Face Your Fears

Chapter 19

Agnes Schaffer crossed and uncrossed her legs for the thousandth time as she stared at me. Her gray hair was loose around her face in ringlets, there was a gap in between her front teeth, and the red lipstick she was wearing was like a beacon against her starch white skin.

I'd noticed all of these things during the past fifteen minutes I'd spent sitting in her office without saying anything. 

It had not been my idea to visit Agnes Schaffer. It had been doctor's orders, and I had no choice. 

I'd been reassured that Agnes Schaffer was the best therapist in Manhattan, and that I had nothing to worry about, going to see her. 

That wasn't the problem, though.

If I told this Agnes person about what was really going on...well, that wouldn't go over too fantastically with anybody. I wanted to stay far away from any pysch ward, thank you very much.

"You know you're going to have to say something sooner or later, Archer."

I glanced up from picking a loose thread on the edge of my jeans. Agnes was watching me intently, as if something about my movements would tell her everything she needed to know about my nervous habits.

I felt like I was being placed under a microscope with a bright light fixed on my face.

"No," I said. "I really don't think I have to."

I was being stubborn and childish, but I had nothing to say to this woman. 

"And why is that?" Agnes asked, not concerned with what I just said at all. 

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Dr. Mercer said you did."

"Dr. Mercer knows nothing about me. He just knows what's in my medical file."

Agnes sighed, flipped open the file in her lap and skimmed over the pages in front of her.

"It says here that you were in therapy once before," she told me. "Back when you were eleven, and only for about six months."

"Okay."

"Why did you stop going?"

Why had I stopped going to therapy? Because I'd been tired of reliving the night I'd found Chris every night in my sleep, and I’d been even more tired of telling the damn therapist about it every visit. It was as simple as that.

"Look, Agnes," I said, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. Why was she staring at me like that? "You seem like a nice woman."

Agnes smiled wryly. "Going to try and change the subject?"

"No. I'm going to try and make a point."

 "And what point would that be?"

"Don't try to get into my head. You won't like it."

"Oh, really?" Agnes raised an eyebrow in question. "Now, what would make you say something like that?"

"What would make me say something like that? Well, let's see," I said sarcastically, clasping my hands together. "I grew up under the same roof as a murdering psychopath that used to abuse my mother right in front of me. I found my father lying dead in the middle of our kitchen floor. Apparently I have a numerous amount of untreated mental problems and my wife is about to have a baby. D'you want me to keep going?"

Agnes spent several moments shrewdly staring at me. I realized too late that I had inadvertently said too much with that little spiel, but it wasn't like I could take my words back.