Lost: A Counsel Novella

by Shenda Paul

  “Sure, she did. Are we done for the day?” I ask, trying to keep my sarcasm in check because if Ariane tells Mom I’m not cooperating, I could be stuck in this hell called therapy forever. More than that, though, I know how much getting a bad report would hurt Mom; and I don’t want that because I’d do almost anything for my mother. Well, this mother because as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t do anything for the other.

  In an earlier session, Ariane asked why I never refer to Eleanor as ‘Mom’ or even ‘mother’. “Why do you always call your biological mother Eleanor or simply her in that dismissive tone?” I think her exact words were. I shrugged, not wanting to discuss my feelings. Ariane told me, then, that I was emotionally distancing myself, that it was my way of denying my hurt and anger. She said it was a way for me to deny that I loved Eleanor, that I love her, and that she’d loved me. After that, I refused to discuss her or anything relating to my time with her again.

  Today, after a month of avoidance, of feeling angry and, yes, I admit, resentful at her questioning, Ariane’s probing proved too much. The memories refused to be ignored and without meaning to I found myself talking.

  In each session leading up to this point, I’d felt like she’d deliberately been picking at old wounds just to see them bleed again, and my irritation had progressively increased. But her methods, which, by the way, I still think stinks, have worked just as she must have known they would. She’s a psychologist, like Mom, and if I’m to believe Mom, one of the best.

  Mom once called Ariane the earth mother type, and I suppose she’s right because beneath the flowing skirts, multiple rings, and dangly earrings she is motherly. But don’t be fooled, like I’d stupidly been at first, by her soft smile and friendly approach. She’s like a terrier with a bone, gnawing away, relentless in her determination to make you talk about shit you’d rather forget.

  Fight all you like; she just keeps coming back, sitting there, observing your every reaction, asking question after damned question. It doesn’t matter if you curse or walk out, the next time, she asks the same thing. She never quits until she gets an answer.

  Also like Mom, Ariane has a caring nature that hides an unstoppable resolve. It’s something to do with the jobs they do, I suppose, or maybe people like them gravitate to work like theirs. Social workers and therapists must need those characteristics to deal with the shit people like me dish up to them every day.

  “Yes, Adam, we’re done for today,” Ariane says. “It was a good start—finally. We’ll revisit this conversation next week,” she adds with a note of warning. I nod, not willing to argue right now. I just want to get the hell out of here.

  Cait’s watching T.V. when I get home. “How was it?” she asks when I flop down on the sofa next to her.

  “Fine,” I say, reaching for the remote, but she brushes my hand aside.

  “Don’t lie; you’re upset,” she insists.

  I’m okay,” I sigh, knowing just how useless any attempt to resist her probing would be. “Ariane just pissed me off as usual. She got me to talk about Eleanor.”

  “How did you feel about that?” she asks. It’s something I’d expect Mom to say. I sometimes wonder if Cait’s impairment makes her more sensitive to things.

  “Shitty. I hate talking about her, and I hated it even more that Ariane tried to convince me she loved me. That’s just bullshit—how the hell would she know?” I look away, feeling myself get emotional all over again.

  “Hey!” Cait grabs my chin, forcing me to look at her. “Then tell her; she could help. ”

  “She can’t. No one can make it better, Caitlin. Anyway, it’s all in the past. I don’t want to think about it, and I sure as shit don’t want to talk about it, especially to some stranger. Just drop the subject, okay?” Angry, I raise my voice, and she scowls at me.

  “What are you two shouting about?” Mom demands as she walks in.

  “Adam’s being pig-headed like always,” Cait says, and Mom raises her eyebrows at me.

  “It’s nothing. Cait’s being a pushy busybody like always.” I glare at her, warning her not to say anything more.

  She waits until Mom turns away before raising her middle finger. Yes, flipping someone the bird is the same in sign language as Cait and I discovered when we decided to learn ASL curse words—without our parents’ knowledge, of course.

