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Yeah, it was the kind of blatant lie that deserved to be called-out. I paused, waiting for her to raise a brow, correct me or call me a liar, but all she did was click the top of the pen she was holding.
So, I kept going, making up more and more as I went. I pressed my fingernails deep into the creases of my elbows, connecting myself to the moment, willing myself to answer her inane questions, when she raised them. They were the type of questions that forced me to elaborate. She wasn't going to make me stop, not while I was on a roll. All sevens.
The story evolved into one I had overheard in the girls bathroom-a typically moronic teenage drama about an ex-friend being confronted over her supposed kleptomania at a slumber party. I concocted a list of names and descriptions-it was good. Really detailed. And it would end with a confrontation, just like she wanted.
The lies poured out smooth, like warm syrup over a pancake. "I gave her a little shove-"
"You physically pushed her?" Doctor Williams was practically out of her chair, gripping the armrests.
"No!" I argued, thinking over all I'd said about a fabricated conflict. "Well, a little, but not because I was angry. I was just trying to keep her from leaving."
Her crinkled brow smoothed out as she tossed her hand, clicking the pen-top again. "You were saying?"
I went on with the lie, paying more attention now, trying not to betray how much fun I was having. "Yvonne slipped, but she didn't fall. I pretended like it was an accident, but then I told her: 'My foster mom doesn't allow thieves in her house,' I said. She crossed her arms, sounding all snotty. 'Don't you mean trailer?'"
"'Mobile home,' I told her, trying to sound just as snotty. We argued a little, back and forth, but-"
"In what way did you two girls 'argue'?"
I kept myself from smiling. "In a very adult fashion."
She shook her head at the snark and made some notes in my file which was thicker than most people my age. But, I'd been through more than most, so there was a lot more to write in there. Much more to force me into talking about.
I've never understood why shrinks feel it's necessary to hash out every little thing that happens. Therapy might have been mandatory, but it never felt like it was for my benefit. It seemed like it was for the doctor, to make her feel better about her own messed up life. And her life was a freaking soap opera. I'd heard her talking on the phone a couple times when she didn't know I was in the waiting room and her office door was open. For someone whose profession required secrecy, she wasn't very discreet about her personal life.
Her son was all depressed and her husband, from what I understood of the conversation, was being an asshole about it. I felt for her, but it wasn't my job to distract her from her life. I had my own shit to deal with. And I found it tough to take advice from someone who so obviously did not have their own life together.
I was so over everyone telling me how to live and I didn't need her therapy. The ocean soundtrack she used was way more therapeutic than her. Music, really, was all I needed. That was the only thing that ever made me feel better. I could lose myself in it. And Jake. He was the calm to my storm, the warm blanket on a cold night. He was my therapy, my panacea for any ailment-him and his music. I'd spend hours, days upon weeks, soaking it all up. It was all about Analog Controller. All the time. I was at almost every show, first row, center stage, right in front of my band and my leading man.
"So, how was this confrontation resolved?"
"I didn't hit her when she called me trailer trash." I shrugged.
Doctor Williams shook her head. "Come on, I'll walk you to the lab."
We walked shoulder to shoulder down the white corridor that reeked of rubbing alcohol, towards the buildings lab to get my blood drawn. She made me pee in a cup once a month. Drug testing to make sure I was on my meds and nothing else, because once I tried some crank at a party and totally freaked out. I also got my blood tested once a month-something having to do with chemical imbalances.
"Miss Patel?"
"What?"
"Have you experienced any more blank spaces?"
I shook my head, "Not for a long time," and turned into the tiny glass-walled office that was the source of the sharp scent.
Blank spaces were an accepted part of my life, like my memory problems; a side effect of the accident. Doctor Williams was the dutiful physician who helped me pinpoint the lost time and got me started on trying to keep track of it. She was keenly interested, which made me want to hide it.
She instructed me, the second I noticed a lapse, to make notes-what time it is versus what time it was last time I checked, or if anything was different in my surroundings: if anything was moved or missing in my room, if I changed my clothes-and bring the notes to my sessions for her to look at and decide whether my meds needed adjusting.
That right there-her solution-created another problem for me.
I didn't like when they messed with my meds. It always threw me for a loop when they changed-up the cocktail or made me stop one pill to replace it with something else that didn't work, but with worse side-effects. Like standing on the edge of the sidewalk, trying to cross the street, and feeling like the four inch curb was a mile high. It's a real shit situation not being the captain of your own mind.
Another issue: it wasn't so easy to find the "blank spots" she mentioned. I mean, how was I supposed to know I was missing time if the day didn't disappear? How was I supposed to know I needed to look for something out of place when nothing appeared jumbled? It's not like I ever woke up with a knife in my hand or anything. My brain would just check out from time to time. The only time I'd ever noticed anything was when I found myself somewhere I didn't remember going-which hardly ever happened.
On my long walk home from my appointment that day, I figured that Doctor Williams was probably busying herself making phone calls. All the blatant lies involved in my elaborate story probably had her in a tailspin.
Of course there was no group of friends. No slumber party. No birthday shared with anyone.
