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“I know that. Maybewalk back from the ledgewas a poor choice of words.” He pauses rubbing. I wish he’d keep going. “You probably don’t think so but saying it out loud will help. I promise.”
I take a deep breath then slowly release it. “It’s a memory. I’m pretty sure it’s my mother tickling me while I’m lying in bed. I think it’s the last time I ever saw her. I just remember her hands, her fingers. I don’t remember her face or anything else about her. I guess hands and fingers have this outsized importance to me because of that memory, and when I saw those fingers fall out of that box—” I have to stop. The panic’s pressing against me again and it takes all my strength to hold it at bay.
He starts rubbing again. Good man. “I can see why that might be hard.”
I open my eyes, narrowing them. “You know what’s messed up? I miss my mom, even though she abandoned me. When I was younger, I used to ask about her, and it would break Grandpop’s heart every time. I used to ask him to let me visit her for my birthday every year until I was ten. Eventually, I figured out how much it upset him, and I stopped. Sometimes I hate myself for it.”
“You don’t have to feel that way.” He rubs slower, kneading. “All this stress you’re carrying? All this tension. This self-blame. You can let it go.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me or something?”
“We can try hypnosis if you think that would help.”
“I’m afraid you’d turn me into your obedient sex slave or something.”
He smiles. “I don’t need hypnosis for that.”
I kick his hand away. “I know it isn’t rational, okay? Feelings aren’t always rational. Memories don’t always make sense. But I’m holding on to this one for some reason.”
“You’re right, they aren’t, but we don’t have to let them control us.”
“Now you’re talking like a Buddhist priest or something. Should I try meditation?”
“Can’t hurt.” He grabs my foot again. This time, he works on the sole. “I do sometimes.”
“Really?”
“Believe it or not, I can sit still for a half hour with nothing but the screaming voices in my brain to keep me company.”
My mouth opens. Screaming in his brain? I knew he was a little crazy, but suddenly I’m wondering if he’s dangerous too.
But he laughs, shaking his head. “Wow, you really bit on that one. I’m kidding about the screaming part. The voices mostly whisper.” He winks.
I roll my eyes. “Ha, joke about mental health, hilarious.”
“I’m only saying you’ve done a lot of work already. You identified why the fingers bother you so much. You even understand that it’s an irrational response. Now you can take away that memory’s power.”
“Easy for you to say. Can’t we just sit here in quiet? You can keep rubbing my feet if that helps. I don’t mind.”
“I bet you don’t.” He stops though. The bastard. “Take a deep breath. Let it out.”
I clench my jaw. I want to kick him in the face. But if it’ll speed this up, I reluctantly do as he asks.
He walks me through a breathing exercise. One after the other until I’m feeling strangely calm. I thought this whole thing was bullshit, but it’s actually working. I lean my head against the armrest, eyes fluttering open and shut. He rubs my feet again.
“A few years back in Europe, I met this ex-special forces guy. He taught me all those.” Lanzo doesn’t look at me when I peer down at him. “We were hired to take down this nest of Iranian spies. He was a good man, smart, strong.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, knowing it’s the wrong question, but I can’t help myself.
“Died,” he says with a shrug. “Shot in a raid. I carried guilt over him for a while until I accepted it wasn’t my fault. He went in too hard, didn’t check a corner, and died. There are a lot of deaths like that in my past. People that are gone, but I still carry them.”
“Must be hard,” I say softly, feeling foolish at the scale of my problems. But pain doesn’t always need to be measured against other pain.
“I’ve learned how to cope. Meditation, breathing exercises. Facing my memories head-on. Fighting against them. I don’t let the past hold too much power over me, but I also don’t forget it. That’s the trick.”
I glance away. “Must be nice to feel so self-actualized.”
“I’d rather be a hot mess like you. Then there’d be fewer bodies in my wake.”
