Page 2 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
And I can’t risk having him cut one or both of us loose. It would be too disorienting, too upsetting, for Em. My singular goal is to shield her from harm, not subject her to it. Besides, I find my twice-a-year sessions a comforting ritual. It’s odd to admit that. After all, these are psychotherapy sessions based on a series of lies.
I don’t enjoy lying to my therapist. Assuming Tate’s identity just happened. I blurted his name, not my own, at the first session. The reason I started seeing Dr. Wilde was to understand the trauma that shaped my brother and, to a lesser extent, me. So I was nervous, and I guess Tate was top of mind.
Then, once I started dating Emily, I realized using Tate’s name had been a stroke of genius. When she mentions Tristan, her boyfriend/fiancé/husband, to her psychotherapist, it sets off no alarm bells with the good doctor.
He makes some noises about me putting myself out there romantically and gives me the assignment of asking someone out for coffee before our next session. I nod earnestly as I assure him that I’ll try.
He moves on briskly, checks his notes, and asks if I’m still having night terrors. I know lying to him is counterproductive, but I’m not ready to talk about my latest nightmare fodder, so I tell him no.
He doesn’t even blink, just breezes on to the next item on his checklist: Have I talked about the past with my mother since my last appointment?
“God no. I’m still not ready.”
This answer happens to be true. I talk to my mom fairly regularly, but never about what happened. At least she and I talk. Tate and my mom have had no contact for well over a decade. I’ve been estranged from him for nearly as long.
I take advantage of his disapproving silence to ask the question that weighs on me. “Do you think a child can inherit an evil nature from a parent?”
He twists his mouth into a sour bow. “You know I don’t find ‘evil’ to be a useful descriptor.” He draws air quotes with his fingers when he says the word.
I manage not to roll my eyes. “Fine, then. Substitute cruelty, criminality, or depravity.”
He seems to ponder the question, but I catch him checking his watch. In the beginning, our sessions were one hour each week, then an hour every other week, then an hour a month. Eventually, I weaned down to half an hour once a month, then once a quarter. And now I get a thirty-minute session twice a year so he can check some box that allows him to keep me on as a current patient. He’s a safety net at this point. But I’m on a tightrope, so a safety net’s advisable.
He meets my gaze through the device. “I’m not certain those states of being are any better. We’ve discussed how people aren’t bad simply because they do bad—even criminal, cruel, or depraved—things.”
This time, I can’t suppress the eye roll. He gives me a disappointed look and a small sigh. “We’ve also discussed that people can overcome their upbringing. That neither nature nor nurture has the final say.”
“The individual does.”
“Precisely. Some people who were abused go on to become abusers. But others go on to become advocates and helpers. The human spirit is resilient and pliable.”
I’ve asked this question before, but I ask it again. “What about killers? Do you think a propensity for murder runs in families? Not as learned behavior. Genetically?”
He frowns, which isn’t a surprise. Despite what movies and books would have us believe, science hasn’t definitively determined whether a “murder gene” exists. But I keep hoping Dr. Wilde will stake out a position.
“You have genes from two parents, don’t you?” he answers my question with his own. “Have you asked your mother her views on this issue?”
I cock my head at him. “What do you think?”
“I think, Tate, that you’re a good man, and you’re not responsible for the sins of your father—or anyone else.”
Even though he finally takes a position with this answer, it feels like a copout. “You don’t think people can be complicit?”
By people I mean me, but also my mother. He’s not stupid, and he catches it.
“I think that’s a conversation you and your mother need to have. Sooner rather than later.”
I grunt. The sound could be an assent. Or it could be heartburn.
But it doesn’t matter, because just then the digits on my watch flip from 29 to 30, and the session’s over.
He smiles warmly and says, “You’re making a lot of good progress, Tate. I look forward to speaking to you in six months. Don’t forget about your coffee date. And consider talking to your mom about your worries.”
“Thanks, doc. Next time, you’ll have to do a drum solo for me. What are you learning?”
He chortles but doesn’t tell me. He likes to be personable with his patients, but not personal. I don’t know if he has a partner, a child, or a pet, and I respect his boundaries. Apparently drum solos fall on the other side of that line, too.
Instead, he says, “You should consider a solo retreat of your own. Spending some time in a quiet cabin at the end of the world might do wonders for your productivity.”
