Page 156 of The Last Session

He looked older, though I knew that from his Facebook profile: sandy hair receding, beard patched with white, crinkles around his nose and mouth. He must be in his mid-forties now. It struck me, for the first time, that I couldn’t have been the only teen he’d had an inappropriate relationship with. Who knew—it was possible that he’d felt bad about it, vowed to change his ways. But the way he’d responded to my Facebook message…

You fucked up my life.

I’m sorry you feel that way.

He still had that smirking overconfidence, maybe even more so now, similar to a certain cult leader I’d known.

I’d been waiting for his eyes to meet mine, pulled in by my laser gaze. But there were hundreds in the crowd, and so far it hadn’t happened.

What if I stood up and yelled the truth of what he’d done to me?

I already knew the answer: he would smile sadly, call for security, say that he hoped that poor woman got help.

I was sitting on the edge of the row, and even though it was the middle of the sermon, I got up and headed up the aisle, towards the exit.

In the narthex, I took a deep breath. Mom and Dad would be embarrassed that I’d walked out, but their judgment no longer affected me. I wandered down the hall to get a sip of water from the fountain (how many times had I drunk from it?). One of the nearby classrooms was full of kids, their laughs and exclamations spilling into the hall.

Sunday school. I took a few steps closer, and a familiar woman inside smiled at me.

I approached the doorway. “Holly, hi.”Mrs. Becker—it was HollyBecker, who’d been in our class. “How are you? You’re teaching Sunday school?”

“Yep.” She looked disturbingly similar to her eighth-grade self, her long blond hair still in a high ponytail. She seemed somehow unsurprised to see me. “How are you? Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s been a while. I’m good.” I noticed she was standing above Melissa’s daughter, Catherine, who was scribbling away at a piece of paper. “How many of these kids are from people in our grade?”

“A couple.” She surveyed the room. She’d been another nerdy kid, and I remembered with shame that at some point, I’d stood silently by while Ashley and Adam had made fun of her acne. “How long you back?”

“Just the weekend.”

“I saw what happened.” Holly’s bright eyes found mine. “In New Mexico. Wow. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I said the words automatically.

She looked like she wanted to ask more, but suddenly Catherine jumped up and ran over to me. She pushed a piece of paper at my thigh.

“Read!” she yelled.

I laughed at her insistence. “Okay. Thank you.”

I turned the paper over. It was messy but discernable: a triangle surrounded by a spiral. The triangle had a door and windows: it was a house.

“Why…” I looked up, but Catherine had already scuttled back to her seat and was violently crayoning a new piece of paper.

“She’s really into tornadoes these days.” Holly pointed to the spiral.

Little Catherine looked nothing like Big Catherine. She was too old to be the reincarnated version of her, anyway.

But it was something. A small reaching out. A sign.

As much as I wanted to keep it, I handed the paper back to Holly. It would look weird for me to hold on to it.

“Hunter!” Holly cried out, swooping back into the room as another toddler started to hit and scream at his neighbor.

I backed away, into the hall. I could hear voices from the church in a rousing call and response with Pastor John.

“He is risen!”

“He is risen indeed!”

I continued away from the noise, down the stairs and outside where the sun shone pale overhead. I sat on a bench, suddenly looking forward to taking the train back to the city that night. To going to work tomorrow. I’d begged Diane, and she’d finally relented, maybe because she was still concerned about me: we were going to start using watercolors in art therapy group, not just crayons. There was a new patient named Jessa who’d reacted with an actual squeal to this news.

I’d also ordered an easel and some canvases for myself, and they were set to arrive in the next few days. I’d already pulled out sketch pads, oil paints, and charcoal pencils from the back of my closet. They sat ready and waiting in the corner of my room.

The playground was empty. I smiled at the ghost of my young self near the slide. All this time, she’d been stuck here. But I’d take her with me when I left. She’d be reunited with her diary, which now sat on my nightstand. And neither of us would have to come back here again.

I’d finally done it: I’d broken the pattern.