Free Nine Lives by Erin Lee Page A

good mother, Laina. Why did you do this to hurt me?” Fuck you, Mom. Get a grip. Dad’s dinner’s getting cold. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Don’t you have some stupid rule to enforce? I hear there are killers living down the road! They have—oh no!—tattoos! Disgraceful! Definitely serial killers. Lock us up! What will Jesus think of them?
    “…see as your greatest strengths?” she asks.
    Because I’ve done this before, I know what she’s asking. I shrug. “I guess I’m smart.”
    She nods in an exaggerated way, like a starving animal happy to get any morsel of nutrient out of me. I hate her more.
    “Good. Good,” she says, typing into her computer. She turns the monitor so I can’t see what she’s writing. “And what else?” Her knees bump together under her desk.
    “I don’t really know,” I say, refusing to feed her need to feel wanted.
    “Well, what do you think your mother would say are your strengths?” she asks.
    I laugh, out loud. “My mother pretty much wants me dead.”
    She gasps at my bluntness. I want to laugh again at the deer-in-headlights look on her face. She pushes her glasses to the top of her bulbous, pelican nose and pauses. I wish I could read her thoughts. Finally, she says, “Why would you think that? No mother would wish that on their child.”
    I answer immediately, without thinking. “You haven’t met my mother.”
    “But she sounded very concerned when…”
    I cut her off, having had a chance to collect my thoughts. “If I was dead, she could pretend this never happened. Well, Faith would have to die too. But I can see it. My mother likes pretending things never happened. She’s probably plotting our deaths right now. I should watch what I eat, right?” I joke.
    Shrink lady stares at me, and I lean back into the loveseat. I’m starting to enjoy this. We spend thirty minutes going back and forth on mothers and their unconditional or not-so-unconditional love for their daughters before things get real.
    “And what about Tyler?” she asks.
    Tyler is a subject I can’t play with nor joke about. Tyler is important. “What about him?” I ask.
    “Well, he must be very special to you. Tell me about him,” she says.
    “He is. He’s my life. He’s my heart. He’s why I’m here,” I say. It’s important that I stick with my story. Sure, our sessions are confidential, but that doesn’t mean I trust this woman to keep her mouth shut. I don’t even trust priests for that. Being seen as a victim has helped me more than once. I need her on my side. She doesn’t bother to ask about what happened to me, though. Typical adult. They say they care, but the truth is they care about feeling like they are doing something, not actually doing it.
    “What do you mean, he’s why you are here?”
    I want to tell her to be serious. She knows the answer to this. But I humor her. “I have to get off probation so that I can finally be with him. He’s the only one who understands—or cares—about what happened to me,” I say.
    “And he’s how old?”
    I want to leap over her desk and punch her. I want to break her glasses. I tell myself that won’t get me closer to Tyler. What it will get me is locked away—exactly what Mom wants. “He’s older.” I shrug. “So?”
    She stops typing and looks at me, sliding her glasses down her nose. She peers at me over the tops, and says, “I’m not judging you, Laina. This is a safe place. You can trust me.”
    Again, I suppress my desire to laugh in her face. “Okay.” I wonder if she realizes they make foundation for the dark patches under her eyes, like Mom’s. Does she just not care? Or am I supposed to feel sorry for her? Working too hard to help people and not getting anywhere? I bet she takes Xanax like candy too—they all do.
    “I’m just trying to learn more about you,” she says.
    I wish she would stop staring at me. I bite my nails, waiting for her to say something else. She says nothing.
    “Well,