Bend

by K. Bromberg

  Everyone concurred except me. I couldn’t bear another minute. I didn’t know why.

  “Nice and quiet here,” I said.

  “Christmas,” Karen said. “Everyone gets sprung for a couple of days. Except I don’t want to go home to look at the buffet. Gross. After New Year’s, there’ll be a line for the tri-tip.”

  Too-Young shook his head. Curly Hair laughed. Warren. That was his name. Warren Chilton, son of the actor.

  “I’m going inside,” I said. “Call me when we’re all out of here.”

  There was agreement, but no discussion about whether or not I would serve time, even though my situation must have been public knowledge. People like us didn’t serve time. Even the suggestion meant that my lawyer wasn’t connected well enough.

  I wasn’t hungry, so I drifted into the common room, where the TV screen showed nature in all its high-definition glory. It was compelling in its way. I sat on the grey leather couch and watched, staring at daisies fluttering in the breeze. I felt too weak for a walk. Frances had given me a cocktail of pills for the headache, some of which I recognized, and they dulled the pain and the brain.

  I’d stabbed Deacon. What would make me do such a thing? What could he have done? Beat me? I laughed to myself, because beat me was what he did on any given day. I rubbed my eyes as if I wanted to erase the lids and see what I’d done.

  My body tipped a quarter of a degree when someone sat next to me. I glanced toward my right. He had short-cropped hair and pink lips, and he smiled and blinked slowly. I could fuck him. No reason not to, besides the no touching rule and Deacon, who wasn’t dead. I’d betrayed him enough already.

  “Bellis perennis,” he said, tilting his head toward the nature show. “Common daisy, often confused with their more tightly petaled family members, Arctotis. You’re Fiona Drazen, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jack Kent. Carlton Prep. I was a year below you. You were a celebrity even then. What are you in for?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer before a nurse came close, and Jack pointed at the TV.

  “Arctotis stoechadifolia, nearly extinct in its native South Africa, and now a weed pest in Southern California,” he said.

  “Attempted murder,” I said when the nurse passed, “but I don’t remember it.”

  “Car?”

  “Knife.”

  “Wow. Trust you to do it big.”

  I wished I remembered this guy half as much as he remembered me.

  “No, wait. I remember you,” I said. “Nerd.”

  “Not totally unfuckable, I think. But yeah.”

  “What are you in for?”

  “Being an embarrassment, unofficially. But officially, bipolar disorder.”

  “Picked up in a manic phase?” I asked.

  “Totes manic. I came up with a new way to process ricinus communis in a hundred forty-seven steps. No one in their right mind could get past the seventy-fifth.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because I could. And the high? Woke out of it with my underwear full of jizz.”

  I nodded. I knew how he felt.

  “You voluntary?” he asked.

  I shook my head. The flowers changed from yellow to pink.

  “Fifty-one-fiftied?”

  “Yeah. I supposedly tried to stab a cop. Resisted arrest. Turned the knife on myself. Yada yada. I’m screwed.”

  “Who’s your psych?” he asked.

  “Chapman.”

  Jack puffed out his cheeks and released slowly, an expression of overwhelming sympathy.

  “What?”

  “Hardass.”

  “Really? Seems nice enough.”

  He shifted on the couch until he faced me, one leg bent on the cushions, the other with toes tensed against the floor. “It’s his job to be nice. Listen. Do you want out or in?”

  “Out, of course. What person in their right mind would want to stay here?”

  “The question kind of answers itself. But if you want out, you have to do it in the seventy-two-hour window, six therapy sessions, or shit gets indefinite. Like, they keep you in thirty-day increments and revisit, and it gets less and less likely you’ll get out unless your parents start making a stink. In my case, they won’t, so I can stay as long as I want.”

  He didn’t look at me for the last sentence, as if he couldn’t bear the shame. I didn’t blame him. I’d be ashamed too, if I had any.

  “I’ll convince him I’m sane.”

  Which meant I’d face charges. If I convinced him I was nuts, I’d be stuck in Westonwood with their no touching rule and scheduled meals. If I faced charges, would I get to see Deacon? Or would I just be out and arrested and as separate from him as I was in the hospital? Only he knew what happened. Only he could say what I’d done and hadn’t done.

  Staying in, staring at a flat screen of flowers with bars on the windows between Deacon and me, wasn’t going to cut it. I had to take my chances with the real world, which meant no more tantrums. No more attacks on the doctor or anyone else. For the next two days, I would be a model citizen.

  six.

  “How was your morning?” Doctor Chapman—no, Elliot—asked. He had a tiny scratch on his left eyelid. Otherwise, he looked no worse for the wear.

  “Fine,” I said. “Sorry about attacking you. I’m not usually like that.”

  “You’re repressing a slew of emotions and memories. Stuff can only stay in lockdown so long.”

  “Speaking of lockdown…” I curled my lip to the side. Elliot’s hands were folded in front of him, and his attention was fully on me. I didn’t know if anyone outside of Deacon had ever paid me such razor-sharp attention. “Is it even legal to have solitary confinement in a hospital?”

