“Mhm?” I say instead. I lick my lips. It’s dry in here. It’s dry everywhere at Renfrew, from our climate-controlled bedrooms (they call them dorms, as if this is just another educational opportunity) to the soft-edged, soft-lighted, pale-pastel holding pen that is the dayroom.
“Just checking.” Jessie leans over to collect the paddles from me, which I hand over. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” I say. Relative to how I did a few minutes ago, anyway.
“How was it, this time?”
“It was…”
It wasn’t any different, I want to say.
I see the same thing every time.
The same thing that happened.
That could not have happened.
But that did happen.
A fire that moved too quickly.
Burned too hot.
Wouldn’t go out.
Would not go out.
And I want to cry.
I am here because I am done. I am done indulging my pursuits. I am done giving in to my instincts. I am done insisting.
I. Am. Done.
I tried to be normal and be myself and it didn’t work. I couldn’t do it. It isn’t possible. So now I am here to put every ounce of my effort into retraining myself.
But even now, even now, when I’m not fighting or resisting or just going through the motions, when I really and truly am trying to give myself over to the process, I can’t seem to fix it.
“Gwenna?” Jessie prompts.
“It was the same,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Jessie gives me a weak smile. “You don’t have to besorry,Gwenna. There’s no getting an A in therapy, remember?”
Isn’t there?, I think, my eyes flickering to the three diplomas on her wall.Fairly sure that an A in therapy is required to graduate from UPenn’s medical schoolsumma cum laude.
Outwardly, I just nod. “I know.” I breathe out. “Well, one of these days, we’ll get to the bottom of what’s wrong with me.”
At that, Jessie presses her lips together. They’re bright red, a shocking pop of actual color in the coastal grandma palette that is the rest of Renfrew. Her hair, too, is vivid and dark, a glossy chestnut almost-red in an angular cut that’sjustthis side of alternative. I have to think that if Mom had seen Jessie, and not the gray-haired, pashmina-wearing staff therapists that Renfew shows on the website, that she might have second-guessed cutting them a check for nearly fifty grand.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
I almost laugh. “With all due respect,” I say, “I think youhaveto say that.”
Jessie snorts. “No, I don’t. I’m not a bullshitter, Gwenna. Pardon my French.”
I like Jessie. I really do.
“Je vous pardonne,” I murmur.
