The Masquerade
The Masquerade
Jillian Hand
I spend the first three-minutes of therapy wondering if any of Dr. Mitchell’s other patients are as fucked-up as I am. For the next two minutes, I stare at the thin pink scar stretched across the skin on his left hand. I inspect it further when he sits next to me, close enough to smell the sour stench of cheap coffee, but our bodies are separated by the thick crease between the couch cushions.
He smiles and settles comfortably against the black leather, “it’s good to see you, Evelyn.”
It’s futile to try and conceal the hasty flush of heat to my cheeks as I pull nervously at the pale green scarf wrapped tightly around my neck. It is my only shield of protection on the streets-- not simply from the February frost-- from people. Layers are helpful when masking secrets and disguising fat.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
The well-rehearsed lie easily falls from my lips. By now, Dr. Mitchell has memorized the infamous charade and can see right through my plastic smile. He offers me a genuine grin, hoping to trade it for the truth.
“I haven’t really been sleeping,” I finally admit with a shaky breath, “the dreams keep waking me up.”
The cushion starts to swallow my small frame. I shift closer into the crevice, briefly brushing against Dr. Mitchell’s worn khakis. Neither of us flinch from the contact. He observes me with his warm blue eyes, the color of a clear July sky, and a cloak of safety instantly descends upon my shoulders. Everything about Dr. Mitchell is familiar. Predictable. Hypnotic.
It is what I wish I could be.
“Tell me about them.” His words are coated in refined sugar, the kind I crave in the middle of the night. Nothing else seems to satisfy my desperate hunger.
“They’re different every time,” I say, staring at the scar along the top of his hand again, “but they always feel so real.”
Dr. Mitchell nods thoughtfully. He is patient, too. I am not.
My words are often tangled, like beads on a string without a proper pattern. They are rushed and chaotic, but somehow, Dr. Mitchell can always decipher the meaning.
With a consciousness of their own, my fingers begin a delicate dance and skate across the exposed column of my neck until they land on a loose thread dangling from the scarf. I pull on it, like a piece of hair, twisting it around my thumb before snapping it free. Dr. Mitchell probably notes it as a nervous tick-- another box to check, another symptom to file beneath a long list of diagnoses. I’m a wild animal confined to a cage, constantly monitored by a rotation of veterinarians who think they have the power to heal me. If I wasn’t broken, they would never be brave enough to approach me.
But I remind myself Dr. Mitchell is not like the others. He doesn’t try to stitch my scars or clean my stains because he doesn’t see me as someone in need of saving. I don’t need to be healed. Just understood.
There is no need to hide when I am with Dr. Mitchell. He is safe. I can be myself-- my authentic, disheveled, confused, sticky, turbulent self: Evelyn Artison.
I’m suddenly aware of how warm it is inside the office -- the afternoon sunlight leaks in from the wide window, beaming across my perspiring forehead like I’m on Broadway. I pull further on the scarf until it falls limply past my shoulders, exposing a greater expanse of creamy skin. The smooth pad of my finger dips into the deep crevice of my collarbone. I feel my pulse jump as Dr. Mitchell pretends not to notice but I watch his eyes trek across my chest like a voyager memorizing a map. I grin slowly.
Shedding my scarf is like shedding skin and stripping bare; I should feel naked. Strangely, the vulnerability is comforting. It helps to know the small display of satisfaction stretching across Dr. Mitchell’s lips is because I am finally opening up.
“What happens after you wake up from these dreams?” He asks, shifting his body closer to mine.
“Sometimes I feel paralyzed,” I admit, referring to my most recent nightmare when I woke up wanting to run but my body was cemented to the mattress. Even my lungs had trouble inhaling. “Other times I wake up and assume the dream was real-- like it happened the day before. There have even been a few times when I think I’m in a dream but it’s actually real life.”
Dr. Mitchell traces a wrinkle etched across his forehead with his fingertip, “So you have a difficult time distinguishing your dreams from reality, is that right?”
I nod, “exactly.”