  I retaliate by mouthing ‘bitch’, but Mom catches me. “Adam, please don’t use that word, especially, when speaking to or about your sister!”

  “You didn’t see what she said,” I grumble. Mom turns to Cait, who stares back angelically. “What?” she asks.

  “I’m watching the pair of you,” Mom warns before going upstairs.

  It’s three weeks since Ariane first got me to talk about Eleanor. I turned up for my next therapy session as evasive and uncooperative as ever—as if that incident hadn’t happened—but she saw through my bullshit and, finally, running out of patience, called me out on it last week. “These sessions aren’t for my benefit, Adam, and you don’t have to work with me; but I’d be remiss in my duty if I failed to recommend that you continue to work with someone,” she said. And so, out of concern about my parents’ disappointment and faced with the potential of indefinite therapy, potentially with someone new, I opened up. I talked about how mad I still am about Eleanor’s choices, her death, and how much I hate Adam Winston, his money, and what it represents.

  When Ariane failed to convince me that Eleanor had loved me and that Winston had tried, if belatedly, to make amends for his behavior, she changed tack. She concentrated on helping me explore how I could resolve my feelings about Winston because I insisted that he was the reason for what she referred to as my ‘repressed anger’.

  I, of course, argued that there was nothing repressed about my feelings, that what I felt wasn’t merely anger. “I fucking hate him,” I said. Ariane ignored my outburst and, instead of discussing either Eleanor or Winston, she explored ways I could use my feelings—whatever they may be, she clarified before I could argue—as motivation to become the best man I could be. “A man nothing like your biological father,” she cunningly added.

  “You say the only positive thing you gained from what you’ve learned about your father and your dealings with his family is that the law can serve the less privileged in society? Tell me why you think that?” she presses, and then, as she always does, sits back, watches—and waits.

  I huff a frustrated breath because we’ve been over this point many times. I wish she’d just tell me what she thinks because as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, she has an opinion. But she won’t, and I know by now that it’s pointless avoiding the question.

  “Adam Winston was not my father; he was a sperm donor,” I correct her. “And yes, that’s the only positive thing that’s happened. Oh wait, that’s not true; I enjoyed visiting New York with my real Dad. But, you know what the most positive thing was? It was finding out that Adam Winston died.”

  “Adam, I know you don’t actually find enjoyment in someone’s death,” she says, not an admonishment, she’s stating a fact.

  “Okay, maybe I wasn’t happy that he died, but I was fucking ecstatic that I didn’t have to meet the coward.” She doesn’t bat an eyelid at my language, which tells me she’s determined not to get sidetracked.

  “Tell me again how you came to the realization about the law?” she asks, so I tell her how, weeks ago, we received a letter from Deborah, Winston’s widow, informing us of their intention to contest my inclusion in his will. I, of course, wanted Dad to write back to say they’re welcome to the money, but he told me he had no intention of relinquishing a cent of what he insists is my entitlement. He met with his lawyer, and together, they decided to respond by telling the Winstons that we welcomed their action. In turn, our letter said, we’d counterclaim for my rightful share of Winston’s nearly billion and a half dollar fortune.

  In the end, they didn’t contest the will. Instead, we received another letter demanding that we don’t
capitalize on the Winston name in any way and that we don’t publicly disclose my identity. Dad instructed his lawyer to inform them that their request had been unnecessary because we would never, under any circumstances, blemish the Thorne name by associating it with that of the Winstons. In turn, he demanded that they don’t reveal my connection to their family. We haven’t heard from them since.

  “When we got that first letter, and Dad refused to return the money, I thought, because they’re rich and powerful, they’d ride all over us,” I tell Ariane. “But Dad and his lawyer took them on and won. I liked that. I like that the law is based on fact, that our lawyer beat the big guns from New York. A good lawyer, no matter where he’s from, can prove the difference in someone getting justice or not.”

  Ariane’s mouth curves into a small, almost smug smile. “What? You think I’m spouting garbage,” I challenge.

  “Not at all. I’m amazed and pleased if you must know. Adam, that’s the first time you’ve shown excitement about anything other than your family. Don’t you see the possibilities?”

