His forehead creases. “I know you’re not going to be happy about this, but I’ve been considering maybe having you take a break from the amnesia therapy.”
“What?” I jolt upright in my seat. “No, I can’t do that. Please, don’t make me do that.”
He offers me a sympathetic look. “Ayden, I’m sorry to say this, because I know you want to help find your sister, but I think we might be putting too much pressure on you, and the brain doesn’t do well with stress.”
He scoots his chair forward and crosses his arms on his desk. “It was stress and the pain from the situation that made you forget to begin with. Perhaps a little break might be beneficial and might actually help you have an easier time remembering, if that makes sense.”
“I don’t want to stop the therapy yet, not when my memories are starting to surface on their own.” I shift my weight in the chair. “I’ve actually been thinking a lot about that experimental therapy you told me about, the one Lila doesn’t want me to do. I’m eighteen now, though, so doesn’t that mean I technically don’t need her permission?”
“Legally, you don’t need the permission from a guardian, but I wouldn’t advise it. Like I said, your brain needs rest.” He removes his glasses and cleans the lenses with a rag he fishes from a drawer beside him. “I’m not saying we’re going to stop forever. We can go back to the treatment in time.”
“My sister doesn’t have time,” I croak, my emotions thick in my throat.
“Finding your sister isn’t solely your job. The police are doing everything in their power to find her.”
“The longer she’s gone, the less likely she’s . . .” My chest aches just thinking about it, deep wounds hidden beneath the scars.
There were so many scars on all of us when we were pulled out of that house. So many scars showing just how truly evil they were.
“I think we need to start working on some relaxation exercises,” he says as he watches me fight to get oxygen into my lungs.
He puts his glasses back on, collects a pen and notebook from the drawer, and then stares at me for the longest time before asking, “Can I ask what you were going to say to start with? I asked you what’s wrong when you walked in, but we never made it to what you were going to say.”
I gradually inhale then exhale before I can speak. “I was going to say what’s been bothering me is . . . Lyric.”
“The girl you’ve been seeing?”
“Yeah. We’ve actually been dating in secret.”
“Why do you feel the need to keep it a secret?” he asks, jotting something down in the notebook.
“We’ve been saying it’s because our parents are really close, and if we told them, they’d start setting all these rules, but . . .” I sketch the scars on the back of my hand, faint white lines put there by the fingernails.
“But what?” he treads cautiously. “Remember, in order for me to help you work through the problem, you have to discuss it with me.”
A deafening breath escapes my lips. “I’m starting to realize my reason is a bit different than hers.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know . . . I think I’m just worried about what’s going to happen when her parents find out. Lyric . . . She’s so happy and full of life. She can make anyone laugh, and everyone loves her. Me,”—I internally cringe—“well, I’m not like that at all.”
He writes down a few more notes. “So, you think you don’t fit well with her?”
“No, I think she’s—that I’m—” I rub my hand down my face, releasing a trapped a breath. “Look, I know I’m not good enough for her.”
His hand stops moving across the paper as he peers up. “And what does Lyric say about how you feel?”
“I haven’t told her, but if I did, she’d tell me I’m wrong, because that’s the kind of person she is.”
Silence stretches between us as he slides the notebook aside and overlaps his hands on his desk. “Can I ask why you feel unworthy?”
“Because she’s too good for me,” I reply with a shrug. “I thought that was pretty clear.”
“I think it’s only clear to yourself,” he explains, meticulously assessing my expression. “I think that, perhaps, because of the verbal abuse with your birth mother and with the trauma you endured in your past, your self-perception is a little distorted.”
“I think my past is part of the reason I’m not good enough for her,” I disagree with him. “I think I have this dark, fucked-up past that’s made me a fucked-up person who doesn’t deserve to be with someone who’s so happy and good. God, I can barely let her touch me without freaking out. ” The truth slips out of me like venom. My breath turns ragged, and my heartbeat skyrockets. “And, if we do make it too far with the physical stuff, I have to battle down this ugly, wrong feeling inside me. I don’t want to be this way, though. I wish I could change it . . . just get past it.”
“Our past doesn’t shape who we are, and as for the not being able to withstand physical contact, that’s perfectly understandable considering what happened to you. I know we haven’t outright talked about the abuse you went through, but I think maybe, when you’re ready, we should start discussing it.”
“But how can I discuss something I’m not positive ever happened? I just assume it did because of how I feel inside and through bits and pieces of the memories I can remember.”