Especially trying to forget the stranger’s face.
In some ways I think his face is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever encountered.
•
In the morning all my limbs are mended, my skin sealed back up, and though I’m covered in dried blood, I feel fresh as a daisy. I add another item to my list of “awesome stuff about being me” and scale the wall toward my patio.
Later I take my bike down to Venice Beach in an attempt to chase the boredom away and walk up and down the boardwalk watching all the freaks for a couple hours. There’s a crowd outside a bookstore and I linger, wondering what’s going on. But it’s just some silly book signing for a psychologist named Dr. Elizabeth Grant. I’m about to take off in the other direction when I see the title of her book, “Gods Among Us”. It strikes a nerve.
I pick it up and skim pages of it while people filter in and out, gushing and blushing, as she signs copies. The pages aren’t as intriguing as the title had led me to believe. In a few minutes, the crowd has dispersed and she’s sitting at a desk alone with copies of her book. She’s making notes in a small leather-bound book.
I walk up to her as casually as I can. “Do you still practice, or whatever?”
“Excuse me?” she asks politely, looking up and taking off her glasses.
“Do you still practice or do you just write about the shit now?”
“I mostly write. I take on a few patients, but mostly as case studies,” she pauses. “Would you like me to sign that for you?” I look down at the book in my hand.
“Uh, sure,” I hand it to her across the table.
“Whom should I make it out to?”
“Lola.”
“Lola. That’s a name with a lot of history,” she says. It’s the first time anyone has even appeared to take my name seriously. I immediately decide not to tell her the ‘LeFever’ part, but I still can’t help making a snide remark.
“So I hear.”
“Nothing wrong with a name with history,” she says, smiling and holding the book back out to me. Her voice is silky and tastes like chocolate to my ears. I realize I haven’t spoken to a single soul since Joan.
“I wouldn’t know much about that, I guess.”
“Which…history, or your name?”
“Both, I guess. I dropped out of school and I’m not a big reader,” I say. She has a way of asking questions that makes me want to answer them, or maybe I’m just desperate for someone to talk to, anyone – bullshit therapist or not.
“When did you drop out?”
“Recently.”
“Was there a particular reason that you left school?” I pause before answering her. I’m not sure whether to lie or not. In that moment hanging between us, I decide to tell her the truth, to always tell her the truth, regardless of whether she’ll believe me and regardless of whether this conversation lasts two minutes or two years.
“I killed my mother,” I say, looking at her directly, but she has a good poker face. She absorbs the information easily and I can’t tell whether she believes me or not. Even if she does believe me, she probably thinks I mean it like, metaphorically, or some crap. “And I thought it was best to leave town after that.”
“And you’ve been on the road…on your own ever since?” I’m impressed that she doesn’t press on the mother thing, like ‘why did you kill her’ or ‘how do you feel about that’, even though I think I kind of want her to ask me anyway.
“Yeah. I hooked up with some people in Las Vegas, but it didn’t end well and I’ve been on my own since then, yeah.” She opens her mouth to speak again, but a group of middle-aged women each holding a copy of her book step up to the table and chatter at her excitedly. She smiles coolly and takes out her pen. I head toward the door but she calls out to me. I walk back and she hands me a piece of paper.
“Here. It was nice meeting you.”
“Sure.” I walk outside into the sunshine and open up the paper, her office business card is inside and the note says ‘I’m interested in speaking with you more about your life, if you’re willing – anytime. Elizabeth’. I crumple both the card and note and shove them in my pocket.
Her instincts are both really good and really bad. She feels a story in me and she’s right, but she’s also playing with a serious fire she’s not gonna be capable of dealing with.
Should be fun.
°
All weekend I’m distracted thinking about the boy on the subway platform. His face pops up in my mind all the time and I catch myself fantasizing about a normal life with him. Something more than I’ve got now – my crappy job (er, jobs) and crappy motel room. A boyfriend, a job, an apartment, maybe a pet, or at least a plant. It all sounds so deliciously decadent, but also innocent and simple.