Poser (15 page)

Zach

Months. That’s how long I’d been locked up here.

Of course, they preferred to call it “visiting.”

It’s only a visit if you choose to come here and then walk out whenever you feel like it. I didn’t choose this place. I was ordered here by a court of law. Even my lawyer father couldn’t keep me out. But this wasn’t his fault. He’d done the best he could. He got me sent here instead of a jail cell.

I was getting weary of this place, of the doctors and the staff. I felt like an expensive toy shoved in a box with a bunch of broken rejects. I watched them day in and day out, shuffling around this center with glassy eyes and slack mouths. The minute I started to see some actual signs of life behind their vacant stares, an orderly would come by with a plastic cup full of meds.

It’s like they’d just given up. Like they preferred being here to the outside world. I had too much ambition inside me for that, for this life.

I’d never make it in here an entire year. I’d snap. The last time I snapped, I ended up here. The next time…?

They’d send me somewhere worse.

I needed to get out. I needed some kind of contact with the outside world. I needed an exit plan. What does a guy do when he wants to get to the outside? Make friends with a guy on the inside.

I could have gone the route of paying off an orderly, but that would have been too obvious. I didn’t trust the people who worked here. They’d accept my money, tell me one thing, and the next thing I knew, I’d be locked up even longer.

That wasn’t going to happen. The way to go here was to make friends with another inmate. Another patient. I’d been watching since the day I walked in. When I wasn’t participating in group activities, misleading my therapists, and pretending to read the books they offered here in the library, I was sizing everyone up.

Like I said, a lot of the patients here were basically just filling space, going with the motions. But not all of us. It took a while to pick them out, to know the ones who were as lucid as me, but I did. All I had to do was watch, wait. It made me wonder why none of the orderlies ever picked us out. Was it because they just didn’t care as long as no one caused trouble? Or was it that they honestly just didn’t see what I did?

Perhaps like recognized like. Perhaps I saw because it was familiar.

Every evening before bedtime, the patients were given an hour of free time. Free time meant herding us all into one large room and allowing us to play board games, participate in art class, or read.

It was totally lame.

I longed for a beer, a cold tall one. I wanted to sit at a frat party, surrounded by guys I ruled. What a high it was to be in charge.

This hour of “free” time only served as a reminder of why the hell I wanted out so bad. I would be at the top again one day. I would be in charge. Guys like me weren’t followers. We weren’t minions. I was a king. I was meant to rule.

Like all my other true feelings, I stuffed those down deep and acted like this hour of free time was my time to reflect and show how I could function normally in a room full of people.

Shane was sitting at a table by himself when I walked in. There was a checkerboard in front of him, and he concentrated on putting the red and black pieces on the board where they belonged. The seat across from him was vacant.

It was like he knew. Like he knew I was ready to approach him. Up until this point, we’d only exchanged a glance or two. Being too friendly too fast was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I was here to work on myself, not make friends.

My slippers were silent as they padded across the hardwood floor, and I took the seat across from him. Without saying anything, he made the first move on the checkerboard. I made one after him.

This went on for a few turns, just two patients playing a friendly game of checkers.

“How long you been here?” I asked after I moved my black piece again.

“Two years.”

My fingers stilled on the table. That long? I must have misjudged him. I didn’t do that very often. Being in here was making me lose my edge. This conversation was over. He was the wrong guy for me. I started to get up.

“You want out?” he said, ignoring the fact I was leaving and making a move to counter mine.

“What would you know about it?”

He shrugged. “Plenty.”

I settled back in. “If you knew that much, you wouldn’t still be in here after two years.”

“To some, this place is preferable.”

I didn’t know why he would rather be here than out there, and I didn’t care. All I cared about was information.

“How long you in for?” he asked.

“A year.”

He nodded like it was standard. “You got family?”

“Yeah.”

“Focus on Doctor Becks. She has a thing for family support and shit. She’s been known to spring people for home visits.”

Bingo.

“Visitor’s day is coming up. You in yet?”

Visitors were allowed to the facility once a month. Each visitor had to register and be approved by the staff before they were permitted to see the patients. So far, I hadn’t had visitors. The first few months of treatment were focused solely on me, but good boys get rewarded.

I’d been a very good boy, and now I was authorized to have a visitor.

“Yes. My father will be here.”

“The lawyer, right?”

I wasn’t surprised he knew that.

“Yeah.” I moved my piece on the board and jumped one of his.

