Louder Than Words (21 page)

“Fine, as long as we can pick up where we left off after. I need you, Sash. I want you so much.”

He looked straight through my eyes into my mind, and for a few seconds, I didn’t care if I ever said another word or even left his bedroom for the rest of my life.

“Maybe I can only talk to you. Is that possible?”

But that was ridiculous. If my voice was back, it was back, wasn’t it? What difference did it make who was listening? Ben jumped up and retrieved his laptop from the desk. He sat down next to me on the tile floor and Googled “hysterical mutism.”

Ben scanned the page. “According to Wikipedia, which is of course the ultimate medical authority,
selective
mutism is a physical manifestation of an anxiety disorder, most prevalent in children. Those suffering with this condition can speak only in the presence of certain people, such as close family members with whom the individual feels completely safe and comfortable. When the patient is in the presence of others, he or she may be rendered completely mute. For example, a child may be able to speak only to her mother, but no one else. This disorder may respond to intensive behavior modification therapy. Medication isn’t favored, as the side effects in children and adolescents include depression and suicidal thoughts. There you go.”

“So now I’m only partially insane.” My head began to throb.

“I still think you’re totally nuts, but the fact that you can speak to me means you’re headed down the right path. You just need patience … and lots more fooling around.” He kissed my stomach again. “More scream therapy.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Fisher?” I giggled as his tongue circled my belly button.

“Don’t question my methods, young lady. I managed a partial cure in under five minutes,” he said in an exaggerated German accent. “Give me an hour, I could have you singing in a Broadway musical.”

“A little bit cocky, aren’t you?”

Could he do that for me? I was beginning to believe he could do anything.

“Is that a challenge? Because I’m ready.” He started to slip out of his sweats.

“What are you doing?”

Maybe a total recovery would require more than just a little messing around. Was today the day? As much as I’d fantasized about going all the way with Ben, now that the possibility was literally at my fingertips, I freaked. But I could imagine worse cures. Virginity lost in the name of medical science …

“I’m just kidding. Breathe. As much as I want to see how far Dr. O.’s research can take us, I know you’re not ready. You have to crawl before you can walk. Just promise me I’m your only therapist.”

“I promise. Promise me you won’t take on any other patients.” Talking, flirting, out loud. My voice was still rough, but I felt lighter than air.
I love you, Ben
.

“Are you sure that’s not just hormones talking? I mean, that
was
your first happy ending.” He rested his hand gently between my legs.

“I know the difference between love and sex.” The sensation of his hand through the thin fabric was electric, and I pushed against his palm.

“I think you do. And I do, too. I love you, Sasha.” It was the perfect starry-eyed movie moment—except for the fact that we were lying on the bathroom floor.

“JULES, THERE’S SOMETHING I HAVE TO TELL YOU.”

I described Ben’s creative physical therapy and its miraculous, though limited, results. Whenever I wasn’t with Ben, and therefore mute, I sometimes found myself thinking it had all been some elaborate dream sequence. Sharing my experience with Jules made it real.

“So the shin bone’s connected to the knee bone, and the larynx is connected to the honey pot,” she sang.

“CHARMING.” That wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped she’d say when I told her.

“As much as I love you, and as much as I want to hear your sweet voice again, there is absolutely no way I’m going to give you any lady love to jump start your voice box. You know that, don’t you?” Jules stuck out her tongue.

“NO WORRIES. I HAVE NO INTEREST IN CROSSING THE PICKET LINE, EITHER.” I made a face back at her.

“Who would have thought a little heavy breathing could be so effective? Why would anyone ever go to talk therapy? I mean, really, there’s no contest,” Jules said, moaning to make her point.

“BEN FIGURED IT OUT AFTER READING DR. O.’S BOOK,
CLIMAX
.”

“It would never have occurred to me that getting your rocks off could cure mental illness. I guess that’s why she gets paid the big bucks. I wonder what else it can fix?”

“I’LL LET YOU KNOW AFTER BEN AND I DO MORE RESEARCH. HAVE YOU EVER…?”

It was the most extraordinary feeling on earth. Had Jules ever had one? She might not have told me, seeing as until recently it seemed like a remote possibility for me, and she might not want me to feel like I was missing out on yet another major benefit of life with the normals.

