ONE MONTH LATER WICHITA
“Ms. Evans, could I
see you for a moment after class?” Her aberrant psych professor looked as she’d always imagined, down to the well-trimmed beard, glasses, and tweed jacket with patches on the elbows.
“Of course.” But inwardly, Gillie cycled through levels of panic. Whenever people paid attention to her, she assumed it was because they could see through her façade.
Other than Brandon. He’d taken a liking to her, and he was so nice—and young—that she didn’t have the heart to shoo him away. She’d made it clear she wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, and he said,
Duh, college,
as if that were a given. He made her laugh, at least.
With her nerves prickling, she waited until everyone had filed out of the room and then she glanced at the professor with veiled trepidation. She expected a question like,
What are you doing here?
or
Why is a psychology student taking classes down at the Bullseye?
Her lives didn’t align these days, but handling a gun made her feel safe, as if she could contribute to her own protection. Gillie had completed the women’s handgun course, and she was now taking the required class to apply for a carry concealed permit; there didn’t seem to be much point in owning a Glock if she had to leave it in her sock drawer.
“I was extremely impressed with your sample profile of a man suffering from narcissistic personality disorder, truly realistic and detailed, including the episodes of grandiosity.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He smiled at her. “I’m only stating a fact about the paper. As it happens, I have an opening for a TA. Ordinarily, I make undergrads vie for the position, but your work has been so exceptional that I’m offering it to you. I took a look at your records . . . and I’m glad you changed your mind about business. You have a real insight into human nature, something that can’t be taught, and I would hate for the discipline to lose you.”
No,
she thought, remembering Rowan.
It can only be learned at a master’s hand. Give me your crazy, your neurotic, your mentally ill, yearning to be made well.
Realizing he needed a response, she said, “You’re offering me a job?”
She wasn’t clear on what a TA did, but it was pretty damn exciting to have the opportunity at work that didn’t involve a mop and bucket. Money wasn’t a factor, of course. But if she wanted a real career, even under a fake name, she had to start somewhere.
“I am. Are you interested?”
Gillie couldn’t ask him for the information she needed on the position; it was stuff a normal college student would already know. But she’d figured out the Internet with Brandon’s unwitting help, and she was sure she could learn fast. The real world sometimes seemed like an endless game of catch-up.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Then you’ll start next week. You’ll need to go through the student employment center to make it official. I haven’t even posted the job opening yet.”
“I’ll take care of it. Thanks for thinking of me.”
Shouldering her backpack, she strolled out of the classroom feeling like she’d won the lottery. Her smile didn’t dim when she saw Brandon waiting for her. He’d memorized her class schedule and she often found him outside with coffee in hand. Unfortunately, she didn’t have enough social experience to be sure whether this was normal, friendly behavior. He didn’t give off a Rowan-style vibe, though, so she figured she was safe. Over the years, she had seen a number of doctors while in Foundation custody, and he was the only one who made her feel like she might lose her soul if she looked in his eyes too long.
So yeah. I’m pretty good at spotting the nutjobs.
“What’d you do?” he teased.
“I wrote a kick-ass paper on narcissistic personality disorder. Prompted him to ask me to be his TA.”
“You gotta watch out for Professor Reynolds. He likes to pick the pretty ones and then chase them around his office. Last time, it ended badly.”
For a horrified moment, she thought he was serious, but then she saw the laughter dancing in his eyes. “You almost had me.”
He chuckled. “Congrats, I’m sure you’ll learn a lot.”
“Thanks.”
“You want to grab lunch?”
For once, she had no assignments due and she didn’t feel like being alone. Gillie was sure Taye wasn’t. He probably had a bimbo on his lap right this minute, and there was nothing stopping him from feeling her up. Anger made her smile extra bright.
“Sure. Wanna get a sub? My bike’s parked outside.”
“You ride that thing everywhere.”
“No car,” she said. “It’s cheaper and I’m being green.”
“Doesn’t it make grocery shopping a pain in the ass?”
Wow,
she thought. It was funny how much distance—and entitlement—separated her from her “peers.” He couldn’t imagine what a pleasure she found it to walk out her front door and get on a bus, which would take her to a store, where she could spend as much time as she wanted considering her purchases. Such things were not chores for her; each time she bought a jug of milk, it was a minor miracle and a major victory against those who had never intended for her to be a person at all.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “There’s a bus stop close to me, and I meet interesting people.”
He laughed. “Yeah, and they’re all too broke to afford cars.”
Okay, right now she didn’t like him very much.
“Sometimes it’s not a matter of money, but a matter of choice,” she said frostily.
“Hey, sorry.” He wasn’t an idiot, so he registered the change in climate and held up a hand in a placating gesture. “I think it’s cool you care about the environment and stuff, seriously. But you don’t run around throwing red paint on people and screaming
Meat is murder
, do you? Because I draw the line there.”
There’s no harm in him. He’s a good kid.
That was a laughable thought, considering he wasn’t so much younger than her, but age was more than a number; it was also comprised of life experiences, and some days she felt about a hundred years old.
“No.” Mentally, she sought the buzzwords that made biking and riding the bus admirable instead of the result of a weird and sheltered life. “I’m just reducing my carbon footprint.”
“I get that. The baby boomers really left us a fucking mess to clean up.”
As they walked outside, he rambled about the environment, clearly trying to impress her with his knowledge, and how big oil companies had suppressed green technologies. Gillie feigned interest because she thought Grace would care whether the electric car would catch on within ten years. That was who Brandon liked, after all—Grace Evans from Ohio with the pretty brown hair with the funky red streaks and fake green eyes. She wouldn’t have thought it would be this hard, living a lie, when she’d never lived at all.
