The Screaming Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

was going to work at getting better. So I dropped the Froot Loop back into the bowl and put my hands in my lap.
    “Actually, it works for me,” he replied. He peered at me. “But you’re not convinced.”
    He set down the coffee cup on the chair to his right and fished in his pants pocket. He pulled out what looked like a thick gold pen; then he flicked it on and I realized it was a thin flashlight.
    “Let’s go back over what’s been happening to you. Together.”
    “Don’t say anything,” Celia hissed.
    He raised a brow. “Sorry, what was that?”
    “Nothing.” I raised my brows too, trying to look innocent and approachable. I was grateful there was nothing close at hand that I could use to hurt him. Correction: that Celia could use to hurt him.
    And then I spotted the hot cup of coffee, an arm’s length away, as the beam of light wove an arc across the floor. The steam rose.
    It would burn.

FOUR
    DR. MOREHOUSE CROSSED back to the light switch, unknowingly removing himself from the trajectory the hot coffee would make should Celia force me to fling it at him. He flicked off the room lights. The thin beam of his flashlight sliced the blackness. Then he experimented with the switches until the lights were dim, and I could see everything except the colors of my cereal. I licked my lips. My hand was shaking. Celia was still trying to make me pick up the coffee. Wasn’t she thinking this through? If I hurt him, they might expel me. Expel me, and she was stuck with her unfinished business.
    And I would wind up screaming in an unmarked grave.
    Stop. That’s just drama.
    “I know you’ve been to a lot of therapists,” he began.
    “Only three, unless you count the hospital social worker. Then it would be four.” Instead of the coffee, I lifted a glass to my lips. It was grapefruit juice. Julie knew I preferred it to orange. I had a friend. I had lots of friends. I wasn’t alone.
    But I was never alone.
    “Three’s a lot.”
    “Not if you live in Southern California.”
    He chuckled. “I’m from Fargo, North Dakota.”
    That explained the accent.
    “Have you seen the movie?” he asked me. “Fargo?”
    “Before my time,” I replied. “Are you going to hypnotize me?”
    Celia thrashed. “No. Refuse. Get him out of here.”
    He inclined his head as if to say, I sure can’t get anything past you. “I thought I’d give it a shot. During all this therapy you’ve had, has anyone discussed the notion of the committee?”
    I shook my head. “Is it like the Spanish Inquisition?”
    “Maybe.” He raised the light and pointed it at the wall. It flattened onto the wall like a yellow hole. Sipping my grapefruit juice, I tried to ignore Celia’s movements. My brain felt like an iceberg. The bridge of my nose ached. She really didn’t want me to do this. If ever there was a reason to give something a shot, that was it.
    “Some people think our personalities are really a number of layers of individuality, established at different times of our lives and molded by various situations.”
    I fought as Celia tried to make me put the grapefruit juice down. My foot moved forward; she wanted me to stand up.
    “When we talk about being ‘of two minds,’ some of us mean that literally.”
    He sounded kind of pompous, and I tried not to laugh. If only he knew.
    “And those people are mentally ill,” I ventured.
    “Not at all,” he replied. “We all have a committee. We talk to ourselves, rehearse scenarios, write ourselves notes and ‘to do’ lists.”
    Kill people, I filled in.
    “So what is schizophrenia?”
    “We all have an ‘I,’” he said. “The committee leader. If you have more than one leader . . . ”
    “You get bickering. In public.” An understatement.
    “Exactly. Bickering. Lack of functionality.”
    “You don’t get anything done,” I said.
    “Right. Now, if I suggest to you that we walk along a path . . . ” He glanced over at the bloom of light on the wall. Drinking more coffee,