Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  But it had been years since I’d sparred with a head doctor, and I didn’t want to do it again. I remember struggling to offer just enough information and emotional feedback to fool them into thinking I was normal and not a barely functioning mess.

  “Phin and I are seeing one,” I lied. “A marriage counsellor. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “We’re going through a rough patch.”

  Mom tsked me. “How did it happen that you rose to the rank of Lieutenant when you’re such a terrible liar?”

  “I’m a good liar,” I lied.

  “That’s a lie. You’re awful at it. And you’re seeing Dr. Agmont.”

  I changed tactics. “I don’t like him.”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t want to ping Mom’s bullshit detector, so I opted for truth. “He’s too handsome.”

  Dr. Agmont had the dark, chiseled good looks of a cover model for Italian GQ. And to make it worse, he knew how to dress. My husband, for all of his charisma, dressed like a Levi’s commercial from 1988. I once bought Phin an Armani jacket, and he looked miserable as a dog in a sweater. I exchanged it for a leather bomber and a subscription to Beef Jerky of the Month, and that suited him fine. Then I spent the leftover money on a pair of Isabel Marant ankle booties that I can’t wear anymore because; crippled.

  “What does that have to do with him being a good doctor?”

  “I don’t like being around him. He makes me feel inadequate.”

  “He’s young.”

  “That’s another problem. He’s too young to teach me anything about myself.”

  “Jung. As in Carl Jung. He can get to the root of your core complex.”

  “I don’t have a core complex.”

  “You have an inferiority complex, and your ego is bifurcated between caregiver and hero because of your animus issues.”

  “I have no idea what you just said. And neither do you.”

  “It means you feel bad about yourself for a lot of reasons.”

  Couldn’t argue with that. “You really like this doctor.”

  “He looks like Michelangelo’s David, but with a bigger bulge.”

  I folded my arms across my chest, the universal symbol of defiance. “I’m not going.”

  “You’re going.”

  “You can’t make me go.”

  She made me go. Physically made me, pushing me through the high winds—which were now complimented by a fierce drizzle that stung like microscopic wasps—over to Building A.

  “Just want you to know I’m calling a lawyer to be emancipated from you,” I told her after we got inside.

  Mom didn’t answer. I turned to her, and she looked like a walking corpse.

  “You okay?”

  “Just cold, and a little unsteady.”

  “I’m calling a nurse.” I began to wheel away, and she pulled my brake lever.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Mom…”

  “I’m fine, Jacqueline. Go to your appointment.”

  My mother was the strongest person I ever met, and when we locked eyes the strength was still there.

  “I’m not ready for this,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “It’s just a little psychotherapy.”

  “Not that. This. Being responsible for my elderly mother.”

  Mom smiled kindly. “We’re not there yet. I plan on being around to see Sam grow up.” She placed her hand on my damp hair. “And to see you walk again. Meet with Dr. Agmont. Call me when you’re done.”

  I wanted to say something, but my words were the truest I’d ever spoken. I wasn’t even semi-competent at being a parent to Sam. If something went wrong with Mom, I didn’t have the strength to deal with that.

  Let alone be responsible for her.

  “Can you just talk to a nurse? You don’t look good.”

  “That’s not what Mr. Feinstein said.”

  “I’m serious, Mom. See a nurse.”

  “I promise. Give Dr. Agmont a big, sloppy kiss from me.”

  When I took the elevator to A21 I did not give Dr. Agmont a big, sloppy kiss. My resentment at being there had brewed to the point of boiling over, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk to a PhD who looked like a swimsuit model.

  When I wheeled into his office, Dr. Agmont was hanging a framed Rorschach inkblot on the wall. He turned and smiled at me, his teeth so white and straight and perfect that he looked like a real-life toothpaste ad.

  “Good morning, Jill. I’m adding some decoration to the office. What do you think?”

  “Are you asking me what I think of decoration, or what I think the inkblot looks like?”

  “Both.”

  “I think decoration is a way to distract from the mundane, and I think the inkblot resembles a woman in a wheelchair strangling her mother.”

  Dr. Agmont squinted at the picture. “Most people say butterfly or jazz hands. But I think I can see it. A concerned mother, forcing her wounded healer daughter to go to counselling.”

  He sat in his desk chair, crossing his legs, again looking like he was ready for the photographer to start snapping away. His face, his body, his clothing; all impeccable.

  I hated him.

  Not just because he was prettier than me. But because I had an immediate anti-chemistry with people who had their shit together, and my visceral impression of Dr. Agmont was that he did everything perfectly. I pictured an Ivy League school, maybe with a tennis scholarship, a supermodel wife who also ran her own company, and on weekends they ran couples’ marathons to benefit kids with cancer.

  Not my kind of people. I liked mine damaged and self-loathing.

  We played the not talking game for twenty long seconds, and I broke first.

  “So I’m a wounded healer?”

  “Your mother told me you teach gun safety classes to residents, when you yourself were injured by a firearm. The wounded healer is an archetype. By trying to help others, you are in fact trying to help yourself.”

  I folded my arms across my chest, then unfolded them because; defensive. “My mother says I’m doing it to feel useful.”

