was in her interest. She wanted out.
“I’m sure you’ve heard this before but—” Agnes sputtered.
“But you’re not crazy,” he interrupted, matter-of-factly finishing her sentence without even looking up at her.
“I don’t belong here,” she almost pleaded, leaning in toward him with her hands outstretched, inadvertentlyrevealing the bloodstains from her self-inflicted wounds.
“Are those tattoos, Miss Fremont?” He looked over the top of his glasses. “No? Then you probably do belong here right now.”
Agnes pulled her arms back and dropped her chin, unable to look him in the eye, but she could still hear him and he kept on talking.
“It says in your file that you are a good student, very social, never been in trouble to mention, no history of depression.” He flipped back and forth between the stapled pages in a manila folder. “So what changed?”
Agnes did not respond, shifting uncomfortably in her chair from both the pain of the question and the charm.
“Do you want to tell me about him?”
“Why does it always have to be about a guy?” Agnes blurted, trying to dam the tears that said otherwise.
“Because it usually is,” said Frey.
Agnes paused. She recalled in an instant almost every relationship she’d ever had, as far back as her first crush. There was definitely a pattern. They didn’t last. Even her friends were starting to joke that she couldn’t hold on to a guy. As far as she was concerned, her heart was just too big for those boys to handle. If she could just find one who could, everything would be okay.
“My mom thinks I fall in love too easily.”
“Do you?”
“I just follow my heart. I always have.”
“That is a virtuous quality. But it almost led you to a dead end, Agnes.”
Agnes shrugged indifferently. “When relationships end, it’s like a death. There are always scars.”
“It is easy to be disappointed when you feel so deeply, isn’t it?”
Agnes wasn’t usually so cynical, but the doctor had hit a nerve.
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sayer.”
“Tell me about Sayer.”
Agnes was a little weirded-out talking openly with a nurse standing behind her—placed there mostly for the doctor’s protection, legally and otherwise.
A witness.
“Well, according to my mom . . . ,” she began.
He waved her off and leaned forward, his chair creaking. “What about according to you?” He paused. “According to Agnes?”
“She wants to run my life because she hates hers,” Agnes exploded.
“I get that you and your mother disagree about things, but I asked you about the guy.” He was intent. Intense. What started off as an evaluation was snowballing into an interrogation.
It wasn’t until that moment that Agnes realized that she hadn’t given her temp boyfriend a thought since she’d been admitted, her interest in him draining out of her veins along with her blood the night before. “Oh, Sayer wasn’t really that important. Just the most recent.”
“Not important?” Frey squinted her wraps into focus. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest with me.”
“I liked him. Okay, I liked him a lot. But my mom thought he was poison, just like every other guy I date. It put so much pressure on the . . . relationship. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Neither could I. Obviously.”
“What about him was wrong?”
“Everything, apparently. It’s not even worth talking about.”
“But it’s worth killing yourself over?” Dr. Frey probed. “Are you angry that it didn’t work out or that she might have been right?”
She was starting to feel like her mom and the doctor shared a brain. He was reading her, pushing her places she didn’t want to go, and she didn’t like it. “Maybe both. But I believe in love.”
“Did you feel pressure to have sex?”
“I didn’t say sex. I said love. True love.”
“Do you think that may be a bit too idealistic at your age?”
“How old was Juliet?” she shot back.
He
“I’m sure you’ve heard this before but—” Agnes sputtered.
“But you’re not crazy,” he interrupted, matter-of-factly finishing her sentence without even looking up at her.
“I don’t belong here,” she almost pleaded, leaning in toward him with her hands outstretched, inadvertentlyrevealing the bloodstains from her self-inflicted wounds.
“Are those tattoos, Miss Fremont?” He looked over the top of his glasses. “No? Then you probably do belong here right now.”
Agnes pulled her arms back and dropped her chin, unable to look him in the eye, but she could still hear him and he kept on talking.
“It says in your file that you are a good student, very social, never been in trouble to mention, no history of depression.” He flipped back and forth between the stapled pages in a manila folder. “So what changed?”
Agnes did not respond, shifting uncomfortably in her chair from both the pain of the question and the charm.
“Do you want to tell me about him?”
“Why does it always have to be about a guy?” Agnes blurted, trying to dam the tears that said otherwise.
“Because it usually is,” said Frey.
Agnes paused. She recalled in an instant almost every relationship she’d ever had, as far back as her first crush. There was definitely a pattern. They didn’t last. Even her friends were starting to joke that she couldn’t hold on to a guy. As far as she was concerned, her heart was just too big for those boys to handle. If she could just find one who could, everything would be okay.
“My mom thinks I fall in love too easily.”
“Do you?”
“I just follow my heart. I always have.”
“That is a virtuous quality. But it almost led you to a dead end, Agnes.”
Agnes shrugged indifferently. “When relationships end, it’s like a death. There are always scars.”
“It is easy to be disappointed when you feel so deeply, isn’t it?”
Agnes wasn’t usually so cynical, but the doctor had hit a nerve.
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sayer.”
“Tell me about Sayer.”
Agnes was a little weirded-out talking openly with a nurse standing behind her—placed there mostly for the doctor’s protection, legally and otherwise.
A witness.
“Well, according to my mom . . . ,” she began.
He waved her off and leaned forward, his chair creaking. “What about according to you?” He paused. “According to Agnes?”
“She wants to run my life because she hates hers,” Agnes exploded.
“I get that you and your mother disagree about things, but I asked you about the guy.” He was intent. Intense. What started off as an evaluation was snowballing into an interrogation.
It wasn’t until that moment that Agnes realized that she hadn’t given her temp boyfriend a thought since she’d been admitted, her interest in him draining out of her veins along with her blood the night before. “Oh, Sayer wasn’t really that important. Just the most recent.”
“Not important?” Frey squinted her wraps into focus. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest with me.”
“I liked him. Okay, I liked him a lot. But my mom thought he was poison, just like every other guy I date. It put so much pressure on the . . . relationship. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Neither could I. Obviously.”
“What about him was wrong?”
“Everything, apparently. It’s not even worth talking about.”
“But it’s worth killing yourself over?” Dr. Frey probed. “Are you angry that it didn’t work out or that she might have been right?”
She was starting to feel like her mom and the doctor shared a brain. He was reading her, pushing her places she didn’t want to go, and she didn’t like it. “Maybe both. But I believe in love.”
“Did you feel pressure to have sex?”
“I didn’t say sex. I said love. True love.”
“Do you think that may be a bit too idealistic at your age?”
“How old was Juliet?” she shot back.
He
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