Four weeks into
her new job, Gillie went with Dr. Reynolds to observe the pro bono work he did at the state mental hospital. He didn’t have a private practice anymore, but he liked to give back by offering free group sessions once a month. What seemed like so long ago now, she had told Taye she wanted to offer counseling to the homeless—and this was a firsthand opportunity to see how it was done. All the classes in the world couldn’t teach her how to connect with people. Maybe she did have insight, like her professor said, but understanding how things worked didn’t always translate to an ability to fix them.
On Saturday morning, she presented herself early and locked her bike up inside. Her office was a small room attached to Dr. Reynolds’s, and she shared it with another TA, but Roger wouldn’t need the space on the weekend. Gillie had finished upstairs and just come back down to wait when her professor pulled up. He drove a silver BMW, but it wasn’t new, probably paid for by prior years of private practice.
“Good morning,” he greeted as she slid into the car. “It’s an hour and a half drive. I chose the distance so I wouldn’t have to worry about seeing any of my patients around town, if they should happen to get better and be discharged.”
“Yeah, I can see why.” That was an aspect of counseling she hadn’t considered, how it would feel running into a patient on the street, when she knew about his bedwetting and his problems with his mother. “There won’t be a problem with my sitting in on the session?”
“If anyone objects, then you’ll have to wait outside. But you can ask permission to interview other patients while you’re there. There are a number of interesting cases, and most welcome visitors.”
“Good idea.” So it wouldn’t be a wasted trip.
Rather than make small talk, Dr. Reynolds played a classical CD. That was fine with her. Nerves ate at her for no reason she could name, until she realized it was because she felt like this hit a little too close to home. She was going to see people who couldn’t leave; they were locked away, maybe for their own protection, but it still set off a chain reaction in her belly.
As they neared the hospital, he turned the volume down on Handel. “You seem tense.”
“I’m nervous,” she said.
There was no point in lying to him; he was trained to notice this kind of thing, and she had to make her anxiety seem normal.
I can pass,
she thought.
I can fake it well enough to fool even you, Doc.
“Why do you think that is?”
“It’s the first step in what I hope will be a long career, exciting but nerve-racking. I don’t know whether my expectations are realistic, or if I’ll actually be able to help anyone.”
“Probably not today,” he said. “But those are reasonable fears.”
That’s not what I fear. I fear seeing myself in those people. Only their minds are their prisons, and I can’t imagine anything worse, because nobody can set you free from that.
She nodded. “Thanks for taking me with you.”
“I don’t mentor people. Or I haven’t in a long time. It’s exhausting.” For the first time, she noticed the lines etched beside his eyes, as if he didn’t sleep well.
“Why is that?” A therapist move, asking questions instead of offering opinions.
By the quirk of his mouth, the professor registered that as well. “Are you analyzing me so soon, Ms. Evans?”
“You should call me G-Grace.”
Christ, I almost fucked up. Let’s hope he thinks that was a nervous, girlish stutter.
“Only if you call me Will.” He was smiling, like there was a joke implicit in those words, some pop culture reference she ought to get.
Got it. TV show.
About a gay man and his best friend, as she recalled; she didn’t know how much a parallel she was intended to draw.
Did he just come out?
She laughed. “Is that really your name?”
“William, but I prefer Will to Billy.”
“I would, too.”
She appreciated him trying to set her at ease. His gentle manner must have made him a totally kick-ass psychiatrist, and she wondered what made him want to teach instead of practice. But that wasn’t her business.
By the time they pulled into the drive, her fears had quieted. The hospital was one of the oldest still open today, built in 1888 and full of historical weight. It looked like an old manor house from a distance, eerily set in a white field, though she imagined in spring and summer, it was pretty. On closer inspection, she decided it was more like an old prison.
“Come, let’s get you a visitor’s pass.” He clipped a volunteer badge to his jacket. “You did bring your ID, yes?”
“Of course.”
Just not mine.
Officially, Gillie Flynn was an IRA terrorist. There would be cameras in here; these days, they were everywhere. After Taye pointed it out, she noticed them more—silent devices tracking every movement. Remembering that, she adjusted her red and yellow hat and tugged up the collar of her coat, then followed him up the snow-framed walk.
Inside, Dr. Reynolds—Will—spoke in friendly tones to the woman at the desk, and then gestured Gillie forward. “I’d like my student to observe, but only if everyone agrees.”
“I need your driver’s license, hon.”
She handed it over and received a temp badge in turn, which she draped around her neck. Will nodded in approval, and said, “I need to check with the group . . . it’s really a formality. They let Roger”—his other TA—“sit in last year. Wait here for a moment?”
“Of course.”
The woman at the desk, whose nameplate read “Laverne,” went back to typing. Clearly, this wasn’t as big a deal as it felt to Gillie. Likely nobody else could see the momentous weight, but this felt like a pivotal event. As Reynolds had promised, it didn’t take long to get permission.
Her professor returned, still wearing his calm, reassuring smile. “It’s fine. Let’s go get started before we lose their attention. A few have ADD, along with various, sundry problems.”
Gillie nodded, trailing him through the gray corridors. He entered the fourth door on the left, where eight men and woman sat in a circle. They all murmured greetings, and Dr. Reynolds introduced her. “This is my student, Grace Evans. I trust you’ll show her the same respect you did Roger.”