  “I told Frances you needed an hour of restraints so you didn’t hurt yourself. I didn’t know how the tranq would affect you. Where did you get the idea of solitary?”

  “She mentioned it. Like a threat. Not a fan of threats.”

  “What about the thought of it scares you?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say I was scared.”

  “Okay. Why bring it up? I’m sure she told you plenty of rules. Why does that stick out?”

  “Because it’s a legal issue.”

  “Is it?”

  “According to Amnesty International and a whole bunch of entities who think it’s wrong.”

  “We’re a private institution serving a specific segment of society. We get some leeway,” he said.

  “Meaning there’s enough money getting passed around that you can do what you want.”

  “Money flows both ways. But if you need reassurances, and you might, it’s not something I’d sign off on for you.” He watched me, reading me, observing me like a thing in a cage.

  I wiggled in my seat, as if that would throw him off, but it didn’t. The grip of his gaze only got tighter.

  “You’re making me uncomfortable,” I said.

  “You’re not here to be comfortable.”

  How many times had Deacon said that when the backs of my knees bordered my face? Or when I didn’t sit right at breakfast and he straightened me out?

  “I hear you’re a hardass,” I said.

  “As long as you contribute to your treatment, you’ll have nothing negative to say about me. If you shut down or fail to participate fully, I will take note.”

  “That’s hardassy.”

  He smiled, and his face curved from chin to forehead. Somehow, those two words had either delighted him or thwarted his expectations. I didn’t know how to respond to his smile except to fidget and suppress my own grin.

  “It’s the world outside your bubble, Fiona. What you call hardass, other people call real.”

  “Where are you from, Doctor?”

  “Elliot.”

  “Elliot. Tough Loveland? Toobad City? A mile outside Hardscrabble?”

  “Menlo Park.”

  “Oh, sweet. Tech geek?” I asked.

  “My dad actually knows h
ow a microchip works. It’s fascinating and utterly boring at the same time. I ran as fast as I could.”

  “To Los Angeles.”

  I could imagine him on the train in the middle of the night, running from a world where people found practical applications for calculus. He’d fail as a writer/actor/musician and put himself through school as a therapist, finding a hidden talent, yet always yearning to spend his nights with that one creative task that fulfilled him.

  “Pasadena,” he said.

  “What’s in Pasadena?”

  “I went to school there. Let’s get back to you.”

  He was evading. It had been all over his face since he mentioned the city where his school was. Would he lie? Were therapists allowed to do that? I didn’t know if making our session about him would hurt my chances of release, but I wanted him to know if I could hold a conversation, act sane, function.

  “Okay. Back to me,” I said. “I’ve been to Pasadena. I was screwing a skate kid who ollied the six sets at Cal Arts. Did we meet then?”

  “No.”

  “Pepperdine?”

  “No.”

  “Four Twenty College?” I mentioned the name of the pot school, where one could learn how to deal marijuana legally, with a lilt in my voice.

  He took a deep breath then, as if resigned, said, “Fuller.”

  “Fuller? That’s a seminary.”

  “That a problem for you?”

  “Did my father pick you personally?”

  Elliot laughed again, rubbing the arm of his chair. “No. At least, I don’t think so. But I’m aware that your family is, if not religious, Catholic in a way that’s in the blood. I have no idea where you stand on it.”

  “I’m a C and E.” I knew he’d know the term for Christmas and Easter Catholics.

  “Why bother?”

  “It’s nice to touch base twice a year. Jump the hoops. You know, show face. So you’re a priest? Or did you just say no to celibacy?”

  “I’m Episcopalian, first off, so celibacy isn’t on the table. And I just haven’t been ordained.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is really all going to be about me, isn’t it?” he said.

  “If you tell me why you’re not ordained, I’ll tell you something dirty I did.”

  I felt the weight of my mistake instantly.

  He got dead serious. “I know that’s how you’re used to being valued, but that’s not what you’re here for.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It came out before I thought about it.”

  “That’s allowed. There was some discussion with the board about whether or not you should have a male therapist, but from what we could understand, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “So I got the hardass, unordained priest who knows I’m bisexual.”

  “You got the guy with the MDiv and PsyD who spent three years in a hospital chaplaincy in Compton. After that, I go where I’ll do the most good, not where I get the most authority.”

  “Ah. Compton. You must have seen some bad shit.”

  “Very bad shit.”

  “Then why are you at the rich kids’ retreat?”

  “I can do good here as well as there.” He wasn’t thrown. Not an inch. I respected that.

  “I need you to do some good for me,” I said, feeling suddenly less vulnerable. “I want to go home.”

  “To Maundy Street?”

  Trick question? Maybe. Deacon was on that private road. Second house to the right. First house on the right, his shibari students. Only house on the left was where the parties were. Where the art was made. Where I surrendered to whomever my master allowed, and my hunger was sated for days at a time.

  “I figure I’ll stay with my parents for a few weeks, then decide. I mean, unless the prosecutor decides for me.”

  “Will you try to see Deacon?”

  “Why?”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “I don’t know if it’s safe for you.”

  How much longer was this session? Because it would take me that long to describe how fucking off base he was. Despite needing to get the fuck out of Westonwood, despite wanting to appear sane and stable, I couldn’t for the life of me let Elliot Chapman misunderstand my lover.