“You’re all full of yourself now that you’ve experienced Dr. O.’s Big O. Actually, I haven’t.” She paused. “Don’t look so shocked. Think about it. How many guys our age are concerned with much beyond getting their own oil changed? I mean, really.”

“BEN’S LIKE THAT WITH EVERYTHING. HE CARRIES MY BOOKS, OPENS DOORS FOR ME, TAKES CARE OF ME.” Maybe he really was a unicorn.

“He’s a perfect gentleman, Sash. May you always come first in this relationship.” She poked me in the ribs.

“I GET IT.” Jules was queen of the bad pun.

“So, are you going to knock boots anytime soon?”

“KNOCK BOOTS? WHO TALKS LIKE THAT? I’M ASSUMING YOU MEAN DOING THE DEED?”

“Well, duh, Miss Screaming Orgasm. Don’t you like that? As euphemisms go, it’s got some style. So, are you?”

“NOT ANYTIME SOON. IT’S A BIG STEP FROM A HAND JOB TO GOING ALL THE WAY, DON’T YOU THINK?”

As much as I could imagine spending the rest of my life with Ben, making love was serious business. Letting someone inside your body as well as your mind was the ultimate act of trust. Was I ready for that? I was only seventeen, and a young seventeen at that. And not to be forgotten, the possibility of pregnancy, no matter how careful we were, was terrifying. Imagining myself as someone’s mother was like picturing myself as president of the United States. And truthfully, how much more incredible could anything feel than what I’d just experienced? Like Ben had said, slower was better.

“My mother would be so proud of you, except for the letting him stick his hands down your pants part.” Jules could be so crude sometimes. I think she talked like that just to watch me squirm. “Another successful graduate of the Lucy Harper School of Sexual and Moral Independence.”

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO TELL HER, ARE YOU?”

I hadn’t planned on sharing news of my voice with Charlotte—it would hurt her feelings that I felt safe enough with Ben to talk, but not with her, even though it was subconscious and out of my control. And there was no way I was going to tell her about my primal scream therapy, although I probably would need to tell her that Ben and I were back together. But if Jules planned on blabbing to her mother, I would have to come clean about everything before it got back to Charlotte and Stuart.

“Of course not. That would only make her launch an investigation into
my
social life. Not that there’s anything much going on, but I prefer to stay off her radar. If she thinks I’m doing more than holding hands, she’ll ship me off to a convent until I turn thirty.”

That had to be an exaggeration, but Jules looked serious.

“THANK YOU. IT’S PRIVATE AND I DON’T WANT ANYONE TO KNOW, EXCEPT YOU. I’M NOT EVEN TELLING CHARLOTTE AND STUART.”

“I’m proud to be part of the inner circle. So tell me exactly what it felt like. Did you have to do anything to him? There’s no free lunch.” Jules nodded knowingly, although I wasn’t sure at this point how well informed she really was on this topic.

“NOTHING. HE TOLD ME JUST TO RELAX AND ENJOY IT. AND I DID. HE SEEMED TO ENJOY HIMSELF.” I didn’t want to tell her about the wet spot—I hoped she could read between the lines.

“So he got off on all your moaning and screaming. Just wait. It’s definitely a two-way street.”

“I WANT IT TO BE. IT WOULD BE SELFISH TO MAKE IT ALL ABOUT ME ALL THE TIME.”

As amazing as it felt to be catered to like that, it must be a rush to make another person feel that good, to lose control like I had—kind of powerful. I wanted to know what it felt like to make Ben so excited he completely let go. Did boys make noise like girls? I wondered.

“There’s nothing wrong with being the center of attention. Just be careful. It’s a short step from petting to poking. You’re definitely not ready for that, no matter how many car doors Ben opens for you.”

Even though I was now slightly more experienced than Jules—speaking only in terms of quality, not quantity—she was still in charge, still the mother hen, warning me off the dangers that lurked behind the green eyes and good manners.

I rushed to Ben’s defense. “I KNOW THAT. I’M IN NO RUSH TO GO ALL THE WAY. HE’S NOT EITHER.”

“That’s what boys say, and then you let your guard down, and before you know it, you’re holding a screaming newborn on some MTV special and whining about being a single mother.”

