Page 91 of The River Is Waiting

I don’t. I just stand there, looking around the room where I was told to meet him. Pink cinder-block walls, dirty blue plastic chairs on either side of a chipped metal table, bulletin board with nothing much posted on it, an almost empty bookshelf. This is nobody’s office; it’s just a room where you’re sent when you put in a request to see someone, which I did two weeks ago.

Why am I even here? I just need to keep my head down, keep my mouth shut, and keep counting the days until I’m out of here. That documentary I saw last week about “the Greatest Generation” talked about how those guys who had survived the brutality of war came home and kept their memories to themselves. Compared to what those soldiers and sailors suffered, what happened to me is nothing.

Blankenship looks different. Better than I remember him looking. Nice suit, matching necktie and pocket square. Looks like he lost some weight. New wife maybe? Some younger woman who’s given him a makeover? Didn’t he used to be bald? “No, don’t book it yet, sweetheart. I know it’s a good deal, but the flight’s not going to fill up between now and when I get home tonight.” This is ridiculous. I signal to him that I’m leaving. “Hold on,” he says. He tells Sweetheart he’s got a patient waiting and he’ll see her shortly after five. Adds that he loves her, too.

As he hangs up the phone, he checks his watch. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says. “I’m Dr. Blankenship. And you’re…” He looks down at the pass I just gave him. “Corbin Ledbetter.” No recognition of our earlier exchange, not that I should have expected it. It was almost three years ago. “So what can I do for you, Corbin? Tell me what’s happening.” He may look different, but he still has that high-pitched voice.

I scan the room. Feel the fingernails of my one hand digging intothe flesh of the other. Squint to read the spine of that paperback on the bookshelf; it’s Stephen King’sThe Stand. When I look back at him, I tell him that someone did something to me and it’s messing with my head.

“Go on,” he says. Waits. “If you want me to help you, Corbin, you’re going to have to be more specific.”

My right foot’s tapping against the floor like crazy. I should have walked the fuck out of here while I had the chance. “Hey, can I ask you something? Before I got sentenced, I was seeing this doctor. Dr. Patel. Didn’t she used to work here?”

“Yes, part-time. Lovely woman. You saw her at her private practice?”

“Yeah.… Yup.”

“So what did that person do to you?”

I take a deep breath and let it out, but give him an edited version. Tell him I got butt-raped but don’t correct his assumption that my assailant was another inmate.

“Did you go to the medical unit? Get tested for HIV and any other STDs?”

I lie. Say I did. “Everything came back negative.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Right?” I nod. “Have you reported this? Filed a complaint? Talked to your counselor?” I shake my head. “What about privately? Have you told anyone in confidence? A friend or a custody officer who you can trust?”

“An officer I can trust? Where would I find one of those?” He doesn’t respond. “No, you’re the first person I’ve told.”

“And this incident happened when?”

“About three weeks ago.”

He glances again at his watch. “How have things been going for you since?”

“Not so good.”

“And what are the specifics of ‘not so good’?”

“I feel nervous a lot. Scared that it might happen again. And just so freakin’ angry, you know? I’ve been having fantasies about payback.”

“But they’re just fantasies? Nothing you’re planning to act on?” I shake my head. “You having problems sleeping? Depression? Loss of appetite?”

“All of the above, actually.”

“Anything triggering you? Making you relive the memory?”

I shake my head. “No, wait,” I tell him. “The assault happened in a storage room outside the chow hall, okay? And there’s these big sacks of onions piled up in there. Last week, someone left the door to that room open, and on my way into the hall to eat, I got a whiff of those onions and… It didn’t last long, but for a couple of seconds, I started breathing hard and it felt like it was going to happen again.”

“Like a flashback?”

“More like a mini panic attack or something.”

“You’ve experienced panic attacks before?”

“Yeah. Dr. Patel? When I was seeing her, she gave me these strategies to help me short-circuit them when they’re starting. Breathing exercises, grounding exercises. And then, after I came here, she wrote me this letter, which, you know, she didn’t have to do, but it was really helpful.”

“And what did the letter say?”

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