46. Zane

46

ZANE

"I think I missed the cutoff for children's therapy by about fifteen years."

Dr. Turner smiles at me with the same patient expression she was wearing when I first walked in. "I'm actually a family therapist. I narrowed my focus to children, but when the need arises, I speak with parents, as well."

I snort. "You think I need this?"

"You think Aiden needs this," she replies evenly. "That's why you're here. And I've found that families are complicated."

"Did they teach you that in shrink school?"

Her smile tightens, but it doesn't break. "Over and over and over again, I have parents walk their children through that door because they think something is wrong with them. Between you and me, ninety percent of the time, the child is exhibiting perfectly normal behavior in response to a stressful situation that is outside of their control."

"You been talking to Peter Morris?" I growl. "I'm sure he told you all about my past. I bet there's a tally of how many NA meetings I've been to in a secret manila folder somewhere. Maybe a list of theories of all the ways I'm going to ruin my kid."

"This is Aiden's file and it isn't secret." She points to a forest green folder on the corner of the desk. "It also isn't about you. I don't know anything about you, Mr. Whitaker, because you've never been a patient of mine."

"I won't be, either. I'm not going to sit here and divulge my shit to you so you can sell it to some gossip rag."

She crosses one leg over the other. "Are you worried the people at the NA meetings are going to sell your secrets, too? Is there anyone you open up to?"

Mira.

Hers is the first face I see, and no matter how hard I shake it, the mental Etch-a-Sketch doesn't budge.

I told her about my parents. One little scrap of information—a tiny sliver of a memory from when I was a kid. But it's the most I've talked about them in years.

"Everyone at NA is in the same place I am. They don't judge."

"Neither do I," she says. "If all I wanted to do was judge people, I wouldn't have taken on so many student loans. I went into psychology because I wanted to help people. The same reason people become leaders and sponsors in NA."

"NA isn't therapy," I snap. "It's… It's advice. It's technical advice you can apply to your day-to-day life."

When I was first trying to get clean, Owen walked me through a simple checklist: stay out of risky situations, surround myself with people I could trust, pick up a hobby I cared about, learn how to relax.

So I steered clear of bars and clubs, hung out with Jace and Daniel and Owen, gave everything I had to hockey, and killed myself in the gym everyday so I was too exhausted to do anything other than relax.

Simple. Technical. Applicable.

Not like this shit.

"Soooo, therapy," Dr. Turner summarizes. When I match her smile with a grimace, she holds up her hands. "I'm not trying to argue with you—but I like to think that I also offer my patients applicable advice they can use in their day-to-day lives."

"Yeah, well, NA has better chairs." I shift in the yellow, plastic chair, but it's hard when my knees are in my chest.

"I told you there are bigger folding chairs in the closet." She points to the rainbow-colored door behind me. It looks like a box of crayons threw up in here.

"I won't be here long enough for it to matter," I snap. "Just ask me if I hate my mother and if my father was cold and distant and we can get on our way, yeah?"

Dr. Turner purses her lips and she kind of looks like my mother. Mostly because they have the same shoulder-length blonde hair and cat-eye glasses. At least, that's what my mom looked like the last time I saw her.

"Do you hate your mother?" she asks.

"No."

"Was your father cold and distant?"

It's been years and I can still hear my father's deep, booming laugh. "No."

"Well, glad we got that settled, then."

I fling my hands up. "Don't act all high and mighty. That's what therapists do. You blame everything on the parents. My parents somehow fucked me up so I'm going to fuck Aiden up. It's the way it's always been and the way it always will be. It's the fucked-up circle of life."

She stares at me. "I had great parents."

"Do you want an award?" I grumble.

"Sure. If you have one."

I drag a frustrated hand through my hair. "Okay, listen, I'm sorry. I'm being rude."

"A little," she admits. "But a seven-year-old guessed that I was eighty this morning, so I've had worse."

"I just don't need to be here," I continue. "I just got Aiden, actually. I haven't had him long enough to fuck him up yet. If something is wrong with him, that's going to be his mother's fault. Unfortunately, you can't march her in here."

She gives me a sympathetic smile. "Aiden doesn't like to talk about her much, but I know she passed. I'm sorry."

"We weren't together."

"Still, it must be difficult for you. She's the other half of your son and now, she's gone."

The number of times I've wanted to pick up my phone and call Paige the last month is unbelievable.