“HE’S NOT LIKE THAT.” I think Jules had been spending too much time with her mother lately. She didn’t used to be so wary of guys. Not every high school boy was a sexual predator in training. “DID SOMETHING HAPPEN? DID SOMEONE DO SOMETHING TO MAKE YOU SO SUSPICIOUS?”

“No, no one’s ever done anything to me … unfortunately. Don’t look so shocked. I’m just kidding, and I have to admit, I’m a little jealous. He loves you, Sash, like nobody’s business. You’re so lucky.”

“I AM LUCKY. WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT I’D BE SAYING THAT AFTER EVERYTHING THAT’S HAPPENED?”

“You deserve some good stuff. I’m sorry I’m being petty. You’re my best friend, and you’ve been living in hell for a long time. Welcome back. It’s your turn.”

“That woman over there keeps staring at you. Do you know her?” Ben gestured with his chin toward the front of the restaurant.

I turned around and there was Dr. O., deep in conversation with a man who looked like Sigmund Freud, round glasses and all. Was this man her husband? Her life outside her occupation as a shrink had never crossed my mind.

You don’t recognize the author of your favorite sex book? Isn’t her picture on the cover?

Even though I could speak out loud to Ben, I often just thought at him out of habit, and he didn’t mind, although it must have looked funny to anyone who was paying attention—like he was totally monopolizing the conversation as I stared at him with stars in my eyes.

“I was too busy soaking up her knowledge. But now that you mention it, she does look kind of familiar—but her hair’s different, and she’s way older,” he said, trying not to look like he was staring at Dr. O.

So what’s she thinking about?

I had never asked him to share other people’s secret thoughts before. What a waste of an amazing resource. But maybe there was a mind readers’ code of ethics that would prohibit him from disclosing such private information.

“You really want to know? Let me concentrate. There’s so much going on in here.”

Saturday night in a crowded restaurant—there must have been a hundred voices echoing in Ben’s head. He shut his eyes and turned in Dr. O.’s direction. With his eyes closed, I was free to study his face. He really did look like a piece of classical sculpture, even with his post–locker room nose.

“You’re distracting me. But thank you. I think you’re beautiful too.”

Sorry
.

“She’s wondering if she should come over here. She doesn’t know that you know she’s here. She’s curious about me. She likes my hair. It reminds her of a boy she dated in high school.” He opened his eyes and placed his hands on the table, palms up.

That’s it?
I had been hoping for something juicier.

“Pretty much. Oh yeah, the scallops are chewy, and she’s wondering if Bill is going to want to sleep with her tonight. It’s their third date.”

TMI
.
I should have quit while I was ahead
. I stuck out my tongue. Thinking about Dr. O. having a sex life was like imagining one’s grandmother getting busy.

“That’s why I try to filter. Hearing other people think about sex is not as exciting as it sounds—present company excepted.”

So you want to meet her? I guess she is kind of a rock star, at least in the world of the damaged and confused. Just don’t tell her I can talk when I’m alone with you. She’ll want me to come in more often, and I really would rather work this out with your mom instead. And don’t you dare tell her about your application of her theories
.

“I definitely want to meet her. She’s my idol. I promise I’ll be discreet. A gentleman never discusses his conquests, even if she’s kind of the one who suggested it. Would it be too much if I asked for her autograph?” Ben reached in his pocket and took out a pen.

Maybe a little. All right. Let’s get it over with, Captain Romance
.

For some reason it felt funny connecting these two threads in my life, even though I couldn’t imagine Dr. O. not being totally captivated by him. We squeezed between the maze of tables until we were standing next to Dr. O. and her date, who still looked like Sigmund Freud up close, but with a Miami Beach tan and a thick gold necklace glinting in a nest of gray hair sprouting from his open collar.

“Dr. O’Rourke. Sasha spotted you, and she wanted me to meet you. I’m Ben Fisher.” He shook hands with both of them.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ben. This is my friend, Dr. Parsons. You’re glowing, Sasha. So the two of you worked things out?” I nodded. “I’m so pleased for you both. Ben, Sasha told me you were living in Florence not too long ago. One of my favorite cities—I travel a great deal for work. In fact, I just got back from Prague.”

