should you need us.”
“Thanks, Doc,” says Paris. “But I think I have it under control.”
“Excellent. You’re knocking them dead at Rutgers, I hear. Professor Jenkins told me they’re thinking of recommending you for a grad program at Harvard.”
Paris shrugs.
“Well, go with my blessing. And bring that girl back next week. You’re going to do amazing things, Paris French.”
MOST WRONG STATEMENT EVER.
I gave Paris a little curtsy when we got out the door.
“Thanks for escorting me home,” I said. “Thanks for being my gentleman.”
She bowed, twirling her hand. “You’re welcome.”
“But seriously,” I said, “you don’t have to. I mean, I’m grateful. I am. But you don’t have to walk me home. You probably have better stuff to do.”
Paris frowned. “There’s a serial killer on the loose,” she said. “You think I’m letting you walk home alone in the dark?”
Oh yeah. That.
“Anyway,” she added. “I have nothing better to do.”
It was when we were nearly back to my house that it finally clicked. We were passing a slushie machine outside a corner store, blue and red ice churning, glowing in the half dark of sunset. Already you could hear the shushing of the ocean, as if it were trying to quiet our voices. I think it was her saying that thing about families that made it fall into place.
“Your trauma,” I said. “What was it?”
She looked at me.
“He said it comes from trauma. Usually.”
The slushie machine turned and turned. I thought how weird it was that people were happy to drink it. After it had been in there for who knew how long, just spinning over and over, the color bright like a chemical solution, radioactive.
“Nosy all of a sudden, aren’t you?” said Paris eventually.
“Sorry. It doesn’t matter.”
I started walking again.
“Someone … did stuff to me. When I was a kid.”
“Someone?”
She paused. “My dad.”
I stopped. There were wide cracks in the sidewalk; grass was growing through. Above us, tattered clouds were lit bloodred as the sun set somewhere over the great landmass of America.
“It stopped when I was twelve. When I finally spoke to my mother about it, she left. Not immediately. But she packed her bags the next day. Said I was a liar and a whore and she couldn’t stay in the same house as me. Moved to an apartment in the West Village.”
I turned around, very slowly. Like there was a baby deer behind me, and I might startle it off into the dusk.
“Jesus, Paris,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
She shrugged. “I still speak to my mom sometimes. On Skype actually. Sometimes I worry that I might get mixed up and, like, send her one of my cam videos instead. ‘Hey, Mom, like my ass in these panties?’ ”