Scars and Secrets

Chapter One

THE SARANAC RIVER empties into the mouth of Lake Champlain and a sliver of late-evening sun shimmies and slices across shavings of broken ice like a school of shiny fish.

I straighten the blue-and-white striped silk tie my last boyfriend gifted me and stare out at the early November landscape. The ground is dusted with newly fallen snow, and the river, a swollen malignant serpentine of icy water, snakes through a vista of evergreens and sycamores.

I catch my hard stare in the reflection of the large picture window of my therapist’s office.

Dr. James Matheson, basketball tall with peacock-blue eyes and warm brown skin, dressed in a rosy-pink dress shirt and charcoal-gray suit, coaxes me back to the present. His voice is butter soft and attractive, musically inclined and bilingual. Spanish on his mother’s side, I think.

My thoughts unravel like vines on a branch, disoriented, a broken fuse box with faulty wiring. I blow out a loud breath and turn to the long-legged and handsome therapist, my hands packed in the pockets of my khakis so he won’t see them shake. Men make me nervous and weak-kneed.

Dr. Matheson is patient and smiling, waiting for me to speak, to say something, since I’ve been standing in silence for the last fifteen minutes, staring out at the dismal day passing by.

I think about my mother who lies in the hospital dying. I’ve just come from visiting her, before my scheduled therapy session. Dr. Matheson wants to discuss it, from his stone silence and sensitive stares.

I glance at my wristwatch. I’ve been in Pretty Boy’s office for almost an hour, and I haven’t said much or given the good old doc enough to judge or dislike me or cancel my next session. I am surprised he has not asked me not to come back. Maybe he’ll call County Hospital and admit me to the psych ward on the fourth floor if I open my mouth and let him into my dark, sad life.

He does not reach for the phone. He sits poised in the high brown leather chair behind his polished cherry wood desk, with many medical certifications on the wall behind him.

He stares across the room at me, grins, keeping a professional manner, waiting for me to give him his money and time’s worth.

I drag myself toward the overstuffed leather chair across from his desk and collapse into it, as if it is my home base.

I find it hard to hold Dr. Matheson’s gaze. Shyness overcomes me and I wring my hands. My anxiety levels heighten. My stare darts across the room at the sudden arrival of hard balls of sleet beating the glass and the braying wind cutting through the tops of snowcapped trees across the lake.

My breath catches, and I hear Dr. Matheson talking, his voice muffled, the tail end of his last words: …do you want to talk about it?

I cringe and feel his eyes on me when I turn away to the ice-crusted window on the far wall. My eyes close, and my lips clamp shut in a jagged line as rage seethes under my thin layer of vulnerability. My gut clutches.

Ralph? he says.

My name means nothing to me. Foreign, a stranger, someone I left in the past.

I lift my head slowly, and it is as if an unseen, supernatural force presses down on my shoulders, forcing me to keep quiet.

I am guarded as the walls go up around me. A nerve twitches under my right eye. Maddening!

Dr. Matheson shifts in his chair, and I sense that I have kept him waiting too long; his displeasure is like a bulldozer digging through the tendril of roots and dead zone of my brain, demolishing my thoughts. He’s got to get home to his girlfriend, wife, whoever. Maybe it’s a blind date, I imagine, invoking vulgar and naughty thoughts of Dr. Matheson in a heavy-duty threesome. One of the bottoms is me. I lift my dreamy gaze to his masculine, model-thin face, chiseled jaw, and rugged handsomeness. I can smell the citrus scent of his cologne ten feet from where I sit. Heat crawls into my face, aroused, my interest and other unmentionable areas proudly piqued.

I want a man like James: Built like a Greek God, Zeus or Ares. Tough. Striking. Dominant.

What are you thinking about? he asks, curling his small puckish lips. You seem far away.

Clingy cobwebs of darkness thicken inside my head, gauzy and wet, sticking to the wall of my brain like silly string. Deadness, I say, uncertain where this conversation is heading.

The face of my mother flashes in my mind, and I think about running back to the hospital and staying by her side.

