help.
By the time we get to the foyer, I’m already missing Marie—the jangling of her bracelets, the smell of her lotion. I don’t tap into those feelings, though; it’s best to keep them away when I’m on assignment. I blow out a cleansing breath, and Marie and I take a second to look each other over. She tilts her head as if giving my appearance her final approval.
“Aaron will be in touch,” she says. “Tell him everything so I can be aware of your situation and monitor it for any changes. And as I said before, you can contact me directly if you need to. You have your phone?”
I think about my cell phone tucked in my backpack upstairs, and nod, afraid that if I try to talk, my voice will crack and give away my emotions. I’m about to be abandoned in this new life. This part is always a bit unsettling.
“Good,” she says. “Only use it for contact and extraction. No social calls.” She smiles. “At this point I want you to focus on your parents, and we’ll figure out how to deal with Isaac after I consult with the other therapists. You can reach out to him online, but don’t engage him in person. He’s unpredictable right now, so be careful.”
“I will,” I say faintly.
Marie pauses. “And stay away from Deacon,” she adds. “He distracts you.”
“I’m sure he’d love to hear that.”
Marie laughs and then reaches to pull me into a hug. I close my eyes, drinking her in, and when she lets go, I don’t allow myself to look at her again. In complete silence she walks out the door, and I close it, locking the dead bolt behind her.
* * *
After dinner, my family and I retire to the living room, where we watch my favorite show, one I’ve never seen before, and eat popcorn. They asked me to change out of my prom dress, so sitting on the couch in sweats and a T-shirt is actually relaxing, maybe even a little fun, as the three of us laugh at a few one-liners on the television. Although it’s full immersion, my father is still resistant and finds it impossible to say my name. We’ll have to work on that.
After telling them good night, I head to my room, drained from all the smiling and ready to think over my next steps for therapy. My room is starting to feel a bit more like mine, but I pause when I notice my computer on the desk.
I fidget, but then walk over to it and sit down. I open the screen, and sign in to my e-mail, checking for a message. My heart sinks when there’s no new note from Isaac, and I suppress my guilt and allow myself to think selfishly for a moment. Whether I truly know him or not, that picture of Isaac staring at me, that adoration . . . I want that. I want to know what it feels like to be someone’s world. And the devastated look in his eyes tonight, I want to know more about that, too. I want to know how to fix it.
I’m curious and anxious and inexplicably drawn to Isaac. And not just because of who I’ve become. I believe I can help him—save him, even. He can be my own personal case study. Closers have never dealt with a relationship like this, not that I know of. I’ll be the one to find out if role-play therapy can work. No, I’ll prove that it can. I don’t want to see Isaac locked away. I want to bring back his smile, show him he can have a full life, even after his loss. And maybe in exchange he can give me a look into what it’s like to be normal, to have a normal and perfectly average life.
Resolved, I consider contacting him. But it’s late, and I think it would be crossing a line, especially when he was so outspoken about not being involved in the therapy. Those seeking help approach us. We don’t chase them. I’ll have to give him time to come around. I believe he will.
I wait a minute longer, but without any word from him I close the screen. I take off my wig and brush it out, and then remove my contacts. When I’m stripped down to the studs, I click off the overhead light and climb into bed.
The ceiling fan swirls above me, the
By the time we get to the foyer, I’m already missing Marie—the jangling of her bracelets, the smell of her lotion. I don’t tap into those feelings, though; it’s best to keep them away when I’m on assignment. I blow out a cleansing breath, and Marie and I take a second to look each other over. She tilts her head as if giving my appearance her final approval.
“Aaron will be in touch,” she says. “Tell him everything so I can be aware of your situation and monitor it for any changes. And as I said before, you can contact me directly if you need to. You have your phone?”
I think about my cell phone tucked in my backpack upstairs, and nod, afraid that if I try to talk, my voice will crack and give away my emotions. I’m about to be abandoned in this new life. This part is always a bit unsettling.
“Good,” she says. “Only use it for contact and extraction. No social calls.” She smiles. “At this point I want you to focus on your parents, and we’ll figure out how to deal with Isaac after I consult with the other therapists. You can reach out to him online, but don’t engage him in person. He’s unpredictable right now, so be careful.”
“I will,” I say faintly.
Marie pauses. “And stay away from Deacon,” she adds. “He distracts you.”
“I’m sure he’d love to hear that.”
Marie laughs and then reaches to pull me into a hug. I close my eyes, drinking her in, and when she lets go, I don’t allow myself to look at her again. In complete silence she walks out the door, and I close it, locking the dead bolt behind her.
* * *
After dinner, my family and I retire to the living room, where we watch my favorite show, one I’ve never seen before, and eat popcorn. They asked me to change out of my prom dress, so sitting on the couch in sweats and a T-shirt is actually relaxing, maybe even a little fun, as the three of us laugh at a few one-liners on the television. Although it’s full immersion, my father is still resistant and finds it impossible to say my name. We’ll have to work on that.
After telling them good night, I head to my room, drained from all the smiling and ready to think over my next steps for therapy. My room is starting to feel a bit more like mine, but I pause when I notice my computer on the desk.
I fidget, but then walk over to it and sit down. I open the screen, and sign in to my e-mail, checking for a message. My heart sinks when there’s no new note from Isaac, and I suppress my guilt and allow myself to think selfishly for a moment. Whether I truly know him or not, that picture of Isaac staring at me, that adoration . . . I want that. I want to know what it feels like to be someone’s world. And the devastated look in his eyes tonight, I want to know more about that, too. I want to know how to fix it.
I’m curious and anxious and inexplicably drawn to Isaac. And not just because of who I’ve become. I believe I can help him—save him, even. He can be my own personal case study. Closers have never dealt with a relationship like this, not that I know of. I’ll be the one to find out if role-play therapy can work. No, I’ll prove that it can. I don’t want to see Isaac locked away. I want to bring back his smile, show him he can have a full life, even after his loss. And maybe in exchange he can give me a look into what it’s like to be normal, to have a normal and perfectly average life.
Resolved, I consider contacting him. But it’s late, and I think it would be crossing a line, especially when he was so outspoken about not being involved in the therapy. Those seeking help approach us. We don’t chase them. I’ll have to give him time to come around. I believe he will.
I wait a minute longer, but without any word from him I close the screen. I take off my wig and brush it out, and then remove my contacts. When I’m stripped down to the studs, I click off the overhead light and climb into bed.
The ceiling fan swirls above me, the
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