  “What possibilities?”

  “You expressed so much passion when talking about the way the law works, or should work. You could turn that interest into helping others, just as your dad’s lawyer did. Channel your anger and frustration into something productive rather than destructive because that’s all you’ve been doing until now. Don’t deny it!” she challenges when I’m about to protest.

  “You’re a brilliant student; you could get into almost any law school in the country if you put your mind to it. Just think about it, Adam,” she says, and then, when I don’t respond, announces that our time’s up.

  I stand, almost unconsciously, and unlike every time before, I feel reluctant to leave. Equally surprising is that I’m not seething with resentment. Instead, I find my mind spinning, thinking about the possibilities she’s presented.

  “You see it, don’t you?” Ariane’s eyes gleam as she too stands.

  “I do,” I say, giving her a smile, probably the first genuine one since meeting her

  Chapter Seven

  I thought about that conversation with Ariane for weeks, and the more time passed, the more the idea of becoming a lawyer excited me. I spent almost every waking hour thinking about and researching the areas of law practice. It didn’t take me long to decide that I wanted to become a prosecutor. To me, it just made sense; after all, what better way is there to ensure victims get justice than stop the criminals who harmed them?

  For the first time since starting therapy, I looked forward to my sessions. It was hardly surprising, given her occupation, that Ariane delved into my motivation for wanting to become a lawyer. Without even realizing it, I found myself, also for the first time, openly talking about how witnessing Eleanor prostitute herself, and then turn to drugs had made me feel. “Angry—helpless,” I said.

  “So you felt like a victim?” Ariane asked, and my first response had, predictably, been, “No, I was just mad.”

  “You just said you felt helpless, Adam,” she pointed out, and I reluctantly conceded that I had felt that way. “Did you think Eleanor was helpless?” she asked.

  “When they hurt her, yes; but she didn’t have to let them in,” I argued, conveniently ignoring the fact that when she had tried, they’d broken the door down. My treacherous mind, however, refused to let me forget the vision of the man with black hair in his dark suit and shiny shoes as he followed the two who’d broken down our door into our home. The memory of Eleanor’s tight grip, the trembling of her hand as she held me close. His disdainful glance around our living room before he turned his gaze on us, his smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his hateful voice as he spoke.

  “Mrs. Mannering, I’m here to talk,” he said.

  “It’s M…Miss Mannering…” Eleanor stammered, “and this is my son, Adam.”

  “Well, Miss Mannering, I’m the owner of this building, and you haven’t been paying your rent,” he said, hardly sparing me a glance, and, although his tone had been soft and even, it did little to diminish my sense of dread.

  Eleanor assured him that she wasn’t trying to get out of paying rent. “I’ll pay as soon as I can, Mr. …” she said, her voice quivering.

  “My name doesn’t matter,” he told her, “but I can’t allow anyone, not even a beautiful woman like you, to get away with not paying her debt. Why don’t you get rid of the boy so you and I can negotiate a settlement?”

  Eleanor sent me to my room with a promise that everything was all right. “I’ll come and get you soon,” she said. I could tell she was scared, and it was quite a while before she returned, and when she did, her eyes were red from crying. That man visited often after that, and even then, at five, I could tell he terrified her. So, yes, she probably had been a victim, but I can’t believe she’d been entirely helpless. She could have called the police; we could have moved, surely? Mom’s tried, several times over the years, to talk to me about Eleanor, but I can’t and I won’t. I refuse to revisit that crappy part of my life, and I won’t let Eleanor off the hook. She fucked up our lives with her shitty choices.

  Ariane, sensing my withdrawal, didn’t pursue the matter. Instead, she asked how I felt when finding out about Adam Winston and his abandonment of us.

  “I accept that he didn’t love her, that he didn’t want to stay with her; but he could have helped her financially—obviously—,” I said, my voice thick with bitterness. “I mean, I don’t need or want his money now, but Eleanor needed it then.”