He retaliated by jumping two of mine. “Might be a good time to tell him how you want to spend the holidays with him. Put his
persuasive
background to work.”

I made a sound and kept playing the game.

“‘Course, you’ll probably have to come back,” Shane said.

I didn’t care about that. I just wanted a way to get out, cause a little trouble, and then come back before anyone could even suspect it was me. All I needed was enough time to let the debauched boy inside me off his leash for a while before I let the choirboy in me shine again.

A little bit of balance. That’s all a guy could ask for.

I made it to the other side of the board and slid my black chip into place. “King me,” I said.

Shane looked up and smiled.

I smiled back.

Zach

Dr. Becks was a schmuck.

But she was an educated schmuck so that made her dangerous. She was also one of the people who stood between the door and me.

I had no doubt I would be able to bring her around to what I wanted. I just had to make it seem like it was her idea. I could do that, but it wasn’t going to be easy. Doctors like her were trained to read between the lines. They were trained to see what other people didn’t.

So…

To get around her education and training to the heart of the schmuck, I was going to have to bring it. Enter the not so easy part. You see, the best way to make people do what you want is to give them something they want.

And Becks wanted a breakthrough.

She wanted to think all the time she spent in classrooms, wearing that stupid white coat, and walking the halls of this fancy prison was worth it. She wanted a stroke to her ego. She wanted bragging rights around the water cooler.

I’d give it to her.

I didn’t want to, but it was the only way.

After my talk with Shane, I started laying the groundwork. Dropping hints, contributing vague omissions I knew would lead her to think all her yapping was finally starting to build back up whatever was broken inside me.

I couldn’t just walk into her office one day and spill my guts. Especially not so soon after being seen with Shane. Maybe no one noticed, but I wasn’t about to risk everything on maybe.

I knew I was on the right track when Dr. Becks added a second session to our weekly meetings. She was becoming more eager for the breakthrough she thought she was drawing out of me.

Like I said, she was a schmuck.

The more time passed, the more eager (okay, desperate) I was to get out of here. Hawks weren’t meant to be caged. Lions weren’t meant to be trapped. Kings were meant to reign.

I walked into her office and adjusted the scrubs I wore. I longed for a polo and a pair of dark jeans. I wanted to feel human again, not like some patient that was only ever trusted to wear pajamas or standard issue scrubs. And shoes. I’d like a pair of damn shoes. The real kind, with laces. I still wasn’t allowed that luxury (which was ridiculous), so I still wore slippers. Frankly, it seemed like a hardship I couldn’t dress the part of the man I was trying to portray.

Appearance was everything after all.

If I wanted Dr. Becks to see me as less of a patient, then I had to look and act like one. Walking around in a robe like I was ready to crawl into bed and sleep away the rest of my life wasn’t the kind of attitude that would get me out of here. I needed to look put together and confident, but not too confident.

I still needed vulnerability.

So, yeah, maybe the scrubs would help me with that.

Women loved vulnerability, even doctors who were trained to see it as a weakness.

Sometimes nature trumped training, and nature created women (well,
most
women) to soften when they saw someone who appeared injured or down on their luck.

I left my face unshaven—that wasn’t by choice. They wouldn’t let me have a razor either. So between my un-gelled hair, unshaven face, and slippers, I figured I still looked vulnerable yet with the appearance of
trying
to pull it together.

Can we just take a minute to bask in the genius that is my mind?

… … …

Okay, we’re back.

“Right on time, Zachary,” Dr. Becks said as I stepped toward the chair I was to sit in.

It annoyed the hell out of me when she called me that. I mean, seriously. I told her I don’t know how many times it was just Zach. She didn’t listen. I don’t know why she expected me to concentrate on any fool thing that came out of her mouth when she couldn’t even comprehend the way I asked to be addressed.

Only one other person ever called me that. I hated her too.

My fingers curled into my palm and squeezed. I felt the too-long nails cut into the skin, and it gave me a high. I liked that little prick of pain. The sick satisfaction.

She couldn’t control me. She could call me whatever she wanted, but it didn’t matter. In the end, I would always do what
I
wanted.

“Punctuality is a sign of respect,” I said, reluctantly unclenching my fist. It wouldn’t do for her to see my display of controlled anger.

The doctor indicated toward the chair and I sat. I felt agitated. What I knew I had to do, what I thought was going to be easy, was clearly not as simple as I thought.

I hated this place.

I hated Dr. Becks.

I hated her.

My knee started bouncing up and down as energy filled me and I couldn’t manage to keep it in.

