Chapter 62

Wednesday, May 8

Simon has long suspected that Salvador is Dr. Danvers’s favorite, not that the competition is all that fierce. But now he knows for sure. The session was the tribe’s idea. What was left of them, anyway. Dr. Danvers had been reluctant to go along with it, and she only acquiesced after Salvador convinced her.

They don’t use the group therapy room today. Too many uncomfortable memories. Too many ghosts. Instead, there are two extra chairs in Dr. Danvers’s office, and they sit in a circle. She allows the other three to do most of the talking as she sits back and observes, her fingers interlocked on her lap, her legs crossed.

“In the end, it had nothing to do with the ketamine,” Salvador argues.

“Yeah, your only real mistake, Dr. Danvers, was in trusting a lawyer,” Baljit grumbles, and the others chuckle grimly.

“Speaking of,” Salvador says. “I heard Reese pled not guilty.”

“As if it matters,” Baljit grunts. “She’s not going to weasel her way out of three murder charges.”

Salvador glances over to Dr. Danvers. “Not to mention two attempted ones.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Simon says. “One of our own tribe.”

“Can we please get over this whole tribe bullshit?” Baljit moans. “We’re not family. We were a nightmare from the outset. Our only connection? A desperation to kick our individual habits.”

Simon grunts. “Find me a stronger connection.”

Baljit shrugs. “A mother’s love?”

Not bloody likely.

Baljit continues. “Fuckups and liars stick together because they’ve screwed over everyone else.”

“Baljit,” Dr. Danvers views the other woman over the top of her glasses, “that’s a bit harsh.”

“If the shoe fits…”

Dr. Danvers holds up a hand. “We could argue this all day, but the truth is, no one would’ve died if I hadn’t assembled this group.”

“Might as well blame yourself for chartering a plane that later crashes,” Simon says.

“Hundred percent!” Salvador cries. “And if it wasn’t the ketamine’s fault, why stop it?”

“I wish it were that simple.” Dr. Danvers uncrosses her legs. “Sometimes, in medicine, it’s hard to tease out cause from effect. There’s already an ethics review of my practice underway. And I won’t—legally, I can’t—prescribe psychedelics until it’s complete.”

Baljit stares at her. “Then what now?”

Dr. Danvers makes eye contact with each of them. “You apply what you’ve already learned. Help each other. Tap into your inner strengths.”

Salvador pouts. “What if we don’t have any?”

“But you do!” Dr. Danvers cries. “Each one of you does. I’ve seen it. The ketamine was never meant to be indefinite. Even if nothing had gone wrong, we would’ve continued it for another four to eight more cycles at most. Psychedelics work by opening new pathways in your brain. Affecting your neuroplasticity. They reprogram your consciousness to not depend on your habit for numbing the pain of past traumas. But the effect lasts long after your final dose. Sometimes permanently.”

“Then why do we begin to slip every time we stop it?” Baljit asks.

“Partly, it’s psychosomatic. You believe you’re more reliant on the ketamine than you actually are.”

Simon notices that Dr. Danvers hasn’t asked any of them whether they have relapsed since their last session.

“I will be here for you,” she continues. “Either to meet as a group like this or in one-on-one sessions. Of course, I’m more than willing to refer you to another counselor, too. It’s probably for the best. I can even connect you with another psychedelic clinic. But at this point, I believe you can manage without ketamine.”

“Don’t bet the farm on that,” Baljit says. “Although, God knows, with my addiction I just might.”

Dr. Danvers looks around the glum faces before offering them a supportive grin. “You might not believe in yourselves. Not yet anyway. But isn’t it worth something to know that I do?”

Despite his enthusiastic nod, Simon shares Baljit’s doubt. His urges have resurfaced with a vengeance. Even now, the sight of Baljit’s fitted top and Dr. Danvers’s toned legs is stoking new fantasies. And he can’t stop thinking about last night. That young redhead chained to his bed and moaning noisily, trapped somewhere between pleasure and pain. And fear. The whole thing was delicious.

But he has also learned from his experiences in therapy. Before taking her to bed, he spiked the girl’s drink with heavy doses of LSD and Ativan—the closest thing he could concoct to match what Dr. Danvers used to wipe out portions of his memory. After it was over, the girl was still stunned, and repeatedly asked what had happened and where the marks around her wrists and neck came from—even as he dropped her off in the lane where he’d found her, a thousand dollars richer and none the wiser.

Maybe Dr. Danvers hasn’t cured him. But she has addressed his biggest challenge.

He doesn’t have to worry anymore about ending up back in his lawyer’s office at the mercy of women tangled up in his sexual cravings.

From now on, they won’t remember a thing.