Forbidden: A Standalone (48 page)

“You don’t give a damn about your job at all, do you?”

“No. I don’t.”

“All this for a patient? A single patient?” She raised an eyebrow, tapped her finger against the top of her hand.

“Every patient counts.”

“Tell me something. Everyone else is fine with how we’re handling it. Why are you throwing yourself in front of this?”

“Am I the only one who cares?”

“In what way?” She crossed her legs. She was waiting for me to admit the whole thing. Frances was wasting her time as an administrator. Given the right circumstances, she could crack a man open with her posture from ten feet away.

“I don’t think it matters,” I said.

But it did. Betrayal mattered. I was denying Fiona three times before the cock crowed. Frances would question me as long as I’d let her, and I’d continue to say she was just a patient until the very edges of my soul were blunted into the shape of renunciation.

“Say it, Chapman. I’m getting bored.”

“I’m in love with her. And you can save me the countertransference speech.”

She leaned forward. “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

She swung her computer screen around.
You
magazine’s website had posted a picture of Fiona and I talking over buttercups in a Koreatown coffee shop. In it, I held her hands as I told her it was all going to be all right.

“I just wanted to hear you admit it,” she said. “But what we have going on here is enough to lose your license over. From what I can see, this was what you wanted the whole time. So congratulations.”

“You need to separate them.”

“Or what? You’re going to tell everyone? With your credibility shot to hell? Now you’re just a disgruntled ex-employee. I’ll let you go to your office and pack up while I inform the board.”

She turned her computer back and typed. I backed toward the door. I had a lot to say, but no patience for the answer.

“You know,” she said, “when I was at Loyola, they had a date rape problem they didn’t talk about.” She glanced at me long enough to say, “Jesuits,” then went back to the screen. “Big secrecy game. Like the Opus Dei, those guys. And it didn’t occur to me that someone I went on a date with wouldn’t get the signals for no—like a struggle or biting. I mean I liked the guy. Right? We’re in my parents’ basement and I’m trying to rationalize two things. I liked this guy on one hand. On the other, he’s hurting me. Even during it, I made excuses for him like, ‘He’s choking me, so I
can’t
say no,’ and ‘Maybe I should have said it louder when he started, but I was afraid my parents would hear because he wouldn’t…’” She stopped typing, sniffed, cleared her throat. “Just
do that.
Right? I must be mistaken somehow. And when I went to the school clinic the next day, you know what they said?” She made eye contact as if she expected an answer but kept talking before I could give one. “They said, ‘You’ll get over it, Frances. But he’s a shining star. It wouldn’t be fair to ruin his life over this. One. Incident.’”

I let the story hang there for a moment, fermenting in the sour air between us.

“I’m sorry.” I had an arsenal of right things to say in that situation. It was part of my training. But she knew my weapons of compassion better than I did.

She cleared her throat again and opened her drawer. “I always leave these on the desk.” She tossed a ring of keys in front of me. “Anyone can grab them. I’m told it’s going to get me in trouble one day.”

She went back to her work. Was this a trap? The story, the keys, the pantomime of looking away?

“I’m glad you love her,” she said. “You both need it. Now get out of here.”

She must have hit a button or something, because the door opened behind me. Bernie, the orderly, put his hand on my shoulder. I quietly took the keys and let myself get hauled away without thanking her.

***

I had a couple of boxes of things I’d managed to grab with security’s supervision. None of my files on my patients came with me. Books, diplomas, a few knickknacks.

I pulled over a mile outside the facility, while still in the quiet wilds of Palos Verdes, and took a deep breath.

Well, that was fun.

I’d associated losing everything for Fiona with loud noises and some kind of physical pain. I’d accepted it. Knowing better did nothing to reduce my mind’s commitment to the image of a hammer coming down, being hurled off a cliff, breaking bones, and a shame so all-encompassing that strangers would see it a block away. My left brain knew that if I lost everything, I wouldn’t cease to exist. But I couldn’t imagine anything after it, and the fear had come from the black hole I’d be sucked into afterward.