I felt the sweeping stare of the woman across from me, and I wanted to snarl at her for her judgmental gaze. But I didn’t. I held in what I could.

“You seem anxious today,” she observed. “Would you like to tell me why?”

Fuck no, I wouldn’t.

When I didn’t answer, she set her pen down and focused solely on me. “I thought you were ready for more frequent sessions. Perhaps it’s too much right now.”

The mental vision of bars slamming in my face snapped me out of it.

“No,” I said quickly. Then I slumped forward a little and smiled internally. This wasn’t how I imagined this session going, but I could roll with this.

In fact, it would be better this way.

“I’m just, well…” I paused for effect. “I’ve just been thinking a lot lately.”

She nodded that I should go on.

“I don’t like it when you call me Zachary,” I admitted.

“Why is that?”

“It reminds me of
her
.”

“Her?” Dr. Beck’s tone shifted ever so slightly. The underlying note of interest was hard to miss. “By her do you mean your mother?”

Who else would I mean? Certainly not the woman everyone thought was my mother—the woman my father moved into our house like she would make us normal again, like this stand-in would fix everything
she
had broken.

I nodded and looked away at all her diplomas lining the walls. She was clearly an egomaniac.

“You’ve yet to talk about her during your stay.”

“I don’t like to talk about her.” The familiar rush of anger flushed my veins. I probably shouldn’t allow so much truth into my voice when I spoke of her, but it would only serve to be more convincing.

“Maybe talking about her might help,” the doctor suggested. “It’s quite possible a lot of the anger and resentment you have stems from whatever it is you hold inside. Perhaps it’s a driving force behind your behavior.”

“You mean the reason I hung that girl from a goalpost and then ran her boyfriend down with a lawnmower?” I said it matter-of-fact and with a straight face. I even managed to infuse a little regret in my tone.

Inside, I was high-fiving myself for my own epic-ness.

I ran down Mr. Quarterback himself with a lawnmower.

Ha!

“That was probably the most terrible thing you’ve done,” Becks said without any hint of judgment. Her acting was almost as good as mine. “But it certainly wasn’t the only thing you did to get yourself in here.”

Yeah, yeah. Poor nerd and poor Mr. Popularity. I’d just tortured them. Blah, blah, blah. Wonder what she’d say if I told her about the things I did that no one knew about.

She cleared her throat and waited for me to disagree with her statement. I didn’t say a word.

“Why don’t you tell me about your mother?”

“She’s quite the pillar of society.” I began. “She’s very active in charities. She always dresses for success, and she’s always poised under pressure. The perfect qualities for a lawyer’s wife. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m not asking about your stepmother. I think you know that. Though, we can talk about her if you like?”

Talking about that phony was almost as unpleasant as talking about my real mother. Except talking about stepmommy wouldn’t earn me a get out of jail free card.

“I’m surprised you don’t have everything there is to know about her in that file.” I motioned toward the folder lying in front of her.

“Facts written on a page are one thing. How they make you
feel
is completely different. I’m more interested in how she makes you feel, Zachary.”

God!
Did she call me that on purpose? Did she want my head to explode?

I pulled in a deep breath.

Long seconds ticked by, filled with silence. She reached down and opened the folder, revealing a stack of papers and charts inside. But there was something else clipped to the front flap.

Photographs.

Dr. Becks slid the top one out from beneath a paperclip and held it up so I could see it. “This is her? Your mother?”

I fought to keep my upper lip from curling in disgust.

But even as unpleasant as the image was, I still stared at it. I couldn’t look away.

My mother, Jennifer Anne Marshall-Bettinger, was a bona fide piece of work. My father should have dumped her back where he found her when she decided to hyphenate her last name instead of just using his.

She was a small woman with a delicate frame and not much of anything on her bones. It gave her the appearance of being weak, of looking like she needed to be protected. I hated women that looked frail.

Her hair was a deep shade of brown, very long and thick. It was perfectly styled in the picture before me, but I knew it had the ability to be unruly. Her skin was pale, which made her large dark eyes stand out behind the glasses she wore.

Jennifer was good at appearing innocent.

She most definitely wasn’t.

“That’s her.” I nodded.

Dr. Becks lowered the photo, laying it on the desk and out of sight. Yet I still saw her face. The hate she made me feel still pulsed just beneath my skin.

“Why don’t you tell me about her? All that pent-up emotion must be difficult to manage.” Her gentle words prodded me.

And so I did.