We stood for what seemed like days, Ben chatting away about Europe, while I smiled and counted the seconds until we could politely make our escape. Making small talk was painful; listening to small talk was cruel and unusual punishment. Ben squeezed my hand—how convenient to have a boyfriend who knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“I’ve read a few of your books. You’ve done such good work for so many people, helped them come farther than they imagined possible.” He squeezed my hand again, and I stepped on his foot.

You and Jules should get together and trade shitty puns
.

“I’m just glad I’ve been able to help, and I wish that I could have done more for Sasha, but she’s on her way now, in large part, I think, thanks to you. You’ve allowed her to concentrate more on her future and less on her past, and I think in that strategy may lie Sasha’s personal victory,” Dr. O. said, beaming at Ben.

Why were they talking about me as if I weren’t even there? Once again I felt like a child in a room full of adults.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Dr. O’Rourke. It’s such an honor to have met you. Dr. Parsons, nice to meet you, as well. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.”

Ben was like the mayor. His manners were flawless. He could have been Cary Grant or Gregory Peck reincarnated. Nobody in high school talked like that. Most Americans didn’t talk like that.

“I’m so glad we ran into each other. There is no greater joy in my life than to see my patients living full, happy lives. Sasha, I’m so proud of you.”

Dr. O. stood up and put her arms around me. She was all choked up. Maybe it was Ben, or maybe it was the wine, because she wasn’t usually a teary-eyed hugger. My cheek rested briefly on her shoulder as she embraced me. Suddenly seized by a wave of nausea, I pulled away and ran to the back of the restaurant, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying a loaded tray, down a hallway I prayed led to the restroom.

As I fled, I heard Ben say, “Bad scallops, maybe? If you’ll excuse me.”

In the safety of the locked bathroom, I squatted in the corner, head between my knees. Stars danced before my eyes.
Just breathe. Don’t pass out on this filthy floor
. Tiny jackhammers drilled mercilessly behind my eyes. What just happened?

Frantic knocking on the door and voices—Ben and Dr. O. together. “Sasha, are you okay? Are you ill?”

I splashed cold water on my face and opened the door, nodding.
We need to go home, right now
.

“Thank you for all your help, Dr. O’Rourke. I’m just going to take her home. She must be coming down with something. So sorry to disturb your dinner. Come on, Sasha, let’s get you out of here.”

Ben took my hand and led me through the restaurant, every eye in the place following the tall, handsome boy leading the blotchy, clearly unhinged girl. At the front, Ben handed a fistful of cash to the hostess, apologized for any inconvenience, and shepherded me into the calm of the parking lot. We sat in the car for several minutes, staring out the windows, not speaking, just listening to each other breathing.

“So what just happened? You’re not sick. I would feel it if you were physically ill. You just freaked out, and I have no idea why. Your thoughts are a mess—something about a smell?”

“Can we just go? Please?” I whispered.

I opened and closed my fists, willing myself not to start hyperventilating again. The hammers pounded less fiercely, and for that I was grateful.

Ben cupped my face in his hands, searching my eyes. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

More than anything, I wanted to tell him, wanted to share my fears. But I hated feeling like the mental patient, always on the edge, a single whiff enough to send me careening off the cliff into a ravine of psychosis.

“You know my old nightmare, the one about the accident—the noise, the smells, the snow? Besides the odor of burning wires and gasoline, there was a sweet smell, like perfume.”

“And you smelled that perfume in the restaurant, and that’s what set you off? That makes sense—smelling your mother’s perfume could stir up all kinds of emotions. You poor thing.” He kissed me gently and started the car. “It’ll be easier next time.”

“I smelled it on Dr. O.’s sweater, and it’s not my mother’s perfume or any perfume I’ve ever smelled before, or since.”

I watched him behind the wheel, never forgetting to signal, never going over the speed limit. He drove with the precision of someone taking his driver’s license test.

“So what are you saying?” We were safely stopped at a red light, and he looked over at me. “Dr. O. was at the scene of the accident? Next to your car?”

“It does sound crazy when you say it like that. But maybe she caused the accident and was checking to see if anyone was still alive before she left the scene.” Utterly ridiculous, but incredibly real to me.

Ben shook his head. “I find that hard to believe. She leaves the scene of a devastating crash, and then becomes your therapist who’s supposed to help you recover your memories of the accident
she
caused? You’ve been watching way too much TV.”

