Page 1 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

One

Tristan

I ’m parked behind the organic market located halfway between work and home, waiting for seven o’clock to roll around so I can pop open the video conferencing app on the tablet my wife doesn’t know I own to log in for my semiannual visit with the psychotherapist my wife doesn’t know I see.

Around the corner, the church bells at St. Agnes chime the hour, and I hit the meeting button. Right on cue, Dr. Wilde’s face fills my screen.

“Tate,” he says, “good to see you.”

Even though I’ve been using my brother’s name for these appointments for more than six years now, a frisson of shock runs through me every time the psychiatrist calls me Tate. I have to stop myself from looking over my shoulder to make sure my older brother isn’t looming in my back seat.

“The beard suits you, Doc,” I tell him.

He strokes his chin, pleased I’ve noticed. “I grew it during my last work retreat. I highly recommend it. I booked myself a cabin and managed to crank out three articles to submit for peer review, and I made progress on a new project. Something groundbreaking—really cutting edge stuff.”

I stifle a yawn and hurry to derail any discussion of his academic papers. “Take up any new interests since our last session?”

Mind-numbing academia averted. He gestures to the room behind him and says, “I’ve got a drum kit. I’m going to start hitting the sticks.”

Is hitting the sticks really slang for drumming?

I have no idea, and I bet he doesn’t either, but I nod enthusiastically.

He has a hip new hobby just about every time we meet, and he loves to recommend them to me.

Over the years, he’s suggested I try Tai Chi, rock-tumbling, candle-making, and beekeeping, to name just a handful.

“Cool. I hope you have a soundproofed room,” I say, because he’s clearly waiting for me to respond.

He nods seriously. “I do. After I gave up my office space in town during the pandemic, I upgraded my home office to meet all the requirements for patient confidentiality—secure, encrypted file server, soundproof room, all the goodies. It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Appel in the unit next door to overhear someone’s session.

So my treatment room doubles as a kickass music room. ”

“Great.”

His concern about patient confidentiality and following the rules cracks me up but I keep a straight face.

It was trivially easy to book my first appointment with him using a fake name.

Apparently, if you walk into a psychiatrist’s office and say you plan to self-pay and not submit to insurance, they don’t ask a lot of questions.

When I agreed to Venmo him the money for my sessions, he became even less interested in verifying my identity.

I highly doubt he reports my payments as income to the IRS.

In fact, I hope he doesn’t. If he ever finds out I’m not Tate, we’ll have a handy mutually assured destruction situation.

“How have things been, Tate?”

“Good. Work’s going well.”

“And your personal life? Seeing anybody special?”

“No, I’m not dating anyone,” I tell him.

It’s true. I’m not. Emily and I have been married for five years.

We’re definitely well past dating. But our marriage is yet another secret I have to keep from Dr. Wilde.

He’s also Emily’s psychotherapist, and neither he nor she knows I’m his patient, too.

I’m pretty sure even Dr. Venmo would find it a conflict of interest to treat us both individually.

And I can’t risk having him cut one or both of us loose.

It would be too disorienting, too upsetting, for Em.

My singular goal is to shield her from harm, not subject her to it.

Besides, I find my twice-a-year sessions a comforting ritual.

It’s odd to admit that. After all, these are psychotherapy sessions based on a series of lies.

I don’t enjoy lying to my therapist. Assuming Tate’s identity just happened.

I blurted his name, not my own, at the first session.

The reason I started seeing Dr. Wilde was to understand the trauma that shaped my brother and, to a lesser extent, me.

So I was nervous, and I guess Tate was top of mind.

Then, once I started dating Emily, I realized using Tate’s name had been a stroke of genius. When she mentions Tristan, her boyfriend/fiancé/husband, to her psychotherapist, it sets off no alarm bells with the good doctor.

He makes some noises about me putting myself out there romantically and gives me the assignment of asking someone out for coffee before our next session. I nod earnestly as I assure him that I’ll try.

He moves on briskly, checks his notes, and asks if I’m still having night terrors. I know lying to him is counterproductive, but I’m not ready to talk about my latest nightmare fodder, so I tell him no.

He doesn’t even blink, just breezes on to the next item on his checklist: Have I talked about the past with my mother since my last appointment?

“God no. I’m still not ready.”