James uncrosses his leg from left to right and changes positions so the side of his face illuminates in a shaft of soft glow from the floor lamp hanging over his shoulder. I want to tell him he looks fucking sexy that way, but I keep quiet. He holds his yellow writing pad, the tips of his fingers turning white, and I dream about what he can do to me with those meaty hands. Touch me in my favorite place, I want to tell him. But I don’t.

I picture him holding my face in his sweaty palms as we lock gazes, staring haughtily into each other’s eyes. The stiffness of my erection knocks against the fabric of my pants. I squirm in my chair.

What do you mean? he asks. Deadness?

I force myself to blink a few times, snap out of my hazy dream, and look up at Dr. Matheson. His expression is alarming, unblinking. He stares at me, bordering on the threshold of a stalker.

I find a way out of my rut, clawing, digging, and rummaging through a labyrinth of unfathomable responses. All I want to do is listen to Twenty One Pilots or Nickelback and drink beer. Forget about life, people, and work.

Except for my mother. My ex-boyfriend, Eli, too.

I want to see him. It’s been a while since he walked out on me and never returned.

Dr. Matheson angles his head to the side, deciding whether to ask his next set of questions. I hear him swallow, and it sounds like he has a dry mouth or is uncomfortable asking me a question from the long list on his pad. He is overthinking, I notice. How is your mother? When I don’t answer immediately, he adds, How are the nightmares? My reason for being here.

I sigh. I don’t want to talk about what keeps me awake at night, although this past week—year—has been terrifying. It’s been nonstop, I say.

Have you been to the hospital?

I nod. Before I came here.

Do you want to talk about it?

It’s scary. Seeing my mother in that hospital bed makes me want to die. I hate watching her wither away slowly.

Hearing what I’m about to say might not make sense to you now, but in the long run, you’ll feel better. He closes his writing pad, leans forward, and folds his hands atop the desk. Being with your mother in these difficult times is the most important part of this process. You’re healing her but also healing yourself.

How?

You’re proving to your mother how much she means to you by visiting her daily, holding her hand, and talking. Keep her company. She can trust you. Dealing with hard times toughens you too. As difficult as it is to see her health failing, it is strengthening your mother-son bond.

I wish I had somebody to call at night and talk to about this, I say, sitting back. I’ve got nobody.

You can always talk to me.

I shake my head. It’s not the same.

How is it different?

We’re not close—you’re not my boyfriend.

He reaches for his writing pad and sits back in his chair, the nuts and bolts of his seat squawking like a distressed chicken. Are you thinking about your boyfriend?

My ex. And yes.

Have you been thinking about that time?

That time.

When my ex-boyfriend, Elijah Ray, left me without a trace last month. He told me he’d be back. I have a few things to deal with, he’d said. But I never saw him again after he left my apartment that night.

I dig my fingertips into the chair’s cushy armrest. Dr. Matheson’s prickly question provokes ghastly images of isolation, something I had become familiar with when my mother’s cancer spread, and she got sick and was admitted to the hospital. But now, something in my therapist’s unexpected analysis directs me back to a frightening, unpredictable past.

How are you feeling? he asks, yanking me back to the present, where things are marginally safer.

I look up into his alluring and soft, blue eyes. I am distracted and deviate into the indulgent contours of his kissable lips and smooth, freshly shaved face.

I reach into the pocket of my front pants for my honey-mint lip balm. I apply a little and smack my lips hard, for effect mostly, the taste sweet and delicious. It’s been lonely, I answer. I don’t sleep well. I wake to every small noise. A door opening, the wind in the trees, or the train roaring past the river by my apartment.

Dr. Matheson checks his expensive watch, a gesture I find gratingly unprofessional. He stops writing and sets his elbows on his massive desk, which makes him look small and part of the furniture. What you’re feeling is normal behavior. Loss is not easy. You will be sad for a while. But the pain minimizes over time.

I want to spend another hour with Dr. Hottie. I’m hoping he doesn’t tell me our time is up.

He continues. That’s the first time you’ve shared anything personal about yourself during the two months you’ve been here.

Interlocking my fingers, I look at the rising anger and resentment I’ve created in my clenched hands, curling and uncurling. I cough and straighten my stooped posture, the bottoms of my running shoes shuffling over the immaculate floral rug under my chair. I don’t like talking about Elijah—or my mother. But I have to.