“Have you ever dreamt of something from your past? Sometimes a repressed memory resurfaces in the form of a dream. It could be why some dreams are so vivid.”
I shake my head. I already considered this as an option after Googling ‘dreams that feel like reality.’ Apparently, it’s quite common.
“Not that I know of,” I contemplate. Anxiety is gripping my ankles and gnawing its jagged teeth on my bones. These days, my world is forever filled with uncertainty. I wonder if there is a place between reality and dreams where I can escape to, if only for the briefest moment.
Dr. Mitchell is wiping away imaginary lint from his pants when his hand brushes against mine. The friction produces enough of a jolt to halt an impending panic attack. He must detect the hazy look of burnt-out light in my eyes because he asks if I am feeling alright. My mouth is too dry to form an immediate answer. I sip on a heavy breath, then point to his hand. The dire need to know the story behind the scar officially infiltrates my brain and short-circuits all other thoughts. On impulse, I reach out and touch it. Dr. Mitchell does not recoil.
“How did you get this?”
“Fishing accident,” he answers and smiles at the memory as I gently trace the rough flesh. “I was twelve. My dad was teaching me to bait a hook and I guess I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Does it ever hurt?”
“No. It healed a long time ago.”
I want to show him my scars, but they are embedded far below the surface. They do not have stories of origin, nor are they attached to any specific memory, but they are an integral part of who I am; they live inside of me. Sometimes, though, I wish I could tear myself apart at the seams and set them free. Maybe then the weight in my soul would be released.
The cruel ticking of a clock redirects my thoughts, but I pay no mind to the time. Sitting in Dr. Mitchell’s office is as close to steady as I will ever get.
As he continues to recall fishing stories from his childhood, I listen carefully. Dr. Mitchell’s wistful smile is one I have not seen before. It is strangely endearing. I almost forget he is my doctor and I am the patient. Stillness envelopes the room like a layer of steam. I bask in its warmth.
He has not yet shied from my touch, so I tighten the grip and give his hand a gentle squeeze. Then, in one fluid motion, Dr. Mitchell’s free arm wraps itself around the back of the couch and grazes the tip of my shoulder. We share smiles like secrets; clandestine and coy. I lean forward and allow my hand to wander the length of his leg while he unravels the rest of my scarf like a spool of thread. It lands in a crumpled heap beneath the couch-- it’s the last image I see before my eyes snap shut and all I feel is a rush of hot breath land across my lips.
* * *
I try my best to avoid mirrors, but today, I become reacquainted with my forgotten reflection. Throughout the years, time and worry have settled into the deep fault lines stretched across my face; I mend them with a thick layer of foundation, hoping Dr. Mitchell won’t notice the cracks.
I’m running late to our next session, yet I can’t look away from the woman staring at me, trapped inside glass. The slanted smile is foreign on my lips-- especially lined in bright red lip gloss-- but it blossomed after kissing Dr. Mitchell. It happened a week ago, though after evicting all my other thoughts like damaged boxes, the moment lives with me constantly.
If we hadn’t been interrupted by his next patient, my body would still gladly be molded between his chest and the leather couch. I remember rushing out of the office and leaving behind a trail of enchantment. On the subway, I wondered if strangers could see I had a secret concealed behind my smirk. For once, I was not afraid of being seen.
Even now, as I study my reflection, I do not shudder. With one last longing look and a brief touch of my hair, I nod in approval. I am ready to see Dr. Mitchell.
I arrive at the appointment thirty minutes early and scowl at the young, pretty receptionist who greets me with a sanguine smile. She is sleek looking, like the rest of Dr. Mitchell’s office-- full of sharp, symmetrical lines, and modern leather. I, of course, am the anthesis: jagged, faded, faux fur. Dressed in a worn and overly washed red sweater, ripped jeans, and clunky black boots, it is clear I do not blend well with the minimalist aesthetic of the waiting room. Still, I sit and wait on a silver chair with my head held high.
My attention focuses on an expensive piece of artwork on the wall across from me—it is a far cry from the Georgia O’Keeffe knockoff in my former therapist’s office. I squint at the vibrant, abstract lines painted with careful precision and determine it is probably an original piece—one that Dr. Mitchell bought from a famous French painter at a ritzy art gallery on the Lower East Side.
