Free Louder Than Words by Laurie Plissner Page A

project. Now I was checking in. I think she wanted to make sure that I hadn’t come unglued, or more unglued, after stopping years of regular therapy. Ironically, for the first time in forever I was feeling slightly more connected, and all because of some stranger who should be wearing a turban and massaging a crystal ball at a carnival sideshow.
    “So tell me more about this young man you met. What have you told him about your situation?”
    Our hour, or more precisely, our fifty minutes, had only just begun, and Dr. O. was diving right into the deep end of the pool. My smorgasbord of recent issues would more than fill our session. But I had already decided that she didn’t need to know everything about Ben. If I told her he was a mind reader, she would never believe me anyway—she would just call my aunt, prescribe some heavy-duty antipsychotics, or maybe even shock therapy, and increase the frequency of my appointments. If I told her that I had met him when he rescued me from a scrimmage with the Shoreland High School offensive line, she would insist on telling the police—assuming she didn’t think I was simply delusional, which she might—especially if I paired that story with the mind reader information. And finally, she didn’t need to know that Ben had moved into my old house. She and Charlotte had decided early on that my psyche was too fragile to deal with memories of the old homestead, and I didn’t want her to stop me from exploring my past by playing with my old toys or digging through the junk in my old basement, if at some point I decided to do so.
    “I MET BEN AT THE LIBRARY. HE JUST MOVED TO TOWN AND SEEMS REALLY NICE. I TOLD HIM ABOUT THE ACCIDENT AND THAT I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH. IT DOESN’T SEEM TO BOTHER HIM THAT I CAN’T COMMUNICATE LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE. IN FACT, HE HANDLES IT SO WELL THAT WE DON’T EVEN NOTICE THAT I CAN’T TALK MOST OF THE TIME.” Well, that was absolutely true.
    Dr. O. was scribbling furiously in her notebook. Perhaps the good doctor could provide some advice on guys, since thus far she hadn’t been useful for much else. Mute and motherless, I was ill equipped to navigate the murky waters of boy-girl relationships, but it had never mattered before Ben plopped down on my sofa. A product of parochial schools and repressive parents, my mom had never gotten around to demystifying the male gender before she died. And while I loved Charlotte to pieces, she was kind of a geek, and I couldn’t imagine her instructing me on the finer points of getting to know a boy. Her courtship with Stuart had involved lots of chess matches and museum lectures, and what I needed to know was how to flirt without looking like an idiot and what to do with a guy in the back seat of a car, assuming I was ever lucky enough to land there. Jules’s Monday-morning reports of her Saturday night adventures were always interesting, but her suggestions all involved me actually talking to a boy—not helpful. My birthday book was good, but it didn’t explain the part that came before actual penetration, the getting-to-know-one-another messing around and the emotional stuff that went with all the groping. Thanks to Dr. Reuben, I was an expert on dozens of exotic sexual positions, but I wanted to know how to have a relationship, how the falling in love thing happened.
    “That’s excellent news, Sasha. He sounds like a very special young man.” She didn’t know the half of it. “By turning outward and developing new connections, you can begin to engage in life. Maybe your level of comfort with this boy is indicative of your readiness to make a recovery. What do you think?”
    Dr. O. looked at me encouragingly, as if she could will me into mental health with her bright-eyed enthusiasm. Sometimes I wondered about the doctor’s qualifications, in spite of her incredible reputation. Really, if it were that simple, I wouldn’t still be sitting here, the impression of my ass permanently imprinted in her