  “I’m more afraid of you than I am of Deacon,” I said. “I’m more afraid of this chair. The sky would fall before he’d hurt me more than I could take. He is the only man, the only person in the world who has made me safe. And I mean, not safe from some boogeyman or earthquakes or random shit happening. I mean I had a place. I had things I had to do. I had rules. He was in control, and the only time things got fucked up was when I disobeyed him because I just had to fly off the fucking handle. And before you ask, and you will, he tied me up good. He gagged me and hit me. He made me cry a hundred times, and he wiped my tears and I thanked him for breaking me. I. Thanked. Him.”

  I expected my speech to disgust him, to give him cause to judge me, call me sick and out of control. Instead, he waited, expressionless.

  “Do you want to remember what happened?” he finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You might not be ready to remember.”

  “I don’t feel right in my head. There are black spaces where feelings should be. Like someone came and erased stuff. I don’t know if it was the drugs or the Librium you people put me on or what. I can’t put stuff together. It’s like I have the horse and I can see the track, but she’s bucking, and the tack’s in pieces all over the barn. Does that make sense?”

  He sat back, putting an ankle on a knee, elbows on the arms of the chair. He rubbed his lip with his middle finger. “Have you ever been hypnotized?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Best case scenario, you recall enough to release some of the pain you’re in. Worst case scenario, you create a false memory that includes a unicorn and Jim Morrison in drag.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. That was the most ridiculous thing, and anything more ridiculous than what was actually happening deserved a laugh.

  “Do I have to sit on the couch?” I indicated the long, uncomfortable divan behind me.

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Come on,” he said, standing. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Are you going to make me cluck like a chicken?”

  “It’s just a relaxation technique. No more.”

  I took three steps to cross the room and sat on the couch.

  He stood over me. “Lie back.”

  I looked up at him, a twisted smile on my face. I could fuck him. It should have occurred to me sooner. I was suddenly ready for sex, all tingling skin and hyper aware. I could sense his cock, its taste, its scent, its pink skin sliding against the silk of my thigh as it found its way home. It would feel so good, and if anyone needed to feel good, it was me.

  “Lie back,” he said again with a voice so devoid of desire, my own need collapsed.

  I put my feet up and my head back. He sat next to me on the edge of the couch.

  “I want you to recall the last time you were at the stables, okay?” He held up a pen, and I watched the angles of his fingers on the instrument. He didn’t have a wedding ring. “Now focus on the tip of the pen.” He moved the pen back and forth, and I fell into the rhythm of his breathing. His voice, a velvet mask of gentleness, said, “I’m going to count backward from five.”

  ***

  I feel a pressure on my hand. It’s Deacon, slipping his hand into mine. The gesture, in its adolescent simplicity, creates a rush of emotions I can’t hold back. I run out to the empty patio. There are candles everywhere from the cocktail hour, still flickering their last heated breaths. I’ve been without him for a week while he was on assignment, and now that he’s back, he’s a scary jar of emotion with a poorly threaded lid.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, closing the glass door behind him.

  “I’m fine, it’s just…” I’m not good at expressing myself unless
I’m angry, and I’m not angry. I’m just about everything else.

  He takes me by the waist with his right arm. He’s so tall, so handsome. His body moves like a leopard on the African plain. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  He smirks. He knows I’m not serious. He knows I’m broaching painful subjects by running away first.

  “I’ll be more than happy to blindfold you.” He brushes his lips on my cheek. “But my eyes stay open. I want to see you beg for me later.”

  “I miss you when you’re gone,” I say. “I can’t take it.”

  “Ten years ago, I’d have been gone for six months at a stretch.”

  When he says things like that, he reminds me of our age difference. Ten years ago, I was thirteen and he was almost thirty. I’ve never asked him what he sees in someone so young, because that would imply we have something more than a semi-casual open-hot-regular-fuck.

  “Deacon, I’m sorry. I think now is a bad time, with everyone here.” I push him off me and turn away from the strip of twinkling lights that disappears into the black of the sea. “We can talk later.” I collect myself to pull him back to the glass doors.

  I want to do a hundred crazy things. I want to grab a champagne bottle and down it. I want to stand on the railing and play at falling into the canyon. I want to get into my car and crash the gates. But he inspires me to be better than my impulses, and that’s why I need him.

  He yanks me back. “We talk now.”

  “You have guests.”

  “They don’t need me. I can take you to the studio right now and knot you up and they’d be fine.” His face gets hard. He becomes the man who spent years photographing the horror of central Africa, who took pictures and walked away. The man kept behind a rock for three months while he was negotiated out. That man, like a real face behind a mask, or a mask on real face, I can’t disobey. “Talk,”

  He doesn’t have to threaten me. There’s not a consequence in the world that would be stronger than his simple command. I don’t fear him. He makes me strong. He makes me dare.

  “I’m not one of those girls who’s going to ask you where we are in a relationship,” I say. “Because I’m not stupid. What we have is exactly what I want. I have you when you’re here, which is most of the time. But if I want to fuck someone else, I just do it, no questions asked.”