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Jessica

It feels like ages since anyone has been in here.

I’m worried because I had a window of clarity and now I feel like it’s gone.

When Dr. Joe left, he gave me my meds, and everything sort of washed away.

The only way I can tell how much time has passed is how loopy I still am and how many diapers are in my bin.

I think the protein shakes they give me also have something in them.

When I leave here, I’m going to file a complaint against the facility.

I mean, diapers—really? The nurse mentioned putting in a catheter when I complained about them, so I shut up real fast. But I feel like the diapers are a psychological tactic, something else to degrade us, to break down part of our soul.

I’ve never wanted a therapy session so bad in my life. When Dr. Joe left last time, he promised to look up my mom and have them do a wellness check on her. So when he comes back, I’ll be able to confirm that she’s okay—and she’ll know where I am so she won’t have to worry about me.

Maybe we’ll go into his office again. We did that on the third or fourth time I spoke to him.

The room has all these rich textures; everywhere you look there’s something else to see.

The soft leather of his couch. The wood panels on the walls.

There’s this supersoft blanket on the back of a soft plaid chair.

Then there are some small knickknacks you can see if you look closely.

Like this bronze horse statue on his desk and some glass awards on the bookshelf.

I picked up this candle that was by my chair and smelled it, and it was like a fir-vanilla scent that was so good I just kept sniffing it during our session like I was a drug addict or something.

The only thing weird about his office is the window that looks into mine. I kept looking at it and trying to think about what I had done in my room that he might have seen.

If we go in there again, I won’t look at the window.

I won’t even touch his candle. I’ll just bask in the soft glow of the lamps and maybe borrow that soft blanket to wrap around my shoulders, and answer all his questions and hope that he just lets me stay there for the night.

I could definitely sleep on his couch. Use the bathroom that’s right outside his office door.

Read some of those books that are lining the walls.

Instead, I am stuck in this stupid white box. I cram a puzzle piece with a red balloon into place with more aggression than is needed.

There’s a rap on the door, and I turn from my spot at the table and sag with relief at the sight of Dr. Joe, who steps in wearing jeans, a T-shirt underneath his lab coat. He’s also wearing sneakers. It must be the weekend.

I have to say, I prefer the suits. He rocks them with deadly precision, a look that has grown on me the more I see him.

He’s pretty hot. He’s got a light sprinkle of gray hair above his ears, and his eyes are super intense.

When he stares at me, I can tell he really is listening to me, and I’m not sure that any man has ever really stopped talking long enough to hear what I have to say.

And his lips kinda tilt to one side when I say something he likes.

I live for those smiles. Each session, I try my best for one.

I’ll take the small ones, but the really special moments are when he releases a full-blown grin.

Once, he laughed, and I think the action caught us both off guard.

He’s the type of man I’d like to marry. My mom will love him.

She is always going on and on about high-value men and that I deserve the best that is out there, and blah, blah, blah.

She would fall over from joy if I came home and told her that I was dating a doctor.

Not that I would date Dr. Joe. I mean, to be honest, I would—if he was single.

But he’s not, and he has never given me the slightest hint that he’s interested.

“Good morning.” He closes the door behind him, and it clicks into place. He’s holding a plate wrapped in foil, and I inhale the familiar smell of bacon. Today there’s some stubble on his face, and I like it. It makes him look a little more rugged, like a sexy doctor lumberjack.

“Morning,” I chime, then pause. “It’s morning?”

He checks the Rolex on his wrist. “10:42, so yes. How are you feeling?”

“Groggy. Bored. Is that bacon for me? Did you find my mom?”

“Yes, the bacon is for you, and yes, I found your mom.” He glances at the half-completed puzzle, which is taking up most of the table. “Please, sit back down, and let’s chat.”

“We could go in your office if you want more space?” I suggest. Please, please, please.

“No, it’s probably best if we stay here.” He places his clipboard on the table and opens his hand above it, dropping three white pills on its surface. Then he pulls a bottle out from under his arm and sets it beside them.

It’s fruit punch Gatorade. A simple, dumb thing, but my eyes fill with tears at the sight of it. My mom always says my blood is half Gatorade, I drink so much of it. And fruit punch is my favorite. Gatorade and bacon. I’m so happy I could die.

“You told me this was the flavor to get.” He takes the chair next to mine. “I’ll bring more tomorrow.”

I don’t remember telling him that, but half of our sessions are a blur to me.

“Thank you.” I pick up the bottle and twist off the cap, then put the pills in my mouth and wash them down with the drink.

I chug half of it, then come up for air and peel the foil off the paper plate.

There’s a small pile of crispy and curly bacon—the good kind, with lots of fat. “What did my mom say?”

He moves aside the clipboard, and there’s a thick file underneath it that I haven’t seen before. “I received this from the police department, Jessica.”

Jessica. My name sounds like a death sentence on his lips, and I don’t like this vibe at all. He’s got this flat look on his face, and then he nudges the file toward me with the tip of his finger. I received this from the police department.

The police department.

I set down the piece of bacon I was about to put in my mouth. “I can open it?”

“Yes, please do.”

I sit back in the plastic chair and pick up the file.