“Angela asked me this morning if she can invite that boy on vacation with us,” she begins. Bingo. “That boy” is what she calls her daughter’s boyfriend, despite the fact that he’s twenty-two.
Nancy knows about the relationship only because a few weeks ago, she set her alarm for four in the morning and snuck into Angela’s room to snoop through her phone. She discovered their texts, as well as her daughter’s secret Instagram account, which, to be honest, is pretty damning. I’ve looked. The account is private, and I had to create a fake account, pretending to be the brooding but attractive seventeen-year-old girl whose photo I copied from the Facebook account of someone in Brisbane, Australia. It worked: Angela accepted my request the next morning, allowing me access to all two hundred and six photos, which prove that she and “that boy” seem to like each other very much.
To be clear, I know it’s wrong what I’m doing （i.e., binging on Sam’s therapy sessions, five days a week for the last month）， but who wouldn’t? The things I’ve heard. The Lipstick Painter’s impotent boyfriend! The Pharmacist’s Wife’s waning interest in the Pharmacist! The Somber Superintendent of Schools, who I often see at the grocery store, and her existential anxiety. How am I supposed to stop?
And it’s not only them I’m interested in, it’s him, too, Dr. Statler. Hearing the way he speaks to his patients—the comfort with their vulnerability, the sympathy—I can’t turn away. And just because something isn’t right doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It’s not like I’m putting children in cages. In fact, I think what I’m doing is good for Sam’s patients, another dose of positive energy, as I am genuinely rooting for every one of them.
Well, everyone except Christopher Zucker, VP of Idiots at a new widget company where he earns enough to spend a half hour blabbing to Sam about his blind adoration of David Foster Wallace. Skinny Jeans, that’s my pet name for him, after I saw him sauntering out of Sam’s office in those ludicrous three-hundred-dollar Diesels. He’s Sam’s only male client, and just the kind of guy I’ve always hated. Pretty boy with a model girlfriend. His is named Sofie with an f. She’s Czech and, according to Skinny Jeans, crazy in bed. Eastern European girls are known to be this way, he explained, assigning it to “all that Communist oppression,” and it took every ounce of restraint not to shout at him through the vent, reminding him that the Czech Republic returned to a liberal democracy in 1989.
Sam and Numb Nancy talk for a while—her husband says she’s being too strict with Angela, but he’s not in touch with what today’s world is like—when the room goes suddenly quiet.
“Something happened the other night,” Nancy says. “I was making dinner, and out of nowhere, this memory pops into my head. My mom, going out at night and leaving me and Jill alone.”
“How old were you?” Sam asks.
“Six, probably. Which would mean Jill was three. I can see it so clearly. Getting out of bed, finding the house empty, her bed made. I was terrified.”
“Where do you think she was?”
“I have no idea.”
Sam waits a moment. “How often would this happen?”
“Definitely more than once.” Her voice is strained. “I called Jill the other day, asked her if she had any recollection of this. She didn’t.”
“Have you asked your mom?”
“No. I’m afraid I’m making it up.”
“Why would you make it up?” Sam asks.
“You’re the doctor. You tell me.”
“Okay. You’re not making it up. Rather, it’s an experience you’ve had to suppress, even in the moment, dealing with the fear of knowing you and your sister were in the house alone. As the oldest, you were in charge, which heightened the anxiety. It’s natural for the brain to shut down in some ways during traumatic moments like these, suppress the memory so that it can’t be easily accessed.”
“Traumatic?” Her voice is strained. “Isn’t that a little much?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Sam pauses, and his tone takes on a more gentle quality when he speaks. “I’ve been working in the field of childhood trauma for most of my professional career, and trust me, trauma comes in many forms.”
I imagine what he looks like right now. At ease in his chair, his legs crossed, his fingers tented in front of his mouth.
“Let’s talk a little bit more about your childhood,” he quietly suggests. “What was it like in your house?”