Page 74 of What Boys Learn

“Shit.”

“You’re okay, Abby.”

“I’m not. I feel dizzy. I need to . . . be sick.”

“It’s okay to be sick.”

“No, it isn’t. And we have to leave. They’ll leave without me. They know I’m underage.”

“So, let’s walk back slowly. Back to the—”

“But he’s here. And he’s angry.”

“Your brother.”

“He’s angry because I didn’t do what I was supposed to do. I see him looking at me. I’m trying to pull up my underwear but they’re wet. I don’t want him to see.”

“Is this still your brother, or someone else?”

“And I still need to be sick. I know Grant’s coming. But Ewan’s trying to protect me. He has to. He will.”

I opened my eyes suddenly, squinting to find a clock, but there was no clock.

Curtis looked up from behind the small desk at the back of the room, where he was scribbling notes with one hand and punching the button of an old-fashioned recording device with the other. The last time I’d looked, he’d been in the armchair opposite mine.

I asked, “Do we need to start over?”

My foot had gone numb from being tucked under one leg, and now I shook it out, wincing at the pins and needles.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said, still writing.

There was nothing to look at. No artwork on the wall. No diplomas. The office packed up, or nearly so. I felt suddenly emotional—abandoned, or about to be. I jammed the heels of my palms against my eyes.

A heavy mechanical thunk echoed from beneath his desk. One of those old-fashioned Dictaphone devices. The last time I saw one was in my father’s office. He’d record memos on the weekend, then bring the tiny cassette tapes to work for his secretary to transcribe.

“I’ve stopped the recording,” he said. “Our time is up. Do you feel refreshed?”

No, I felt soggy and gross and vulnerable, like I’d been dragged along a muddy trail.

“But that was only a couple of minutes.”

He looked at his watch again. “Close to an hour.”

“Did I fall asleep?”

“No,” he said pleasantly. “Did it feel like sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, that was the suggestion we both initiated, when we talked about ‘nap’ versus ‘flow state.’ You elected for the sensation of a nap.”

“So you’re saying I chose not to remember the last hour.”

My stomach cramped. For a second I thought I might actually vomit. I looked around for the teacup, thinking a swig of liquid might settle my stomach, but Curtis had already cleared it away.

“You talked about being nauseated during the hypnosis—something brought on by a memory. I see that sensation has carried over. It’ll pass, if you let it.”

Why wouldn’t I let it? He was saying the nausea was in my head—which I suppose it was. The nausea, and the anxiety, and a feeling of imminent doom.