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“My mom is in rehab as we speak; only it's not really a rehab, it's more like a spa, and it's costing us more money than we have. My oldest friend, Cross, got into a motorcycle accident after a party where he and I had a fight, and he needed help paying for his care. I knew—well, knew of—Marchant Radcliffe, and I got the idea to sell my virginity.”
I think that’s a pretty tidy summation of what’s the what. The first half, about my family, I’ve given several times before.
Dr. Bernard arches her delicate brows. “That's quite a story. Frankly I don't know which part is the most dramatic.”
I wrinkle my nose. I'm not used to a therapist being this direct. It makes me feel like being direct, too. “I wouldn't call it dramatic as much as just...screwed up. Seriously screwed up. At least the part about my family. The part with my friend—” whose very distinctive name I should not have mentioned— “was just an accident, and the part where I sell my V-card is obviously an attempt to get money.” I purse my lips, looking for some levity. “At least it's not a kidney.”
“Did you consider that?”
I nod, smirking. “It's less profitable, crazy though that is.”
“That is crazy,” she says. She looks down at her lap and makes a note on a pad. “Before we continue I want to make sure you are aware that I know your real name.”
I gulp. “You do?”
She nods. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary. However, in my notes I’m referring to you as Scarlett.”
I frown. “Do you know who I am? Like, my identity?”
“Do you mean who your family is? Yes,” she says. “For most of my career I ran a center that specialized in the dynamics of financially privileged families. You're the DeVille heiress.”
“Inheriting coal and switches,” I say drolly.
“Tap water,” she offers.
“Yeah. The kind with pollution.”
“You've been through a lot, then, with your mother. And your father.”
“I guess so.”
“I think the answer is a resounding 'yes.'”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You know it's not uncommon for the children of addicts to harbor some resentment toward the therapists who treat their parents.”
“Why is that?”
The good doctor shrugs. “You’ve watched therapists fail your entire life.”
That's true.
“Hope can turn ugly when it's dashed over and over.”
Her words strike so true that I have I bite my lip to keep from crying. Feeling desperate, I change the subject. “Are you from the New Orleans area, by any chance?”
She smiles. “How did you know?”
“Accent. How did you end up here?”
“I'm a child of privilege myself. I married a privileged man, a lawyer and later a politician. His last name isn't Bernard,” she tells me, winking. “By the time I divorced, I knew Marchant and his adopted New Orleans social circle well. He's been a client of mine since his college years. In fact, it's thanks to him that I relocated. When he decided to bring a psychologist on board at Love Inc., he wanted it to be his own.”
“Really.” That surprises me. Marchant doesn't seem like the type of guy to admit weakness.
But Dr. Bernard nods. “He came to me after he lost his parents. In fact, we still talk. Maintenance therapy. I'm not sharing anything with you that he would mind. He's very open about it.”
I nod, because I'm not sure what to say.
