Vannie - A Swann Series Prequel: A Contemporary Young Adult Science Fiction/Urban Fantasy Series

by Schow, Ryan

  “I would like to come in with Vannie and be a part of her…therapy, but I don’t want my presence to keep her from opening up.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “When I come to pick her up, if you had a copy of your notes on your desk, something I could have that she wouldn’t know about, I’m thinking that will help me better understand her. Ultimately, it might help me to better relate to her.”

  She looked at Margaret like she was some sort of twisted pigeon. A real shady creature. Margaret brushed it off.

  “If you know about doctor/patient confidentiality, then you’ll know I’m bound by it both morally and ethically. People in my profession take that sort of thing seriously.”

  “Yes, of course. But aren’t you supposed to always work with your patient’s best interests in mind?”

  “Within the scope of the law, yes,” she said.

  “A law is only broken when it’s proven to have been broken in a court of law, is it not?” Margaret asked, seriously toeing the line. Dr. Oaken didn’t answer, so she continued. “Let’s just say as I’m writing you a check for your services, your coffee gets spilled and you rush off to get something to clean it up with. Let’s just say a copy of your notes were there, and then they weren’t. You’d still have the original, but then I’d have a fighting chance at getting through to my daughter.”

  “And what would be in place of the copy of my notes?” Dr. Oaken asked.

  “An envelope?”

  “What would be in that envelope?”

  “Ten pictures of Benjamin Franklin.”

  She scoffed. “Do you really think I’d compromise my ethics for a thousand dollars?”

  “She’s just a little fat girl with social anxiety disorder,” Margaret said, like she couldn’t believe she had to stoop this far for half a page of notes.

  Now she really did feel like a twisted pigeon.

  Dr. Oaken, with her reasonable nails, her pointed-straight bust and her Nordstrom’s skirt and blouse, she was acting like Margaret’s suggestion was incredulous. Then again, the woman wasn’t exactly raising her voice or planting her hands on her hips. She wasn’t acting offended the way she should act if she were, in fact, affronted by the suggestion.

  When Margaret’s husband, Atticus, told her everyone was for sale for the right price, she changed the way she dealt with people. Not just certain people…everyone. She marveled at how so many of them were willing to sell their soul for pennies on the dollar.

  It was baffling, actually.

  “Two grand, and you bring your own coffee to spill,” Dr. Oaken finally said.

  The tension of their negotiations lessened and Margaret felt her chest loosen. The woman’s charming smile, however, remained. It was clear Dr. Oaken wasn’t done with her.

  “You need to know this is a one-time thing,” Dr. Oaken continued. “In other words, if I’m ever asked about this transaction in a court of law, I’ll say my report went missing, but you didn’t book another session, so I was never able to confront you. And let’s be clear, you won’t book another session.”

  “No one will ever ask you anything,” Margaret assured her.

  “Go get your daughter, Mrs. Van Duyn. And your envelope. You’re cutting into our hour.”

  The Spilling of the Guts

  1

  So I’m sitting in the driver’s seat with my pulse pounding in my throat and I’m right about to put the Bentley in gear and speed off when the monster comes walking out. She’s waving me in and I’m thinking, go—put the car in gear and just leave! My mind is racing and I’m seriously thinking, go, go, go!

  But I don’t because I’m a big fat chicken. And the girl in the Audi…she’s still there. Like it’s not creepy or anything. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. An older man. A married man she kisses and gropes in the parking lot of strip malls because that’s what hot chicks do these days—break up marriages for the D and enough money to buy righteous cars and not work.

  To hell with her.

  Margaret walks up and she’s looking at me funny, sitting in the driver’s seat like I am, and all I can think about is how I don’t have the girl-balls to flee. It’s a self-confidence thing. If I told you my broken mind is chock full of self-loathing and insecurity, would you really be surprised? Would anyone? If you knew Margaret they way I know Margaret, you might understand my chicken-shittedness, my unwavering cowardice.

  Begrudgingly, I crawl out of the car, shut the door, watch the monster click the remote and kill the engine.

  “Why were you sitting in the driver’s seat?” she asks me.

  I shrug my shoulders, glance at Audi girl.

  A second later the car locks and it looks like I’m doing therapy today. In those ten or so steps between me and the monster, I decide I’m going to give this new therapist everything she wants. With the other therapists, I was a locked vault. Totally unwilling to do anything other than be obstinate and snarky when confronted with the hard truths of my charmed life. So today, I decide, I’m going to change things up.

  Today I’m going to spill my guts.

  You see, what I’ve learned with these f*ckers (yep, I’m gonna censor that word because it’s an ugly word, but it totally fits for the way I’m feeling, so deal with it already!) is that they expect you to not tell them the truth. If they can work diligently to pry something from you in the first session, if they can really start to “establish trust,” then they can drag out your therapy for years.

  That’s the key to a solid business model. Long term profitability. Economic stability. If you take a moment to monetize your own therapy, if you trace the math to its inevitable conclusion, a good therapist can bilk you for tens of thousands of dollars. That’s not how all of them work, but in my zip code, we’re all just rich parasites tapped into each other’s blood supply. So today I’m going to get all better in this session whether this therapist wench likes it or not.