  “So you think Adam took advantage of Eleanor?” she asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “What about the men who visited?” she pressed.

  “She had a goddamned choice; she didn’t have to see them!” I raised my voice.

  “She may not have felt she had. She may have thought it was her only choice,” Ariane countered evenly, but I obstinately refused to consider her view.

  “Whether you agree with me now or never, Adam, I think you’ll come to realize that the reason you’re so passionate about prosecution is that you relate to the victims you want to help. I also believe your pain at what happened to Eleanor factors into your choice, whether consciously or not. But, whatever your motives, I think you’d make a brilliant lawyer, no matter which legal path you choose to follow.”

  I only had one therapy session after that. I still don’t accept Ariane’s views that Eleanor believed she had no option other than to give in to those men, but I’m grateful that she sparked my interest in studying law.

  I announced my decision to Mom and Dad that night. Overjoyed would be and understatement when describing their reaction. I don’t think it was necessarily my career choice that thrilled them—I suspect a great deal of their enthusiasm was because they felt I’d turned a corner in dealing with my anger.

  With Dad’s help, I planned my post-high school path. He repeated his views about making the most of my inheritance. “Of course, you could get your law degree at any number of colleges, Son, but why not aim for the best?” he challenged, and then he played his trump card, the one I’m sure he’d kept up his sleeve. Hell, he’d probably always planned on using it at a moment just like that. “Use Adam Winston’s money to prove you’re equal to him and anyone from his background,” he said, and I folded.

  So, together, we researched the top law schools in the country and their acceptance criteria. I quickly learned that obtaining the prerequisite undergrad degree wouldn’t be enough. To qualify for any of the top six, I’d have to achieve exceptional undergrad GPA and LSAT scores. Included in the many sources of advice provided for those hoping to get into an elite law school was the need to build relationships with undergrad professors because good recommendations from them could, apparently, provide an edge.

  ‘Participate in extra-curricular activities’, another article read, despite having warned only a couple of sentences before that if you were serious about attending one of the elite schools, there would be little time for girlf
riends or boyfriends. A healthy social life, it said, would be non-existent.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Adam?’ Dad asked me at least twice during that time. “There are other career paths,” he assured me.

  “I’m sure,” I replied without hesitation, and talk turned to where I should study my undergrad degree and which of the top six law schools I should then apply to. We narrowed it down to Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Columbia, New York, and Chicago.

  “Do you have a preference,” Dad asked during a family discussion on the matter.

  “Harvard,” I said.

  “Why?” Mom asked, and I knew, without asking, that she wondered why, given Adam Winston’s history there and my feelings for him, I’d chosen it. I’m not exactly sure—there’s the prestige associated with Harvard, it’s law school and its long history, of course—and it’s on our doorstep, so it made sense for it to be my first choice. But there’s more to it than that. Deep down, I think, it’s because I don’t only want to do as Dad suggested and prove myself the equal of anyone from Winston’s world. Somehow, even though he’s not around to see it, I want to spit in Adam Winston’s eye, figuratively speaking, of course. And what better way to do it than in a place he once walked, where he probably would have completed his studies if Eleanor hadn’t fallen pregnant—with me.

  I want to better his academic achievements. I want to prove that, ultimately, I’m smarter than he ever was because, yes, despite Ariane’s counseling and the time that’s passed since learning of his existence, I still loathe the man. But that was four years ago—four years that feels like a lifetime ago now. In that time, I graduated high school, earned my undergraduate degree in political science, and had enough sex to satisfy even the horny seventeen-year-old, who once dreamed of the promises made by a Southern girl with a sexy drawl.

  My studies were always my priority, but I haven’t exactly been a monk. Not that I’m overly loose about sex, well, not when compared to some of my friends and fellow students. I’ve had my share of casual sex, but I haven’t deliberately treated girls badly, and I certainly haven’t taken advantage of anyone. I’ve been honest and upfront about not wanting a permanent relationship. The women involved claimed to understand and accept that—many, in fact, agreed they wanted the same thing.