by A B Whelan
“What type of music?” I ask on the recorder.
“Mostly classical. One day he was in a very cheerful mood and we listened to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. “Spring.” I don’t know shit about old music, but I know that song because when I was a little girl, my uncle tried to teach me how to play the piano. It wasn’t my forte. Besides, my father didn’t like the noise in the house.”
I stop the recording and go stand by the window. All the people on the street are talking on their phones or running to appointments. Nobody gives a damn about some psycho who kidnapped a young woman and repeatedly raped her. At this very moment, there are people out there who are making love, or eating breakfast, or reading the paper, or shopping, or binge-watching TV shows. While others are being trafficked, tortured, raped, or killed. It’s better not to dwell on how fucked up this world is because one could go crazy. Skyler is safe, I assure myself. She is only late again for our appointment.
*****
Last Friday, there was only one name in my scheduler: Skyler O’Neill. I remember being excited and nervous about our session. Based on the information Peter had hinted about regarding his cousin, she could be delusional or suicidal. If I failed her, it could ruin my career before it even started. Yet, if I succeed with her, it would be the first step toward a successful career. Not asking my parents’ help with building a client base is all I can think about lately.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. We’re here to help you,” my mother would sneer. She likes it when people depend on her for help; it makes her feel important.
I went early to my office to get my notebook and voice recorder ready. I opened the window to air out the room and lit a candle—cinnamon apple to set the mood for the upcoming holidays. I peeked into the waiting room every two minutes to see if the girl had arrived. Half an hour later, my enthusiasm started to turn into despair. I gave it one more chance and checked the waiting room. It was depressingly vacant. As I turned back to my office, I bumped my elbow on the door handle. I kicked the door wider, so hard it smashed against the wall; the doorknob dented the drywall.
On a verge of a self-pity-induced sob, I ripped open the top desk drawer and took out the sole survivor of a dozen mini drinks I had picked up at Bevmo a few days ago. I knew I needed something to calm my nerves when my mother was around, bossing me, pushing, criticizing me. I sucked down a Jack Daniels with one breath and tossed the empty bottle in the paper bin. The rush of alcohol hit me with a wave of fuzzy warmth, and I leaned back in the chair to welcome it.
When the short-lived buzz diminished, the walls of my vacant office started to close in on me. I had to get out because I’d be mad enough to do some damage to the place. I snatched my cardigan and purse off the coat hanger by the door and stormed out of the office, running from an invisible enemy that always seems to be right behind me, with one thing on my mind: a cocktail and a Tinder date.
I almost jumped out of my skin at the sight of a young woman leaning against one of the armchairs I placed in the waiting room to fill the space. I startled her, too, because her body jerked back and her face stretched with fright. She looked at me with pinpoint pupils, her chapped lips trembling. My first impression of the girl was that she was a homeless junkie and not a cousin of a wealthy lawyer. Peter said the girl was troubled, and I expected someone unhinged, disheveled, but this woman in front of me looked much worse, like a bottom dweller of society. The way she hunched over her dirty, folded hands, her feet apart but her knees touching, gripped my heart. The legs of her stained denim were rolled up, exposing her shabby white sneakers and bony bare ankles. Over her thighs, the jeans were worn, and white cotton threads were showing.
I called out to her. “Skyler?”
I expected to see a few major nutcases and weirdos in this profession, but this girl gave me chills I wasn’t quite ready for. Why couldn’t Peter have sent over a trust-fund baby or a bored housewife who needed someone to talk to?
The girl stared into my eyes, creeping me out. I couldn’t tell if she was going to hug me or rob me. Her tired face was glossy with perspiration, but there was hidden beauty underneath her worn and dirty appearance.
“Hello,” she said through trembling, thick lips in an unsettled voice.
“You’re Peter’s cousin, right?” I asked.
She shot up and zipped her hoodie all the way to her chin. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said, backing away from me, as if I were a perpetrator. This girl had seen horror. I couldn’t help but connect with her immediately and with deep sympathy. I shouldn’t have emphasized that we had a mutual friend. People tend to talk more openly if they don’t fear their secrets will get out.
I stepped in front of her and put a hand on her shoulder. Was I supposed to make physical contact? I wasn’t sure, but I knew where to look it up. And there I was, standing with my feet rooted to the ground, trying to remember what I’d learned in grad school. What was I going to tell my parents at our Sunday brunch if I let my first patient run out on me? That I was sitting in my office all week, painting my nails?
The girl pulled away from my touch with a sharp inhale. Damn it! She must have smelled the alcohol on my breath. By the expression on her face, I could tell that she’d expected someone else too. We were starting a professional relationship founded on mutual disappointment.
Rubbing the spot where my fingers had folded over her arm, she backed against the wall, eyes set on the exit. My heartfelt apology fell on deaf ears. I stepped to the side to give her more space.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Skyler. Whatever has happened to you, you can talk to me about it. I’m here to listen and to try to help, nothing more,” I told her, desperately trying to keep my head above water. I’m a psychologist. I’m supposed to be the master of human emotions, yet I couldn’t even get a junkie to trust me.