Elliot Chapman was here a minute ago. Now he isn’t anywhere.

But I was breathing. I was sitting in my car with a normal heart rate. The birds were singing, the leaves rustling, and the world was turning the way it always did.

I wasn’t afraid for my existence at all.

I was afraid for Fiona. She was stuck in a ward with a vengeful psychopath, and no one was watching him. I should have done something already. I should have taken care of this instead of trying to stay on the narrow path.

Well, I’d been thrown off the path into the black hole I feared.

I weighed the keys in my palm. There were about thirty, and they all looked the same.

How far was I willing to go?

The sensible thing to do was drive away, leave California, try to get a license in another state. Not get attached. Not fall in love with a patient again. Not stick my head out from behind my defenses. Any normal person would lick their wounds and slink away.

Love wasn’t worth it. All the psy journals said so.

Well, the theological journals said love was always worth it. And my experience of listening to people talk about their relationships said otherwise.

He stole his brother’s girlfriend because he couldn’t live without her.

She betrayed her husband because she fell for another man.

They broke the law to defy parents who stood between them.

He stayed by her through her manic phase.

Poverty.

Pain.

Sickness.

Death.

I’d heard love transcend all of it and never believed it. Not until she came. Fiona put it all into place for me. She made all the stories make sense. All the reckless, senseless, bold, beautiful, risky, irresponsible, brutal, and selfless acts I’d heard about but never understood came into focus through the lens of love.

This was past wanting her. Past possessing her. Past fucking her or protecting her.

How far was I willing to go?

I was willing to be self-destructive, negligent, brave, audacious, and stronger than I ever believed possible.

But I wasn’t willing to be stupid. Intentional failure wasn’t acceptable, so there was a bigger question.

How far was I
able
to go?

I let the weight of the keys pull my hand down, and I closed my fingers around them.

Nothing to lose really. Except her crazy ass.

I slipped my phone from my pocket and found the numbers I needed, took a deep breath, and dialed the first.

fiona

T
he quiet woke me. Isolation. I opened my eyes. It was neither dark nor light. Every corner and ridge was equally lit in a flat, colorless white. That meant it was nighttime. During the day, it was brighter so your circadian rhythms didn’t get cocked up.

They’d put me in a straitjacket even though I hadn’t been resisting.

“Fuckers,” I whispered but didn’t mean it. Not really.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was what they did. This was the good news. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. Now they’d separate us like they meant it.

I just laid there looking at the little camera eye in the center of the ceiling.

No one came. I couldn’t have been in too long. My arms didn’t ache, and I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t have to pee or anything, but hours went by in my mind. I listened for Elliot’s voice in my cells, the smooth one he used for hypnosis. The one that suggested strongly. The exact opposite of Deacon’s Dominant voice, which commanded as if he had already been obeyed. Two sides of the same coin, those voices and the men who breathed them.

I closed my eyes and touched Elliot’s body, tracing every bone from toe to head with my fingertips. He had Deacon’s face, with its stark blue eyes and unforgiving jawline. And they melded together into one man I’d hurt irrevocably with my selfishness and immaturity.

“God,” I whispered, “I know you’re there. I don’t want to mess up anymore. I don’t want to be a fuckup. It’s hard. Too hard. And it hurts everyone. I can’t live like this. I’m tired of being alone. Alone and thinking no one understands. Elliot says you don’t make deals, so I’m not going to make a deal. I’m just going to say, I see you there, and when I’m about to fuck up, I’m going to think of you and do better.”

I said that prayer over and over, changing it slightly, repeating words until they flowed and it became my breath.

Change. My way of thinking, my way of speaking, walking, breathing. I was going to believe I could change until everyone else did. In my bones, I knew the higher power I was talking to existed, and it believed in me.

fiona

T
hey’d moved me to a proper isolation room with a bed and toilet. I was there for three days. Frances came to talk to me about Warren, and I told her clearly and intelligently why I’d hit him with a chair. She nodded and didn’t say much. A new therapist named Sol came in to say hello. I was back to private sessions when I got out, and not with Elliot.

