Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [78]
Carl and I didn’t participate. We feigned politeness and rapt attention as the Tower of Babel resurrected in the room.
Trey earned his money that night.
I had one more weekend pass before I was scheduled to “graduate.” So, in the “inmate” group later that week, Dr. Sanders asked me about my weekend plans.
“I really don’t want to go home overnight, so I haven’t made any plans,” I said. Doug grunted something, and Annie looked up from biting the skin off her left thumb to ask why. The chick hardly ever opened her mouth, but today she had to ask the one question I didn’t want to answer.
I looked at Dr. Sanders with my practiced blank-face stare and waited for him to rescue me with some therapy mumbo-jumbo, but he only tapped his pen against his notebook and stared back at me. The boys played air guitars. Trudie had introduced them to Queen and “Bohemian Rhapsody” a few days ago, and they became rabid fans.
“Do I have to have a reason?” I bit the inside of my mouth. I needed to make an appointment with my dentist. If I couldn’t get happy gas, he wasn’t going to touch the inside of my mouth with anything silver that made whirring sounds.
“Do you not have a reason or do you have one you don’t want to talk about?” Dr. Sanders shifted to face me.
“That's a trick question. If I do go, I haven’t made plans because I haven’t discussed it with Carl.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, ever since you shared with the group how Carl managed the money in your house, including giving you an allowance, because he said you can’t balance a checkbook. He takes off work to drive you downtown because you get lost easily—”
“Wait,” I sputtered. “You wrote all this down?”
“Yes, that's why I have a pen (he held it up) and a notebook (which he also held up) at every session. To write down what people share. He also—”
“Enough. What's your point?” I couldn’t believe he’d mock me in front of everyone. I didn’t have to look around the circle to know everyone else was looking back and forth between him and me, waiting for the strike.
He leaned back in his chair. “My point is that you’re the epitome of a pampered little woman at home. I just don’t understand how someone with your almost perfect life is here.” He waved around the circle. “You’re Miss Patty-Peace-at-any-Price, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you call yourself?”
What was with this man? Had anybody checked his urine samples lately? I looked around and could tell by the downcast eyes that no one was jumping in on this. I was on my own.
“Why are you being so mean to me? Carl cares where I go and how I get there. So what? That doesn’t make him a bad person. I like and appreciate that he manages the money. He's good at it, and I don’t have to putz with it. He works hard, and he takes care of me.” I folded my arms across my chest in my best “how dare you dis me” posture.
“Well, we are all so glad you are taken care of. Aren’t we?” He smiled, and a few faces in my traitorous circle actually grinned along with him. “But there's the problem. You don’t get it, Leah. This isn’t about Carl. This is about you.”
He looked around the circle, in a way that was obviously for dramatic effect. Performance Art therapy. “I don’t see Carl here. Do you?”
“No,” I answered. I’m incredulous and confused.
“Me either. Maybe if you call him, he’ll rescue you from all of us.”
“What? You mean, call him on the phone? Why would I do that?” He’d baited me. I knew it, but I didn’t get it.
“No, I mean call his name from right where you are.”
“That's stupid. I’m not doing that.”
“Yes, yes you are. You need him. And I want you to call him. Let's just see what happens.”
He was never going to stop if I didn’t just do want he wanted me to do. Arguing with him wasn’t getting this over. “Carl,” I mumbled. Already I felt truly dumb.
Dr. Sanders laughed. “He couldn’t hear that if he’d been sitting next to you. Try