I soon begin picturing him and I in the future--our hands clasped together-- casually strolling through The Guggenheim on a Sunday morning after brunching at a quaint café across from Central Park. We’ll kiss over coffee and share sections from The New York Times, and scoff at the same headlines, then share a cab back to his place and shed most of our clothes before we reach the front door.
Unfortunately, the fantasy is rudely interrupted by the same receptionist, who, now standing, looks more like a twig than a human. Figures, she must be a secretary by day and a model by night.
“Evelyn, Dr. Mitchell will see you now,” she says.
I stand, inhale a strong shot of confidence, and smile.
The door to his office opens and she, thankfully, disappears. Dr. Mitchell stands by his desk, waiting. I waste no time in strutting towards him, fingers itching to tear the buttons from his shirt.
However, my sudden brazenness appears to startle Dr. Mitchell. A slice of unease disrupts his even composure, and like the first fraction made in a pristine sheet of ice, it cannot be mended— for it begins slow and steady but ends in an instant ricochet.
He recoils from my reach. It is a miniscule gesture profound enough to trigger the one feeling I have spent my entire life running from: rejection. And so, the silent berating begins. I should have known better. Rejection always resurfaces, but it is far worse than a shadow. Shadows follow with an air of detachment. Rejection, though, is woven between the fibers of my skin. I will never know a life without it.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter. Really, what else is there to say? I came on too strongly and demolished the thinnest shred of happiness I had left. Apparently, I can’t even have an affair correctly.
While Dr. Mitchell allows my pathetic words to dangle in the air between us, I feel the weight of every apology I once said begin to settle onto the tip of my tongue. It is a miracle I do not choke on the chewy excess of unnecessary excuses.
“Have a seat, Evelyn,” he points to the couch across from where he now sits. I look towards the shut door and debate whether I should leave, “let’s talk about what just happened.”
I wonder if he senses my internal battle—if he can see the creaky wheels struggling to spin beneath my broken brain. I am ready to run. It’s what I do best, but Dr. Mitchell’s eyes beg me to stop. So, I stay.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s an explanation beyond my comprehension as to why he is seemingly disturbed by my advances. It is this thought that leads me, tentatively, towards the same couch our bodies met the week prior. My palms press against the sticky leather as my lower half squirms against a cold cushion, searching for comfort. An image of Dr. Mitchell writhing above me, warm and hard, resurfaces as a temporary memory. I’d do just about anything to relive it, for elusive images will never replace physical feelings.
I’m not sure how I actually feel, so I sift through each emotion, consider every angle, and decide to be angry. How can Dr. Mitchell sit across from me, so cruel and cold in his smugness, and pretend as if our last session never happened?
“I’m going to be frank with you, Evelyn,” Dr. Mitchell starts, “this is a new behavior from you.”
I am honest in my response but disguise my petulance with a clipped tone, “I thought we would continue from where we left off.”
My tongue traces my lower lip as a form of bait, but he is oblivious. Instead, Dr. Mitchell gives a curt nod, then reaches for his notebook.
“It looks like we discussed the relationship you have with your father and a particular dream you had. Is it still bothering you?”
“No,” I snarl. What I want to say is, get your fucking facts right. We talked about my absent-father two weeks ago.
“What’s on your mind, then?”
My sardonic laugh resounds through the office. Loudly.
“You!” I implode, “I can’t stop thinking about you and the last time that we met. All I’ve wanted was for you to make love to me again.”
Dr. Mitchell looks at me strangely, almost as if this is his first-time hearing about our intimacy. I feel crazier than ever—and that’s after two past visits to a psychiatric hospital.
“I suppose this explains the way you tried to greet me today,” he muses aloud.
I start to scratch. Another nervous habit. Sharp fingernails rake along my legs. It’s not enough. I wish I’d found my scarf.
“We made love!” I shrieked with a hint of urgency. “Last time. Right here. On this couch.”