Probably for the best.

I got the sense that things were happening outside the door, but I didn’t ask about them. I just asked myself what I was going to do with my life when I was out.

I was good at partying, being seen partying, and making other people want to be me. I didn’t know if that was something I should spend the rest of my life doing. Not with a baby coming. I’d never cared if I was terrible at everything I tried, but being bad at motherhood wasn’t an option. I couldn’t fail. That wasn’t allowed.

When they opened the door and walked me to Sol’s office, I’d come no closer to a solution to the problem.

Sol indicated the chair across from his desk, and I sat. He was almost completely bald, portly, with thick glasses. His wedding ring squeezed his finger, and I wondered if he could get it off if he tried.

“Miss Drazen,” he said with a slight New York accent, “nice to see you again.”

“Nice to be out.”

“I bet. Do you want to tell me how you’re feeling?”

“Sure. I’m, uh. I have this headache from being inside too much, and my joints feel kind of numb. I want to go for a run or something.”

“Do you want something for the headache?”

“No. I’m okay.”

He sat back and laced his fingers together over his belly. “I read your file. You’re a very interesting young lady.”

“Thanks. Not feeling real interesting right now.”

“You’re what I call a ‘truth teller.’ A fascinating personality type.”

“I’ve been lying to myself for a long time.”

He smirked and nodded then pointed his finger. “That’s the root of your suffering, I think. But first, I need to tell you what happened while you were in isolation.”

“Is my brother okay?”

The words came out before I even thought about it. He was the only thing I cared about in this mess, and I hadn’t even realized it until I asked about him first.

“He’s fine.” Sol smoothed his pants, brushed something off his knee. “There was an incident on the grounds here.”

“Who?” I wasted the question. I knew exactly who it was.

“Warren Chilton. He was found behind the garden where the creek is fenced off.”

I knew he was watching my reaction closely, so I tried not to cheer internally. “Found?”

“It’s a little gruesome.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“He was hanging from a tree. He’s paralyzed from the neck down.”

I blinked back my reaction and failed at hiding my shock. He was alive? Was I relieved or disappointed? Both? Some other third thing that had just released a twist in my gut I’d forgotten? “That’s too bad. I just wanted to hit him with a chair.”

“Really?”

“No. I wanted to break his head with a chair. Or whatever. I wasn’t too picky about what I broke. Wow,” I said, realizing he was alive and his dick wouldn’t work. I almost laughed and cried at the same time, but ended up doing neither.

He nodded. “Wow is right. I know you and he have a history. You’re going to hear a lot of rumors in the rec room. The police are taking this very seriously.”

“I’ll do a little truth telling.” I shrugged. “I’m glad I was in isolation, because I wanted to do much worse to him.”

“I’m glad you were in isolation too. This way, we can turn this lying to yourself around and get you out of here without interference. You ready for that?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Good. I’m approving you to be deposed by the LAPD, and we’ll get to work first thing tomorrow. You’ll still have group starting this afternoon.”

I stood, ready to take it all on.

fiona

T
he cops asked me how much I hated Warren, and I didn’t hold back. They couldn’t put me away for hating the motherfucker, and apparently I wasn’t the only one. They asked about Deacon. I told them he was in Eritrea as far as I knew. They asked about Elliot. I told them to ask Elliot about Elliot. I hadn’t spoken to him since I was back in Westonwood. They asked if Warren had been suicidal and if he’d been into breath play or asphyxiation with me, as if he and I were “into” anything together.

They let me go with a warning that they might ask more later. It was lunchtime, and all I wanted to do was run to Jonathan. When I saw him down the hall. I broke into a gallop and jumped into his arms.

“I heard,” I said into his shoulder.

“You don’t know half of it,” he said into my ear then dropped me. “It’s good to see you. Really good.” He shook his head.

“Are you all right?”

He put his arm around me and guided me through the food line then to a small table where Karen sat alone. I kissed her cheek and sat. She had a plate in front of her with slices of cantaloupe. Jonathan dropped into the chair across from me.