She slipped both of her hands into her pockets. “I need help,” she whispered, her voice faltering with the rising sob.
“I can help you,” I offered. At last, she allowed her eyes to meet mine. Then she pulled back her olive-green hoodie with both hands, exposing her shaved head, dotted with bloody scabs and random long strands of blond hair. Her head looked as if it had been run over by a lawn mower.
Holy hell! The words almost blurted out of me.
I looped an arm around her shoulders and started leading her gently into my office. “I’m all yours for the next hour or as long as you need me,” I offered, trying not to breathe Jack Daniels on her. “I promise that whatever happened to you, we will get to the bottom of it.”
After Skyler had left, I couldn’t bring myself to move, let alone leave my chair. My head was spinning and replaying the words she spoke to me about her alleged kidnapping and torture.
Psychologists are not supposed to connect emotionally with their patients, but this girl’s story ripped open old wounds and my heart was bleeding. I needed a quick drink; flashbacks of that dreadful night in college began to surface in my mind, and I couldn’t afford to revisit that dark place right now. As I was rummaging through my drawers, hoping to find another tiny bottle I’d maybe missed earlier, Peter called. I didn’t answer it because I knew he wanted a diagnosis from me. I couldn’t give him what he wanted.
I scribbled Skyler’s name into my blank schedule for her next appointment.
I found myself too distracted to do anything else business related, so I locked up the office and drove to my grandfather’s house. I wasn’t feeling up to performing my act for the old man, but I promised my mother that I’d drop by and update him on my life. These weekly visits to my judgmental grandfather were exhausting. Since I could never measure up to his extreme expectations, I developed a routine of making up stories. As far as my grandfather was concerned, I was a devoted Catholic, a volunteer at a soup kitchen, a loving fiancée to an ambitious, intelligent man, and an obedient, perfect daughter to my mother.
His single-story, multimillion-dollar mansion with two colossal horse statues guarding the front gate
perches on the rolling hills of Calabasas. I parked by the water fountain next to my snake-tongued aunt’s graphite Porsche Cayenne. It’s in her daily routine to make an appearance and spin a few new webs about the family and to drain more money from her father’s bank account. Every time she sees me, she never misses the opportunity to lower my self-confidence by demeaning me.
As I entered the room with my grandfather, she smiled, ever so flakey. “My darling,” she said, holding me at arm’s length. “Have you gained a little weight? Looks good on you.”
Fuck you, bitch! I wished it wasn’t inappropriate to punch a sixty-five-year-old woman in the stomach.
“So, are there any new developments about your big day? Do you have a date in mind?” she continued, loud enough for Rosa the housekeeper—my grandfather’s companion since my granny died ten years ago—to hear it in the kitchen. “Don’t wait too long. You’re already passed that perfect age to be a mother. Old mamas are not good mamas.” She pinched my cheek as though I were still a little girl. I offered her a cheeky smile and made my way around her as if she were a pile of trash. I kissed my complaining grandfather on the cheek, with a promise to come back some other time, and left.
My head was a mess. “He tied me up by my wrists.” Skyler’s words kept haunting me. “He choked me with a leather belt until I passed out. He forced hard, cold objects inside of me.”
If I went home to my empty loft, I’d surely fall into a pool of despair.
An hour later, I’d found myself nursing a tall screwdriver at the Skybar in the Mondrian Hotel, swiping through profiles on my Tinder app. I minimized the search distance to a one-mile radius. I wasn’t in the mood for driving to meet someone on this fine Monday afternoon. Besides, I’m way past the stage of being embarrassed by making my face known in my own community. The only person I fear finding out that I’m not what she thinks I am is my mother, but she isn’t on Tinder. As unsolicited images of my mother flooded my mind, I finished my drink and ordered another one. She was the one who pushed me into this career path. Me, giving advice to others on how to live their lives? What a joke! I couldn’t even get my own life in order.
To swallow my self-hatred, I gulped down half of my second drink and returned my attention to Tinder. This dating app is so popular that even with my limited-range search, I still found dozens of guys to choose from. I swiped through all of them like a pro because—even if I’m ashamed to admit it—I’m an advanced user.
I swiped past guys who posed with puppies or babies because they obviously followed the “How to Make an Appealing Tinder Profile” tutorial when they first downloaded the app. That’s not what I was looking for right now.
A hand touched my shoulder, and I protectively leaned over the screen.
“Ashley?” The guy was the spitting image of the man whose profile I’d been checking out on my phone. He offered me a peek at my own photo on the screen of his iPhone.
I nodded and placed my phone on the bar. “Expert or first-timer?” I asked.
“It depends on what you’re looking for,” he said with a teasing smile. I finished my drink with one gulp.
“What do you say we skip the intro and go straight to my place? You’ll love the view,” I offered him the same lines I tell all the others. I stopped trying to be unique or creative a long time ago with this instant-gratification crap. I’m not looking for a lifetime partner.
His approach was confident enough to make me believe this wasn’t his first Tinder date, yet his eyes widen. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go!” He waved at the bartender for the check. He took care of mine too. A true gentleman.
Out of convenience, I called for an Uber.