It’s a healthy way to help you understand how you’re feeling and to lessen the burden and pain you carry every day, he says. Most people don’t know they’re feeling overwhelmed until they face it with conversation.

When Eli walked out on me, he hurt me badly. There was no explanation or recourse for his actions.

Dr. Matheson glances at his watch again—Rolex or Cartier, it’s luxurious, that’s all I know. He says, It’s traumatic and complicated to deal with alone. I’m glad you were mindful of your circumstances and to carry out a plan to join therapy. It’s an age-old tradition that helps open dialogue for greater opportunities. He pauses. We’ve got a few minutes left. We can talk about anything you’d like. How would you like to spend your time?

As I suck in a lungful of air, a sharp pang travels like subliminal messages inside my chest to my brain. Panic attack? Guilt? A broken heart?

I don’t want to give my fear a name. I ignore it; fight it. No more lies, I tell myself. My pulse quickens, and my heart strikes like fluttering wings, expanding like a balloon behind my ribcage. I am shaky; I need a fix—anything, a beer or something more substantial, or a one-night stand without strings attached. I flash Dr. Matheson a tight smile; the lilt of his voice, when he opens his mouth to talk, stirs something wicked in me.

When I say anything, it is the end of my session. The hour goes by too quickly.

We can schedule a time for next week if you’d like. How’s Friday?

I nod. A buzzing inside my head forces me to close my eyes. Something shudders and skitters across my vision, fuzzy like a thread of film moving from one scene to the next. Through a haze, I see Dr. Matheson pushing away from his desk, standing at a slant, all six foot three of him, mulling and scrutinizing something in the shadows, as he moves toward me.

He towers over me from where I sit. There’s a cakey glaze of sweat on my palms. My body is immobile, as if glued to the chair. In an obscure hallucination, I see the outline of Dr. Matheson shifting in front of me, his large hands brushing mine as he lowers himself into a kneeling position on the rug.

Clammy fingertips. Racing heart. Electricity pricks my flesh. Dr. Matheson—James—fumbles in the dark for my belt, his warm, damp fingers sliding under the loop, unclasping it. He is rough; I admire his bravery. He’s got guts.

I moan, my erection hardening at his bold touch. My head falls along the back of the chair. He tugs at my leather belt, loosening it for easier access. His hands travel to my tie, untying it, my gift from Elijah.

My thoughts blur as my therapist invades my personal space without permission, and I sit back, allowing it. He manhandles me with the solid and jerky movements of his barbell hands; his labored breathing undresses me as he rips off my pants and jockstrap, rolling my jeans and underwear down to my ankles.

He’s a pro on so many levels.

He spreads my legs with his hands and burrows his face into the warmth of my crotch, his mouth finding the slippery tip of my cock. I imagine James worshipping his male clientele after each session. His tongue slides over my boner, and the humming vibration of his mouth sliding up and down my shaft makes me ejaculate a thick, creamy load, my body seizing, trembling, coming to life.

I’m moaning.

But then I startle awake, disoriented, staring around the room to find Dr. Matheson watching me wide-eyed from across the room behind his desk. I wipe saliva from my mouth, look to make sure my pants are buckled around my waist, and stand quickly. I gather my backpack from the couch behind me and hurry out of the room, embarrassed, aroused, and somewhat oddly satisfied.

See you Friday, Dr. Matheson yells behind me, but I am already out of the office and in the elevator before I can answer him.

Chapter Two

I LOCK MYSELF in my rattletrap car as darkness coils around the parking lot and wait. I feel like a voyeur, sitting in the driver’s seat, the fabric of my boxers damp with cum. I watch from behind a thin layer of snow-covered windshield, anticipating Dr. Matheson walking out to his black SUV.

I turn the ignition and flip through stations, landing on a familiar R&B song.

Three tunes later, Dr. Matheson exits the side door of the building with his briefcase and long, dark overcoat, walking quickly through the freshly fallen snow to his vehicle. He is talking on his smartphone and laughing at a joke or something someone says. His boyish smile is infectious. I glimpse myself grinning in the side mirror and am roused by what I see. A brave man, content. Happy and amused, from the looks of it. I imagine my muscular therapist shrink-wrapped in his skin, a bodybuilder with ten percent body fat protected with physical armor underneath his tight suits and ties.