The scratching intensifies. I scour my brain frantically for the memory; once vivid, now blurred by fuzzy static. It was real, wasn’t it?
I wish I’d found my scarf.
“Go on,” Dr. Mitchell presses. His tone curious, his body composed.
“You were there!” I yell, “I mean, here. Right. On. This. Couch.” Each word is punctuated with my finger jabbing the couch cushion. “With me.”
“Evelyn,” Dr. Mitchell interrupts my conviction with his smooth drawl, “it’s important you tell me the details of what you can recall.”
“Don’t you remember?” Desperately, I leap from the couch and pace the hardwood floor. I recount the specifics. The handholding. The arm around my shoulder. The scar. The stories from childhood. The scarf falling. The lips caressing. The bodies colliding as one.
Dr. Mitchell frowns. I pause. His whole face, including the spattering of unshaved stubble surrounding his jaw, sags.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Please, continue.”
Before I can continue, I must put an end to my plaguing doubts.
“Dr. Mitchell,” I am reticent in pursuit of a confirmation, “how did you get that scar on your hand?”
“Oh, this?” He flips his palm and stares at the wounded flesh, then looks at me, “I got it one night in college. I was drunk and punched a window. Pretty stupid, huh?”
His response confirms what I already know: I am either fucking crazy, or he’s lying.
“You sure you didn’t get it from a fishhook?” I challenge.
“Uh, no. I’ve never fished a day in my life.”
I try to stifle a nervous snicker. Tears brim beneath my eyelids, then trickle down my cheeks in a stream of black mascara. Now I look crazy.
Am I?
~*~
“Do you think I’m insane?” I ask as he hands me a tissue to wipe away the tears.
It’s difficult to look Dr. Mitchell in the eye, especially after learning I spent the entire week thinking we’d been together when it was only just a dream—something he helped me realize.
Life is scary when you cannot distinguish fiction from reality.
“I don’t judge you, Evelyn. I’m trained to help you explore what influences your perception of reality and to help you gain clarity.”
His response is clinical. And, dressed in a clean, starched white-collared shirt, Dr. Mitchell is the paragon of professionalism. It occurs to me I do not actually know anything about him. He has always maintained a respectable distance. Free of a wedding ring, I know he is not married, but he very well could be in a relationship. Either way, it is foolish of me to have believed the dream was real. Of course he didn’t kiss me, and nothing else happened.
But, did I know it was a dream? Perhaps I wanted so badly to believe it was real that I fooled myself into thinking it was.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Mitchell,” I sigh, “this is all so confusing.”
He nods, “I imagine so, but it’s not uncommon for situations like this to happen. Often times, people mistake gratitude for other feelings that expresses itself in romantic overtures.”
“But why was I convinced that it really happened?”
Dr. Mitchell launches into a lengthy psychological explanation that has something to do with subconscious desires manifesting in dreams. I only pretend to listen. Truthfully, I’m drowning in my own thoughts. Trying to understand his clinical rationale is like trying to capture a cloud.
Visceral frustration, confusion, and mortification mix together to create the color red tinted on my cheeks. I need to hide, but my skin, bleeding beneath my pants from the sharp scratching, won’t let me crawl inside the raw wounds. Dr. Mitchell said he won’t judge me, but I am convinced he views me in a filthy light.
I confess to feeling stupid, but he persists on helping me build a better understanding of dreams and equipping me with the proper tools to do so. He suggests that I start keeping a dream journal and switches my medications to help me with what he describes as ‘delusions’.
I’m not settled—it’s a lot to process when you learn your mind is a lie— so I ask Dr. Mitchell to end the session early. We have a lot more work ahead, but I assure him I trust the process. I trust him—and eventually, I hope to trust myself. Some progress is better than none; at least that’s what he tells me.
Our farewell is quick. We part with cordial smiles—mine shines with hope. He has not given up on me. I’m not insane.
I’m halfway out of the office before I hesitate. In the corner of my eye, just as I grab the door handle, I see a lump of green fabric peeking out from beneath the couch.
It’s my scarf.