Why did you keep him from me?

Did you take good care of him?

What turtle-shaped crackers is he talking about? I can only find fish and whales.

"The only thing that's ‘difficult' is that Paige isn't here to yell at. She stole four years of my son's life from me, and then died before I could call her a selfish bitch." I snort. "It's just like her, in a way: always avoiding the consequences of her actions. Until she couldn't, I guess."

"How did she die, if I may ask?"

"Overdose." I thread my fingers together. "I haven't asked where it happened. No one has told me if Aiden was there or not. Part of me doesn't want to know because—Fuck. It's just too bleak."

"What if Aiden was there when it happened?"

My throat tightens, but I swallow it down. "Then the fucked-up circle of life continues, I guess."

"You keep saying that, but you don't hate your mother and you said your father wasn't cold and distant."

"Not when I was a kid."

"And now?" she asks.

I shrug. "I wouldn't know. I haven't spoken to them in years. Not since they told me they'd call the police if I didn't get off their front porch."

Dr. Turner tilts her head to the side. "Why would they call the police on you?"

At the time, I thought it was because they were the worst parents in the world. I stood in the yard outside the picture window that led to the living room and told them I despised them. The memory is hazy, but…

"I was high and looking for cash." Shame pools in my stomach like I'm still standing in front of the house, watching as my mom tugs the curtains closed. "I'd already stolen from them. I didn't even need the money, but I was paranoid the police were after me. I stole some checks from my mom's purse over Thanksgiving and cashed them. When she confronted me, I lied to her face."

I lied to everyone, actually.

To Coach Popov.

To Jace.

To Daniel.

I lied about how bad things were and how deep in it I was. I'd go on week-long benders with Paige, but tell Daniel I was visiting my grandma. There was nothing I wouldn't do to get what I wanted.

"Have you tried to reach out to them?" Dr. Turner asks. "You're four years sober, right?"

"I'm four years sober from opiates, yes."

Until a couple weeks ago, it would've been four years sober, period. Now, there's a caveat. I loathe that little fucking asterisk.

"But it doesn't matter how long it's been. There's always a chance I'll slip up again. There's always a chance I'll end up screaming at my parents from their front yard. They disowned me once. I don't want them to have to do it again."

"So you don't trust yourself?"

"Of course I trust myself," I snarl. "I got drunk one measly night because my ex died and left a kid on my doorstep and I had CPS breathing down my back and a nanny who drove me up the fucking wall. I needed a break, and I took it. But my captain got me out of there and I called my sponsor the next day. I figured out what I was looking for at the bottom of a bottle, and now, I know I'm not going to find it there. I won't do that again. I don't even want to. It was a one-time thing."

I'm breathing heavily as I finish. For the first time in I-don't-even-know-how-many minutes, I look up at Dr. Turner.

I laugh, even though none of this is funny. "Well, you won. You got me to talk."

"I didn't do anything," she says. "That was all you."

I run my hand down my jaw and scratch at my chin. "I guess that means I need therapy after all."

"Actually, the fact that you opened up the way you did tells me that you're doing fine on your own." She smiles, but it's genuine this time. Warm. "I can always recommend you to a therapist if you would like, but it seems to me that you've built a solid support system around yourself and Aiden."

"You don't think I'm going to relapse and ruin my kid?"

If she says I will, would I give him back? Would I hand Aiden over to Peter Morris and give up my parental rights?

The thought alone feels like a hot barb to the chest.

"As you said, this isn't NA. I know some stats on addiction, but I'm no expert," she says. "I know there's always a chance of relapse. Addiction doesn't have a cure, but it can be managed. From what I can see, you're managing it well. You've evolved as a person and can own up to your mistakes. That's key for anyone in recovery. It's also key for being a parent."

"Evolved as a person," I breathe.

It sounds like therapy speak, but then again, I would have never walked into this meeting four years ago. I would have ignored the call and refused to show up.

The fact I'm here, even if skeptical, says something.

And sure, I don't talk to my parents, but I still have a family. A family that has only grown stronger the last few weeks.

A family that now includes a four-year-old mini-me and a raven-haired nanny.

I didn't think it was possible to ever get this addict-shaped monkey off my back, but maybe I can become a different man. Not just for Aiden's or Mira's sake.

But for my sake, too.

Maybe I don't have to live the rest of my life wrestling with my demons.

Maybe—with a little help—I can beat them.