25. step to the edge

25

STEP TO THE EDGE

DAY 22

Tuesday. 10:25 a.m. Eight more days of this place, then I'll be free to live my life. I don't know what that looks like yet, but I do know that whatever direction I go, it's a different trajectory than it was twenty-one days ago. So that's something, I guess.

The door to Dr. Reynold's office— his office— is open. I pause outside, then blink at what I see. The layout is the same. So are the desk, bookshelves, filing cabinets, and the several quality art reproductions on the walls. But the weathered leather armchairs are gone, replaced by wingback chairs upholstered in an attractive taupe. Between them is a small coffee table with a succulent and a box of tissues. An electric oil warmer sits on a side table, shooting small geysers of lavender-scented vapor into the air.

All the changes, coupled with the addition of fresh flowers on the desk and a potted ficus in a corner, erase Leo almost entirely. I can't decide whether it's a relief or a new level of torture .

"Come on in, Mia."

Dr. Reynolds sits in one of the new chairs, smiling at me, a blank notepad on her lap. A small part of me wants to correct her— my name is Amelia— but a larger part likes that the name belongs to him.

"Morning," I mumble, then make my way to the chair opposite hers and sit.

"I heard you weren't feeling well yesterday. How are you doing today?"

"Better, thank you. Guess it was one of those twelve-hour bugs."

Yeah, if there's a twelve-hour bug that makes you cry until your eyes swell closed. I spent the majority of Sunday and Monday curled in my bathtub with a pillow and blanket, as the bathroom is the only area in our cabins not wired for sound. Tiffany and Kinsey brought me smoothies, snacks, and contraband chocolate at intervals. I'm not sure if Kinsey knows what went down or not; if she does, she's keeping quiet.

"I'm glad to hear you've recovered." Dr. Reynolds has a warm, clear voice, the kind that makes me think of kindergarten teachers. A trustworthy voice. "Let's jump right in, shall we? I'd like to talk about the relationship between you and Dr. Chastain."

The blood drains from my head, leaving me momentarily dizzy. "Excuse me?"

She smiles softly. "His notes made it clear that the two of you formed a close bond in a short period of time. It's remarkable, the progress you made together. "

I have no idea what she's talking about, but I nod like I do. "I guess so."

"To be perfectly honest, Mia, I'm wondering what he did to earn your trust. I read your case file and…" She shrugs delicately.

I almost smile. "You're shocked."

She nods with a guilty smile, though it rings false. "With the kind of trauma you experienced as a child and again two years ago, as well as long-standing behavior patterns including recklessness and narcissistic tendencies, I'm both amazed and baffled by your headway." Losing the smile, she reveals her true self—a sharp, cunning mind that wants to pull me apart and pick at the pieces. "Tell me, what do you think of Dr. Chastain's assessment that you've exhibited increased empathy for others and decreased antagonism since you arrived?"

"Is that a trick question, Dr. Reynolds?"

The maternal smile returns. "Not in the least. I'd simply like to determine your opinion of your progress."

With a reflexive sigh, I look past her and out the nearby window. "You're pursuing the sociopath angle," I tell her tiredly. "You think I deceived Chastain into believing I was changing. That I've manufactured the emotions and responses expected of me."

She doesn't respond. I glance at her to see her eyebrows lifted in expectation. I gotta hand it to her, she's working the hardass-therapist archetype pretty flawlessly. Trying to get a rise out of me. To see if I'll break, reveal my own true colors .

I may have changed somewhat—but not that much. She won't get what she wants from me.

"I tried in the beginning," I murmur. "He saw right through it. You want to know why I trusted Chastain? He didn't give me a choice. He kept pushing and pushing from every conceivable direction. He was… easy to talk to. Before I knew it, I forgot how to lie and told the truth instead."

"How did that feel?"

I cock a brow. "Fucking alarming . It felt like he had power over me. I didn't like it."

"Didn't, or still don't?"

Ah, there it is. She's not stupid and clearly picked up on my desperate, lovesick vibe when I burst into his office Saturday.

Undaunted, I look her in the eye. "Chastain taught me that relationships—even client and therapist ones—don't have to be a power struggle. That when two people let their guards down, magic happens. Trust happens. Did he cross the professional boundary with me in this office? No, he did not. As for whether I crossed it, I'm sure he left detailed notes, as well as his opinion that I was trying to assume control of the ‘relationship' by using my sexuality to undermine his authority."

Dr. Reynolds doesn't bother to hide either her surprise or her lingering doubt. Can't say I blame her.

"Well, Mia," she says finally, "that's a very insightful response. Thank you for your candor. You should feel very proud of the hard work you've done. How would you describe your overall state of mind at this stage? "

My heart rate finally begins to slow. To my astonishment, I don't consider lying to her. Whether or not she's a wolf in sheep's clothing, I need some fucking guidance.

"I'm scared."

"Why's that?"

I look at the ceiling to avoid her stare. "I don't know who I am anymore."

"I think that's a perfectly natural response to the trauma you've endured, as well as the therapy process here at Oasis. Let me ask you something else, Mia. Have you considered that not knowing who you are means you can be whoever you want to be?"

My gaze drops to her face. "That's a little abstract."

She smiles like I just told a joke. "Yes, it can be, but we can narrow it down." She pauses to scratch something on the notepad, then looks back up. "There are two primary tasks I want to accomplish with you in your remaining time. May I share?"

I stuff down a sarcastic quip. "By all means."

"First, I want to utilize a method popular in Twelve-Step programs, that of compiling a list of people we've harmed and making a plan for amends or restitution. Then I want to tackle the issue you just brought up, that of identity. We'll talk about what your ideal life looks like—vocation, love, friendship, family, et cetera. We'll also discuss the first steps you'll take toward those goals, as well as determine whether you'll benefit from ongoing therapy."

I sink back into my chair and force a smile.

"Sounds like a plan."