I watch him kicking snow from his patent leather shoes against the bottom of the vehicle. He unlocks the driver’s side door and tosses his briefcase into the passenger seat before climbing inside.

Waiting is torturous, but I bear it, blowing out a loud breath, my fingers tapping the steering wheel impatiently as time passes slowly.

The engine of his vehicle rumbles to life, and he waits a few minutes to melt the snow off the front and rear windshields before he drives to the building’s main entrance.

I pull out of the lot after him, heading toward my barren apartment, the broken trunk door slamming up and down from the slow, meticulous drive.

I still need to get around to fixing it.

Half an hour later, I pull into the parking lot behind my cracker-box apartment, the metal structure of a small bridge and train track looming like a giant monster rising from the dusk behind it near the edge of the Saranac River. I shut off the ignition and sit behind the wheel, wallowing in the silence, thinking about Dr. Matheson and hearing him talking with that sexy Spanish inflection in the back of my mind.

I close my eyes. My therapist’s dark stubble brushes against mine in the dreamy haze behind my eyelids. His sweet peppermint breath, thick and cloying, is heavy in the back of my throat as he slides his tongue in and out of my mouth, panting and whispering dirty words in his dark, drape-drawn office.

I glide my hand down the front of my pants to my erection. The fantasy of Dr. Matheson with me is hallucinatory, our bodies grinding into each other, a consistent rhythm, the sound of damp bare skin slapping against skin, our satisfying moans escaping us. I unbutton my jeans and slide the zipper down to grasp my dick, slippery with pre-cum.

The warm, dank odors of our bodies after sex arouses all my senses, and I arch backward along the headrest, the sound of Dr. Matheson’s deep baritone voice urging me to kiss him. I want to fuck you, he murmurs as he slams against my backside, rough, enjoyable, beautiful. His groans are music to my ears. I can taste his candy-sweet lips, connecting like magnets. His welcoming hands caress me, discovering my pleasurable spots, along my spine, down my back, to the opening of my ass, his wandering, curious fingers guiding me to climax.

I shake awake, my eyes popping open, alert, alarmed, surprised. I suck in a deep breath, my chest heaving, thoughts scrambled. When I notice I am alone, sitting in my car in the deserted parking lot behind my apartment, I look down at my hands, sticky and wet from the friction of my solo hand job.

Leaning back, I close my eyes and breathe unhurriedly, trying to regain composure. I swallow the rush of adrenaline climbing up my throat, and I can’t stop imagining Dr. Matheson naked, his muscular body glistening beneath his skintight suits. His arms and chest are ripped from a religious workout, and I envision him lifting weights, running, and swimming.

My mind is hazy, and I must peel myself away from the make-believe dream that is only my imagination. I reach into my glove box for a napkin to clean off the gummy residue from my palms and fingers.

I leave the car and walk to the river’s edge, tucking my hands in my pockets, hiding them from the sharp wind. Standing on the embankment in the early dusk, I take a long breath, the air clouding like thick fog.

A car engine rumbles through the night, disrupting my meditations. I turn to a set of blinding headlights slicing across the parking lot. I raise a hand to shield the light from my eyes. Snow dances wildly in front of the headlights. I check my watch: quarter after seven.

My heart sinks.

The ignition turns off, and the headlights dim, submerging me back into sheer darkness, or madness, just me and the sound of a low tide on the Saranac River behind me. The river is not yet completely frozen. Areas closer to the river’s edge are solid ice, but the middle of the lake is dangerously thin.

Footsteps approach me, heavy and rushed, snow crunching like Styrofoam chips under his feet. I know it is a man because of the quickening pace of his gait coming toward me and the nasty wheeze of his breathing.

The moment he yells my name, my skin breaks out in goosebumps; somewhere in the trenches of my psyche, my thoughts are drowned out by his familiar, brutal redneck voice.

I’ve been tryin’ to call ya, my former boyfriend, Elijah, says.

Chapter Three

WE CLIMB THE fire escape to my apartment on the fifth floor and crawl in through an unlocked window.

"Why didn’t we use