  Maybe that’ll teach the monster. Maybe she’ll drop the whole “therapy-as-a-means-of-healing” sort of fantasy.

  “Just be honest,” Margaret says as she’s walking me into the shrink’s office. There’s nothing like last minute advice. Especially if it sucks.

  I look back at Audi girl, who gives a little wave, then put her out of my mind enough to say, “Oh, don’t you worry your little black heart over me, Margaret.”

  “Stop calling me that,” Margaret harsh-whispers as we walk inside to the fresh smelling, upscale office. My first thought is, who decorated this place? My God, the décor is over the top! The more I look at it the more I realize it’s cozy without being off-putting, if such a thing were possible.

  If I told you Dr. Tiffany Oaken was drop dead gorgeous, I’d bet the farm it wouldn’t mean dick-all to you. It means everything to me. A girl like me, a sore sight for eyes if ever there was one, I’m a classic case of “justified depression.” And a woman like Dr. Oaken? She won’t get me. This beautiful woman never saw an ugly day in her life until she met me.

  Empathetic eyes appraise me. Her hand goes out, offering to take mine, and she says, “Savannah, I’m Dr. Oaken, but you can call me Tiffany if you’d like.”

  I reach out and shake her outstretched hand.

  “You bet, Tiffany,” I say, my dour face going all fake-happy and syrupy. She flinches just enough for me to see. Good. Having to fake high-energy politeness is the real me.

  See? Honest already.

  Looking at how sensible yet impeccably she’s dressed, how faultless her Bloomingdale’s office is, it wouldn’t surprise me if this woman was a pillar in the life coach community. On closer study, she has that beautiful, self-important look. The look you get when you’re really good at what you do and you know everyone knows it. My father sometimes gets that look. Margaret gets that look around everyone she meets. It’s the look you have when you know you’re right and you’re ready to show someone like me how doing things your way will help me not be such a wet mess all the time.

  Good l
uck with that fancy pants.

  Tiffany and I walk inside her office, leaving Margaret to rot on her own. Tiffany closes the door and asks if I want water. I tell her no, that my bladder’s already stretched from the coffee and I’m not all that anxious to spring a leak on her gorgeous couch.

  “Do you know why you’re here to see me today?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I reply. “Do you?”

  She smiles at me the way you’d smile at a hard case. Don’t mind me, Tiffany, I’m an old hand at this sort of thing. I can be so congenial while lacing my responses with antagonistic overtones. It’s one of my superpowers.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “I have social anxiety disorder, my father is super busy with his multi-billion dollar escapades and the monster—I mean, my mother—she’s a case study in poor parenting. But I’m not deflecting. This is about me, right?”

  “It is.”

  Here’s where I regurgitate everything I know about therapy so I can just skip over what might be her big intro.

  “This is my safe space to talk about my feelings, and since you’re bound by moral and ethical agreements, I can pretty much trust you won’t tell Margaret about our conversations. Am I hitting the nail on the head here?”

  “You’re not new to therapy,” she says.

  “If I had some therapy that worked, I’d be new to that. I’m curious, Tiffany, what makes you different from any other Stanford educated shrink-in-a-box?”

  She laughs and it’s a warming sound. Not a pissed-off laugh. Not an offended laugh. I don’t even smile because the truth is, I really want to know how she’s different.

  “Actually I’m a Harvard educated shrink-in-a-box,” she says.

  “Congratulations.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better, I can provide you with a list of accolades longer than you are tall.”

  “Well I have a list of problems longer than your list of accolades, if that lets you know where I stand on the matter. I need help, Tiffany. Not a list of your credentials.”

  She’s smiling again. Not laughing this time, because maybe I’m going to be a tough case with a bevy of intellectually-based self-deprecation after all.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Do you want to know about my mother?”

  “No,” she says.

  “Really? Because you people always want to know about my mother.”

  “You people?”

  “You know what I mean,” I say, unapologetic.

  “Let’s start someplace new. Why don’t you tell me what makes you the young woman you are today.”

  Okay, I have to admit, I kinda like that she referred to me as a young woman.

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “My looks and weight for starters.”

  “What about them?”

  “Look at you, then look at me, and then tell me you’d switch bodies and I’d tell you you’re full of crap.”

  “I’m pretty, I know. Prettier than you’ll ever be and that’s somehow a strike against me.”

  “It is.”

  “Let’s talk about your face.”

  “It’s like my father’s face. He’s not a handsome man the same way guys like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg aren’t handsome men. He’s smart and hyper-successful and a total techy, but his genes are responsible for my unfortunate looks. And this body…Jesus God, don’t even get me started on that!”

  “So you’ve defined yourself by your body, is that it?”

  “No, Margaret defines me by my body. And the paparazzi defines me by my body. Have you seen the tabloids lately? Every time I look like some lumpy wildebeest, some motherfu—, some horrible member of the paparazzi is there to get his ungracious snaps.”

  “I’ve seen the tabloids. I see what they’re doing to you.”

  “Then you know about my tits.”

  “Of course.”