In my apartment, I snorted some cocaine in the bathroom, then I kept refilling the vanishing glasses with the green poison I keep for nights like that: absinthe. When my head was dizzy and my eyes moist and blurry, I invited him to sit with me on the sofa, where my new friend started kissing my neck. Feeling numb to his touch, I closed my eyes to focus, but instead my head began swimming with images of Skyler and her captor.
“Take me to the bed,” I ordered in an uncompromising tone. He picked me up, his olive skin blending in with my blouse. He was tall and lean—not like a lifting weights or CrossFit good shape, but more like a running, yoga, and gluten-free good shape—yet he pinned my soft and cushioned body to the wall like a weightlifting champion.
I asked him a few more times to take me to my bed, but he wasn’t listening. After slamming me against every piece of furniture on the way—as if that was something sexy or what girls enjoy—he finally dropped me onto the bed.
“Tie my wrists to the headboard,” I ordered. He pulled off my thigh-high stockings and wrapped them around my wrists. It was the tedious job of a clumsy greenie. I wondered how many attempts it took a man to become a pro at this.
“My legs too!” I roared. He tried so hard to please me that he never asked where this was all going. While he looked around my bedroom for more nylons, I closed my eyes and concentrated. The excitement just wasn’t there. My heartrate was normal. My skin was senseless. Skyler must have been frightened.
“Tighter!” I ordered again. He looked at me with small eyes.
I still felt like a wood plank as he entered me. Why don’t you feel something, dammit!
“Harder!” I screamed at him, and like a good robot, he obeyed. Beads of sweat started to roll down his forehead, and he was wheezing like a pig despite not being older than thirty.
“Put your hands on my neck!” I screamed. “Do it!”
His eyes remained unfocused, and his rhythm didn’t miss a beat. I watched him for a while as though I were outside of my body, watching two strangers having sex. My jaws locked, and I felt the pain in my ears and in the back of my head from the strain on my teeth. I closed my eyes again to bring back my conversation with Skyler. “…the moment when you know you’ll die, it’s almost liberating. Then your eyes start to blur and your head swims…”
“I want you to choke me,” I said, pushing my knee into his side. He jumped with an almost comical sound.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, you stupid bitch!” he groaned, pushing himself off me. He massaged the back of his neck while turning his head around, as if loosening a strained muscle. Sprawled out on the bed, naked, bonded, vulnerable, I started to shiver. This Tinder Man wasn’t threatening. His eyes didn’t glow with a hatred for women. Yet he still was in a dominating position. If he wanted, he could have hurt me. Hurt me bad. Maybe I was waiting for that.
He reached for his pants and started to pull them on.
When I realized that he was no longer going along with my game, I panicked. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He gave me a “duh” face.
My nose itched, and I wiggled it because my tied-up hands couldn’t scratch it. “Aren’t you gonna untie me?” I said, pulling on my arms.
He ignored me, and that infuriated me further. I picked him up to use him, I admit that, but he came here for the same reason. It seemed that since his afternoon didn’t turn out as he expected, he no longer had a reason to be nice—like an android whose emotions can be turned on and off with a controller.
While I was trying to wriggle myself free from my bondage, he entered my kitchen without asking my permission. He took out a milk carton from my refrigerator and lifted it to his mouth as if he were my live-in boyfriend who needed a protein boost to recuperate after hot sex. He picked the reddest apple from the basket on the counter and a banana muffin from a variety six-pack. And as a final stab in my back, he took all the cash from my wallet before escorting himself out of my apartment without a single word or glance back at me.
He wouldn’t put his hands around my neck, but he had no problem violating my private belongings and my home. I think I cried a little, but I’d hate to admit it.
After a while, I called out to my phone. It took me three tries until that arrogant bitch finally recognized my voice. “Hey, Siri. Call Olivia Cam
pbell.” She was the only person I could think of calling. Her husband is the founder of Good Samaritan. They live for helping people without being judgmental.
I asked Olivia to come by my apartment. She sounded distraught but agreed to help me out anyway. I didn’t tell her about my predicament. She was going to see it soon enough anyway.
While I was waiting, my phone started buzzing in my bag. Judging by the ringtone, I was sure it was my mother calling. I asked Siri to answer it for me, and my mother and I carried out a conversation about my first day at the office—like normal families do.
Since my Tinder date left the door unlocked, Olivia was able to enter without my assistance and—after the initial shock—she released me from the grasp of my own stockings. Now that the effects of the two hard drinks at the bar and the line of cocaine had diminished, I sensed the mounting shame.
Olivia made a pot of strong coffee while I dressed myself. There were ligature marks on my wrists and ankles—pulsing red and dented. They were insignificant compared to Skyler’s injuries, but they hurt nonetheless. I wished I could speed up time and make tomorrow come faster. There was so much I wanted to tell that girl to comfort her. I was a complete amateur at our first meeting. But I was not going to screw this up; I was going to help this girl.
Olivia, dressed in her long camel-fur coat, cream tight pants, and cashmere sweater stood out in my messy kitchen like a sore thumb. A fine woman like her should stay away from a human wreck like me.