This answer happens to be true. I talk to my mom fairly regularly, but never about what happened. At least she and I talk. Tate and my mom have had no contact for well over a decade. I’ve been estranged from him for nearly as long.

I take advantage of his disapproving silence to ask the question that weighs on me. “Do you think a child can inherit an evil nature from a parent?”

He twists his mouth into a sour bow. “You know I don’t find ‘evil’ to be a useful descriptor.” He draws air quotes with his fingers when he says the word.

I manage not to roll my eyes. “Fine, then. Substitute cruelty, criminality, or depravity.”

He seems to ponder the question, but I catch him checking his watch.

In the beginning, our sessions were one hour each week, then an hour every other week, then an hour a month.

Eventually, I weaned down to half an hour once a month, then once a quarter.

And now I get a thirty-minute session twice a year so he can check some box that allows him to keep me on as a current patient.

He’s a safety net at this point. But I’m on a tightrope, so a safety net’s advisable.

He meets my gaze through the device. “I’m not certain those states of being are any better. We’ve discussed how people aren’t bad simply because they do bad—even criminal, cruel, or depraved—things.”

This time, I can’t suppress the eye roll. He gives me a disappointed look and a small sigh. “We’ve also discussed that people can overcome their upbringing. That neither nature nor nurture has the final say.”

“The individual does.”

“Precisely. Some people who were abused go on to become abusers. But others go on to become advocates and helpers. The human spirit is resilient and pliable.”

I’ve asked this question before, but I ask it again. “What about killers? Do you think a propensity for murder runs in families? Not as learned behavior. Genetically?”

He frowns, which isn’t a surprise. Despite what movies and books would have us believe, science hasn’t definitively determined whether a “murder gene” exists. But I keep hoping Dr. Wilde will stake out a position.

“You have genes from two parents, don’t you?” he answers my question with his own. “Have you asked your mother her views on this issue?”

I cock my head at him. “What do you think?”

“I think, Tate, that you’re a good man, and you’re not responsible for the sins of your father—or anyone else.”

Even though he finally takes a position with this answer, it feels like a copout. “You don’t think people can be complicit?”

By people I mean me, but also my mother. He’s not stupid, and he catches it.

“I think that’s a conversation you and your mother need to have. Sooner rather than later.”

I grunt. The sound could be an assent. Or it could be heartburn.

But it doesn’t matter, because just then the digits on my watch flip from 29 to 30, and the session’s over.

He smiles warmly and says, “You’re making a lot of good progress, Tate. I look forward to speaking to you in six months. Don’t forget about your coffee date. And consider talking to your mom about your worries.”

“Thanks, doc. Next time, you’ll have to do a drum solo for me. What are you learning?”

He chortles but doesn’t tell me. He likes to be personable with his patients, but not personal. I don’t know if he has a partner, a child, or a pet, and I respect his boundaries. Apparently drum solos fall on the other side of that line, too.

Instead, he says, “You should consider a solo retreat of your own. Spending some time in a quiet cabin at the end of the world might do wonders for your productivity.”

I make a noncommittal noise. I don’t need a productivity boost. But I know someone who does. I make a mental note to search “quiet cabin remote retreat” as I power off the tablet, slip it into the side pocket of my gym bag, and tuck the towel around it.

I always tell Emily not to worry about washing my gym clothes with her stuff because they’re sweaty and gross.

Still, out of an abundance of caution, I keep the bag in the garage.

As far as I know, she’s never opened the duffle, and even if she did find the tablet, I doubt she’d think anything of it.

Still, it’s easy enough to be careful. So I am.

I Venmo Dr. Wilde a hundred and twenty-five bucks, then pop the locks and walk across the lot to the grocery store. I did the shopping yesterday, but I’m here, and the market’s mango tart is one of Emily’s favorite desserts. I step up to the bakery counter and wait my turn.

Em could use a treat. Stressed-out is her default setting.

She wrestles with generalized anxiety disorder, panic attacks, and PTSD.

But right now, her primary source of stress is a looming deadline on a book.

And, apparently, her writer’s block is worse than all her mental health conditions combined.

After dinner and a slice of mango tart, I’ll suggest she have a soak in the bathtub and turn in to sleep early to get some rest. After all, she’ll be wrenched from sleep before five o’clock in the morning, gasping, trembling, and trying to hide the fact.