  “You could feel useful by volunteering at a soup kitchen. Or teaching origami. You’re teaching the very skills that injured you, physically, mentally, and emotionally.”

  “Physician, heal thyself.”

  “Am I being inaccurate?”

  Thunder cracked outside the window, loud enough to make me flinch. Dr. Sexy Smartypants raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever been diagnosed with PTSD, Jill?”

  “No. Have you ever been shot, Doc?”

  “I haven’t. I can’t even imagine the trauma. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  He was quiet. I was quiet. A whole lot of quiet went on for about a minute.

  “Ever been in a car accident?” I asked, mostly because I was growing uncomfortable at him staring at me.

  “Not anything serious. My worst injury was breaking a leg.”

  “Bad break?” I’d much rather ask questions than answer them.

  “They had to carry me down the Southwest face to base camp. Compound fracture, laid me up for two months. Still have eight screws in my femur.”

  “Mountain climbing?”

  He nodded.

  “Which mountain?”

  “Everest.”

  Of course it was Mt. Everest.

  “Did you reach the summit?” I asked, hoping he didn’t.

  He gestured with his perfect cleft chin, and I checked out the wall behind me.

  Blown-up pic of Dr. Agmont, on top of Mt. Everest, smiling wide. Under his diplomas from Yale and Princeton, and a picture of the Dalai Lama embracing him.

  What a dick.

  “So getting shot is like being in a bad car accident?”

  Sort of. “The trauma is there. The way time slows down. The pain. The memory that won’t go away. But car accidents usually happen out of nowhere. They blinds
ide you. Imagine a car accident where the driver is trying to hit you. Coming at you at ninety miles an hour. And the only way to survive is to hit them first. And even if you do…”

  I shrugged, gesturing at my useless legs.

  “Do you think about it a lot? Being shot?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “How about nightmares?”

  “I take Ambien. That pretty much knocks me out. No dreams, so nothing to psychoanalyze there.”

  I studied the inkblot on the wall again. I didn’t see me and my mother anymore. I saw me pushing a smarmy psychiatrist off a mountainside.

  “Why do you think your mother wanted you to come see me?”

  “Because I’m an unhappy bitch.”

  “Do you want to be happy?”

  “What I want,” I said, “is to not be in a wheelchair.”

  “It’s common for people who are injured to resent life.”

  “Did you resent life, when the Sherpas were carrying you down Mt. Everest?”

  He gave me what he thought was a disapproving look, but all the handsome bastard did was smolder.

  “Jill, for psychotherapy to work, the work has to be on you. If you don’t want to be here, there’s nothing I can do to assist the healing process.”

  I crossed and uncrossed my arms again. “I need my T11 vertebra healed. Not my psyche.”

  “There’s a mind-body connection. A positive mental outlook can speed up healing time. Conversely, a negative attitude can delay recovery.”

  He wants to go there?

  Fine. I’ll go there.

  “I can’t walk. My husband is probably cheating on me because the last time we had sex—which was months ago—I lost control of my bladder and pissed all over the bed, and him. I don’t think we have any money to continue my rehab much longer, because my husband—a career criminal—keeps his finances separate from mine, hiding cash in the garage in the rafters where I can’t reach. And because of my old job, there is at least one, possibly several, serial killers actively looking for me. So explain what sort of visualization exercises I can do to improve my mental outlook.”

  He kept his face neutral. “How is your relationship with your daughter?”

  “We used to play tag, hide and seek, go to the beach, swim in the pool. Now our relationship is beating up each other in videogames and me trying not to cry around her because then she starts crying.”

  He crossed his legs and made a tent with his fingers. A goddamn tent with his fingers. Who does that?

  “Videogames can be a healthy, bonding experience. Did you know the GameMaster 2 is being released tomorrow?”

  “I’ll ask my criminal husband if he has any money left over from his bank jobs.”

  Dr. Agmont’s thoughtful expression dimmed a little. Score one point for me.

  “How about your squad?”

  “My squad?”

  “Your fam. Your posse. Your friends.”

  Jesus, was I the only one who didn’t speak plural?

  “I’ve been out of touch for a while.”

  “Why is that? When you’re at your lowest, that’s when you need those who love you.”

  “What’s to love, Doc? I’m a shell of who I used to be. Crippled. Scared. Helpless. I can’t keep up a relationship with the man I cherish and live with. How am I supposed to stay connected with my out-of-state friends?”

  “Are you on social media? Skype? Facetime? Snapchat? How about a good, old-fashioned phone call? There are lots of ways to connect.”

  I wanted to connect. My fist and his nose.

  I hated that he was smart and good looking and climbed Everest and was trying to help me.

  I also hated that he was probably right. My mental outlook was shitty, and reaching out to my squad was a no-brainer.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I don’t want to be here.”

  “I won’t keep you. And if you change your mind, my door is always open. But I’d like you to do something for me.”

  If he said he wanted me to smile, I would have actually smacked him. But instead he said, “Reach out to your friends. I’m betting they need you.”

  I snorted. “Need me? I can’t even help myself. How am I supposed to help them?”

