Page 76 of What Boys Learn

Consequences?

“But therapy is a confidential space,” he continued. “There’s no reason for me to report anything you recounted—not to law enforcement or anyone else.”

“I don’t understand.”

He pursed his lips.

“No really, what do you mean by that?”

“Let’s forget about this session. I agree that it didn’t go well, and without multiple sessions and a long-term plan, hypnosis is little more than a party trick.”

“I don’t want to forget about it.” I moved to the front of my chair and sat up straighter, trying to clear the fogginess from my head. “I wasn’t trying to be hostile. I’m just confused.”

He pressed the tips of his fingers against his mouth. Like he was thinking. Judging. Deciding.

“Abby,” he said after a moment, with perfect calm.

“Yes.”

“This wasn’t useful.”

He opened a desk drawer, placed his notepad and pen inside it, and closed the drawer firmly.

“Do you still want me to bring Benjamin in again, tomorrow at nine?”

“Of course. I would never forget about my obligation to Benjamin.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Abby.”

I didn’t know what that meant, either.

26

When I got home, I had good news in my inbox. Grove had selected me for the summer trial position: six weeks working with international students who were considering boarding school in the fall. That position could lead to a full academic-year job. Sister Lucretia told me they’d been waiting for the recommendation from Dean Duplass, but they’d decided my other letter of recommendation was sufficient.

Other letter. It couldn’t have come from anyone other than Curtis. He’d vouched for me.

In practical, objective terms, I felt better. Less worried about money. Less certain that no school would ever hire me again. I had a place in a community. Benj and I both had a place.

But it all felt like someone else’s good news—as if I’d received a phone call from a friend, and I was having a terrible day but I couldn’t let my mood overshadow the friend’s good fortune. Better to congratulate her, and to keep my dour mood to myself. If I ignored it, surely it would go away.

I could actually see myself, as if from a distant position in the corner of the room. I watched myself going through the motions of making dinner, starting a pot of jasmine rice, opening and closing the freezer, pulling out a fresh head of broccoli. I watched myself slice vegetables and move from place to place inefficiently, still remembering my old apartment’s layout, forgetting where I’d put the five-spice powder or the sesame oil—all with a vacant expression and sagging shoulders. Is that how I really looked?

“Chicken and broccoli, extra spicy, two minutes!” I called out to Benjamin, in his room.

Is that how I really sounded?

It had to be the hypnosis, making me feel this temporary sense of distancing. I hadn’t emerged completely from the trance Curtis had facilitated. Maybe I was, in fact, one of those people who is all too suggestible. Someone who wasn’t tethered firmly to reality.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I said as I scooped rice. I set out forks and chopsticks, since sometimes Benj liked to use both. Instead of bringing everything over to the living room coffee table, where we all too often ended up, I served the food on the kitchen peninsula.

With perfect timing, he slid onto a bar stool just as I was setting bottles of sriracha and extra soy sauce within arm’s reach.

“Smells good,” he said.

He’d come to dinner wearing a red and navy blue–striped rugby shirt I didn’t recognize.