  2

  Wow, this “being honest” thing is so much better than lying, hiding, redirecting. It’s like every time some head doctor wants to know what makes me who I am, telling a lie seems prudent. But it’s so much work to support and protect that lie! Yet now, today—every time I tell the truth—it’s like I’m punching someone in the balls and it feels deliciously gratifying.

  “So you know these sad little things are uneven,” I say, cupping these calamitous little breasts of mine. “My nipples, too. And it didn’t help that the tabloids put different sized cover-up stars over them to really hammer this point home.”

  “So you have different looking breasts, so what?”

  My mouth falls open and I just stare at her. She’s a woman. She should get the whole my-breasts-equal-my-self-worth thing I’ve got going on here. Can’t she see I’m not holding back? I knew she wouldn’t get it. They never do.

  “Look, Savannah, you may not know this because you’re young, but there are a lot of women who have contrasting breasts and nipples.”

  “But not you,” I challenge.

  “Me included.”

  “Ha, right!”

  “It’s true,” she says, her eyes full of understanding, and sympathy.

  I can’t help but shift in my chair. “If you’ve got uneven nipples, then I’ve got a dick and three big balls.” She laughs. But she doesn’t recant her statement. “Wait a minute,” I say. “Are you for real?”

  She starts to unbutton her blouse, and I start to sweat. I expected her to brush me off as being difficult and rude, but now she’s really doing it.

  Could she really be telling me the truth?

  “I’m prepared to show you if you don’t believe me,” she says, her fingers pausing over the third button down. “All I need is your consent.”

  “This is you establishing trust, right?”

  “No, this is me saying I understand from a personal perspective.”

  “Fine, I believe you,” I say, the words rushing forward. “You understand.”

  “Yes, but do you really?”

  “Maybe,” I say, gulping, looking at her super sexy bra and her pushed-together cleavage. Two things I’ll never have. “I don’t know. You have my consent, I guess.”

  She undoes three more buttons, reaches behind her to undo her bra and I stop her. I can’t have her do this. If she wants me to trust her, and not just use her to get back at Margaret, then maybe I will.

  “I believe you. Seriously, I don’t want to see your boobs.”

  She pauses, looks at me. She’s dead serious.

  “Is it possible,” she asks, buttoning back up, “that those people you perceive as being perfect, or at the very least more attractive than you, have flaws of their own? Things they think define them?”

  “Even if one of your nipples is the size of a dime and the other is a silver dollar, your breasts would still be better than mine. Plus you have the whole package and I’m just rolled beef in a cotton midi slip dress.”

  “First off, don’t do that in here, and second, I paid a lot of money for my implants,” she says. “They should look amazing.”

  I can’t believe she’s telling me these things, but for whatever reason, it’s making me trust her a little more. And how she’s not taking my crap at all?—I think I might like her.

  “My father won’t let me get implants until I’m of age.”

  “Would that fix you inside?” she asks.

  I have to think about this for a second. “Probably not.”

  “So it’s more than just a physical thing?”

  “Margaret is beautiful, and the paparazzi loves her, but they use me against her. Margaret says it’s their way of keeping her from being too perfect.”

  “And is she right?”

  Sadly, she is.

  “Yes.”

  “The quickest way to unhappiness is to become obsessed with all the little things you can’t change. You can’t change your body, right?” I shrug my shoulders, but I’m paying attention. “And your mother won’t denigrate her body to suit yours, right?”

  “Nope,” I sa
y with a half-snort at the idea of it.

  “So understand this is you having your own unique set of issues. If you can’t change it, move on.”

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  “Of course it is, but you won’t even try, will you?”

  “Probably not,” I admit.

  “You said it’s easier said than done. Is it because I’m good looking and successful and in most cases—whatever I say—it’s more right than what you’re thinking?”

  OMG. She’s right. I just sit here, silenced, paying attention.

  “When your parents hooked up, when they made you, was that something you could control?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t shove yourself back up into your mother’s womb and hit the reset button, right?”

  “That’s a nasty visual,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “It’s still true, though.”

  “Yes.”

  “So do you want to get on with your life, or do you want to stay stuck in your depression?”

  “Do I really need to answer that?”

  “Did you try to cut off your ear?” she asks, the first signs of compassion reaching her voice.

  “You know I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does anyone try to cut off their ear?”

  She just sits there, eyes on me, mouth completely shut, waiting…

  I remember Margaret saying I should be honest when she knew I wouldn’t. Before I started this, I remember thinking I’d do something she wouldn’t expect of me. If the therapist says I’m perfectly healthy, then maybe Margaret will finally understand she’s the problem.

  “The mix of drugs was an issue. It made me feel psychotic.”

  “Your mother left me a list of the drugs you’re on.”

  “How does that help anyone?” I ask.

  “Why won’t you try to help yourself?” she asks.

  Being perfectly blunt, being one hundred percent honest, I say, “I like my depression a little bit. It’s all I have.”

  3

  When I admit to liking my depression, she stares at me, like she can’t believe what she heard. This, my most honest admission. Um, can I please get a blue ribbon or something here? I really feel like I’m taking first place in the “best patient ever” contest.