  “Wounded healer, remember?” He smiled. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, Jill.”

  He held out his hand to shake. When I took it, I caught a whiff of sandalwood.

  Of course he smelled like sandalwood. I bet when this guy took a dump, it smelled like hot cocoa.

  Nothing made you feel worse about yourself than being around someone better than you. I wondered how he had any clients at all.

  Oh, right. He worked in a retirement home. His patients had no other choice.

  So why the hell did he work in a retirement home?

  I took my hand back and asked, “Hey, Doc, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you choose to practice here? I would have figured you for New York or LA.”

  “The elderly have one of the highest rates of depression in the country, and they are the least likely age group to seek treatment. I went where I thought I could do the most good.”

  I smiled politely at the sanctimonious jerk, then wheeled out of there.

  Mt. Everest.

  Helping old people.

  Smelling great.

  Telling me shit I needed to hear.

  I really hated him.

  Almost as much as I hated myself.

  “Remember the first rule of gunfighting… have a gun.”

  JEFF COOPER

  “With the right to bear arms comes a great responsibility to use caution and common sense on handgun purchases.”

  RONALD REAGAN

  GAFF

  So who is it?” XCQ asked as we weaved through the peeps.

  “Wha?” I didn’t understand the question.

  “You’re obviously concerned about self-defense, and in this crazy world, that concern is valid. So who you worried about? Who you wanna protect yourself against? Islam extremists? Declaring jihad on America. Jews? Control the banks, the media, and Hollywood. Mexicans? Coming here illegally, taking our jobs. Blacks? Don’t know their place. Libtards? Special snowflakes trying to take away our God given right to bear arms. Teachers? Poisoning the youth of America with their standardized bullshit. Co-workers? Those assholes don’t understand anything, and don’t get me started on bosses. Queers? It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. Those pro-choice dickheads? Killing innocent babies, worst form of birth control ever. Catholics? Got a Pope protecting child molesters, but still wants to lecture us about sin. Cops? Bullies with badges. Wall Street? Took our jobs, ruined our future. Who is it? Who gets under your skin?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t care about any of that.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t care what any of them do.”

  “What do you care about?”

  The highest body count possible. But I wasn’t going to talk about that.

  “You got a manifesto?” he asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “You know. Like a mission statement. Writing down all your thoughts about all the things that piss you off.”

  “Like a diary?”

  “More like a declaration. Something you share with the world.”

  “I don’t want to share anything with the world.”

  I want to blow it the eff up.

  “Cool. Not trying to pry or nothing. Just making conversation.”

  “So who gets under your skin?” I didn’t care, but figured we were doing give and take. One of my shrinks said that’s how people communicate. Answer a question, ask a question. Made no sense to me, but I wanted a laser sight.

  “The anti-gun movement gets under my skin. Bunch of whiny little babies trying to take away our Constitutional rights.”

  “I thought you’d like those guys.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “Every time they try to make a new law regulating guns, don’t gun sales
go up?”

  XCQ stopped and stared @ me. “You with the ATF?”

  “What?”

  “This some kind of entrapment sting? You got a wire on?”

  ATF? WTF was this jag talking about?

  “I thought you were showing me laser dots,” I said.

  He stared @ me a moment longer, then nodded. “Right. Sorry. I get paranoid sometimes. Angry. You ever get paranoid and angry?”

  Bruh, you have no idea.

  “Dots?” I reminded him. People were so extra.

  “Right. Dots. My guy is just a few booths over.”

  The guy he knew rocked dreads and wore green Air Jordans that matched his dashiki.

  “What kind of rail?” he asked.

  “Picatinny,” XCQ answered. “XCQ-TER9.”

  “Red or green, mon?”

  I looked @ XCQ.

  “The tritium sights on your weapon are green. The human eye detects green better than red. And if your target is already bleeding, a red dot might get lost.”

  “Green,” I told the dread guy.

  My cost: $50. The box had a familiar logo on it.

  Good Ole Boy. Again.

  I wondered if XCQ’s side bitch was GOB.

  #Kickbacks.

  Next we looked for silencers, er, compensators. The gun show was starting to burn me out. Too much noise, too many people, too many things moving and talking, too distracting. I must have been blinking more than usual, bcuz as we weaved through the endless piles of booths and tables and peeps, XCQ stopped to stare @ me.

  “You cool?”

  “Totes.”

  He nodded, and we found the booth he was looking for. He talked to the seller, but I wasn’t really paying attention, trying to tune out all the noise around me. The dude XCQ negotiated with had a mustache, and I focused on his mouth until I could zoom in on what he was saying.

  “…no such thing as a real silencer. A bullet is a controlled explosion. Can’t silence an explosion. But a suppressor can reduce the sound, especially for subsonic ammo. Even better when wet. This model compensates for tip up, mitigating recoil and helping you stay on target. Besides muzzle break capabilities, it has a flash hider, so you won’t give away your position at night.”

  I understood some of that, but one part really confused me. “Better when wet?”

  “It can fire dry and reduce the noise. But if you use an ablative media, it really cuts down on the sound.”