“I hardly watch any TV, and that’s exactly what I’m thinking.” It had sounded more plausible in the bathroom stall. “Maybe that’s why I’m one of her few failures. She’s supposed to be this ridiculously successful shrink, and she couldn’t even manage to hypnotize me. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“Well, Perry Mason, it’s a nice theory—very neat and tidy. But don’t you think it’s weird that the woman who killed your family would then take you on as a patient?”

The light changed and, looking both ways, Ben drove toward home, his eyes never leaving the road even as he tried to reason with me.

“If I remembered what happened, she would be in deep trouble, and the only way to be sure my memories stay buried is if she were my therapist. Or maybe she wanted to try and make up for what she did to me, somehow make it right.” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Sounds a little too movie-of-the-week for me. Maybe you dreamed about that perfume
after
you met the doctor.” Ben pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine.

“Definitely not. I remember it so vividly, because it was such an unusual smell, and it was
always
part of my dream, which started before I first saw Dr. O’Rourke. I smelled it again when your mother hypnotized me the last time.”

I had been so sure, but could Ben be right? Could my mind be playing tricks? In the days and weeks following the accident, time had stopped for me. Could I be remembering it out of order now, in my desperate need to make everything fit neatly back together?

“Let’s suppose by some insane possibility she did cause the accident. She wouldn’t leave you and your family to die. She’s a doctor, for fuck’s sake. She took an oath.”

“Maybe she was drunk or something. She was drinking wine at the restaurant. Like in a Greek tragedy, maybe alcoholism is her fatal flaw, and she realized it after she caused the accident. She panicked and left us there. And now she’s trying to undo her wrong by making me well again.” The more I thought about it, the more I liked this scenario. It was poetic and heartrending.

“Okay, Sophocles, so what you’re saying is that she didn’t help you, because she didn’t want to get arrested for drunk driving? That she left you to die with your family, since you were the only witness?” Ben put his hand on my forehead, as if feeling for fever.

I nodded.

“And then she made sure Charlotte picked her to be your psychiatrist so she could work her head-shrinking magic on you to guarantee that you could never identify her as the killer, while at the same time healing your battered spirit. It would make a great screenplay.”

“You think I’ve lost it, don’t you?”

Maybe I would have to explore this avenue of investigation with Jules. She might be more open-minded. Charlotte and Stuart would be like Ben, certain that my train had finally jumped the tracks.

“A little. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head in the bathroom at the restaurant?” He reached over and rubbed my scalp, looking for a bump.

“No, I didn’t hit my head. But I do have a headache.”

Why couldn’t I just leave my past behind already? I wasn’t cut out to be a therapist or a detective.

“What happens if she realizes you’re on to her? Maybe she’ll try to bump you off. You’re lucky she’s Irish and not Italian.” Ben flicked his thumbnail against his front teeth.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“You’ve never seen any gangster movies, like
The Godfather
?”

“Never.” I sighed. “I told you, I don’t watch much television.”

“You have so much to learn. Speaking of learning, are your aunt and uncle home tonight?” Ben leaned across me to unbuckle my seatbelt.

“I can do that myself, you know. I may be crazy, but I’m not paralyzed.”

Sometimes I felt like Ben’s feelings for me were mixed up with his uncontrollable desire to fix things, and I was the ultimate remodeling project. He wanted to make me better, when I just wanted him to want me.

“It gives me an excuse to touch you. That’s all.” His fingers lingered on my arm.

“You don’t need an excuse.” I would be perfectly happy if he never let go of me.

“In that case … let me ask you again, is anyone home? Because we can play in the car, if we have to, but the couch, or your bed, would be way better.” He tapped his fingers on my arm, waiting for my answer.

“They went to some jazz club in the City.”

The anticipation of his lips on mine, his hands on my body, made me weak in the knees. How was I going to walk into the house?

“Good news, and if you can’t walk, I’ll just have to carry you over the threshold. We can play wedding night.” Ben climbed out and came around to my side of the car.

“I think you
will
have to carry me. I’m feeling a little shaky. That thing at the restaurant kind of threw me.”

My palms started to sweat. Wedding night?

“No problem.” He lifted me up, holding me against his chest and kicking the car door shut. “Don’t start hyperventilating again, Sasha. I was just kidding. As much as I want you, and I do, tonight’s
not
the night. So relax. It’s your call … it always will be.”