𝑨𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒔

     The soothing sensation of water cascading down my skin sends me into a reverie, which is one of the reasons why I like to bathe frequently. I don’t know if it’s only me, but bathing has a therapeutic effect on my mind. Washing my body means washing my stress off, even if it is temporary, so I make sure to enjoy every bath I take.

     I didn’t use the bathtub because I wanted to stand. Immersing myself isn’t what I want to do today, although I usually do that when I want to contemplate. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I want to stop my mind from overthinking. It’s unhealthy for me to think too much and perhaps, that’s why I’m not showing significant signs of recovery.

     As the water pours on me, I stretch my hand to the shelf fixed across the wall and grab the Aloe Vera shampoo. I’ve already uncapped it, so I squirt some onto my hair and replace it. Then I thread my fingers through my hair and let the soap penetrate the deep layers. Pulling my hair backward, I let the lather fall like an avalanche. Bubbles start erupting. Soon, the whole room is filled with spherical volumes of air. The fragrance fills the room too, and it hangs there for a while.

     I stop everything and just stand in the shower, allowing the water to fall on me and slide to my hindlimbs. Somehow it occurs to me my therapist is bound to show up any moment, and I would hate to keep him waiting behind my front door.

     Dr. Hassan is such a stickler for everything to an annoying degree. After eight months of being my therapist and even a confidant at some point, he still won’t enter the house unless I tell him to.

     I turn off the shower, grab the white towel on the hanger, and wrap it around my slender body. I pick another towel—this one is shorter than the first—and I use it to dry my hair as I step out of the bathroom.

     I walk to the medicine cabinet and immediately regret doing so. The pill Dr. Hasan prescribed is staring at my face, reminding me I haven’t taken any yet. I frown as I bring out the container. I’m about to carry it with me to the bedroom when it occurs to me I could get rid of it and when Jeff asks, I will tell him I finished the container. After all, I’m not getting any better, and the pills are not working. If you ask me, those pills only worsen my condition. If I truly hallucinated, then I blame the pills.

     Smirking, I open the container and near the toilet bowl. Then gingerly, I pour all the capsules into the bowl and flush it. Done. I haven’t felt good in a while for doing the wrong thing. I stop as the thought strikes me. How come I feel good for doing the wrong thing? This makes me wonder if I’m sane.

     Discarding the pills is futile. Jeff is simply going to refill my medicine cabinet, but I don’t care. I’ll keep tossing them out if he buys them. I replace the container in the cabinet, then step into the bedroom. I dry myself in the closet and apply body lotion, allowing it to permeate my skin. Sighing, I walk to the wardrobe and pull out the dress my hand touches first. It feels different in my hand, and that’s when I know I haven’t worn that dress before. Bringing it out and looking at it confirms my thought.

     I know this dress. Jeff bought it for me on my thirtieth birthday along with other things. I don’t remember when he bought it, or when he gave it to me as a gift. He just told me he bought it for me, and it would look good on me. Well, there’s only one way to find out.

     I put on the dress. It’s made of satin and it feels new and crisp. I notice it’s a perfect fit when I look in the mirror. Jeff sure knows my size. I laugh. This is silly a thought. We’ve known each other since childhood, and it would be off if he didn’t know basic things about me. I pull my hair backward. I don’t tie it into a ponytail. I just don’t feel like doing it. It’s tumbling down my shoulders and my back. I pick a comb and run that through my hair, straightening it.

     When I look into the mirror, my brows pucker upon seeing the person staring back at me. A solemn-looking woman with a pallid face just stares at me. I move my hand to my face, and the stranger in the mirror does the same. I tuck strands of my hair behind my ear, and the stranger does that too. Why is she mimicking me? It’s not funny that she does whatever I do when I don’t know who she is.

     My face contorts, and I grab the comb I just replaced on the vanity. Just as I’m about to hurl it into the mirror, the doorbell rings, and I freeze. When I come to my senses, I wonder why I’m about to destroy our mirror.

     I put the comb down and rush out of the bedroom, wondering what just happened. I descend the staircase, passing by the living room to the front door. I don’t look into the peephole before unlocking the door.

     Dr. Hassan is standing in front of me clad in an expensive dark suit and looking immaculate as always. He wears a warm smile as usual, and I only smile back because of reflex.

     “How are you, Adrienne?” he says in his Asian accent I have always liked, but the question just annoys me.

     I’m not fine and I’m not getting better, but I simply can’t respond negatively. I doubt that everyone who’s asked this question tells the truth.

     “I’m fine,” I say, almost in a whisper.

     He still wears that smile, which compels me to smile. I don’t want to be rude to this nice man who’s only doing his job. It’s not his fault I had that accident, and it’s not his fault I’m not getting better as I expected. There’s no need to take out my anger on him. I’m just surprised recovering from memory loss can take such a long time. Then I tell myself it’s a process. And it’s going to take time. Right now I sound like Dr. Hassan. That’s his mantra.

      “That’s great,” he says.

     I can sense the glee in his voice. On a bright note, he thinks he’s achieving his goal, which is to help rid me of my suicidal thoughts. He’s got no idea he’s not remotely close to achieving that. I still have those suicidal thoughts and to be honest, I’m thinking of running into the kitchen to grab a knife and killing myself after stabbing this therapist of mine who has been bothering me for the past eight months.

     I’m sure he’ll collapse and not wake up for ten days if I tell him this. I’m only playing along because he’s a nice man, and I feel this is a funny game we’re playing, in which both of us are going to lose. Jeff has no idea he’s been throwing millions of dollars away. I need my husband by my side, not a nice-looking therapist with a beautiful face and a beautiful accent.

     “Have you been taking the pills?”

     “Yes.”

     His smile widens. “That’s also great. You’re doing a good job, Adrienne. Keep it up.”

     He gives me a thumbs up. He must be feeling like a proud father, and I feel awful. But I won’t blame myself for his delusion. I told Jeff flat out I don’t need a therapist. Hiring one had been his choice, and I don’t think of anyone who needs a therapist more than he does.

     Dr. Hassan won’t enter the house until I tell him to, and if I don’t, we’ll end up having today’s session right in the doorway.

     “Please, come inside,” I say with a smile. That’s what you get from having a therapist who’s always smiling. I wonder how anyone can stay positive all the time and always have a big smile on their face. It’s good to be optimistic, but this therapist of mine is way too much.

     He steps into the house in a pair of black leather shoes which match perfectly with his suit. He has salt-and-pepper hair, giving him the perfect gentleman appearance. His skin is light brown, and I place my best guess he’s got either Indian or Pakistani descent. Overall, he’s a nice person to hang out with. Apart from his optimism, he’s a great psychotherapist. The problem isn’t with my therapist because he’s the best at what he does. The problem is with me.

     Sometimes I feel it’s a waste of time. This whole therapy thing isn’t working for me. But through the therapy, I’ve met a nice person, and I’ve also learnt a lot. So it isn’t a waste. It’s just not benefitting me in the way it should have. I close the door when he’s in the house. He doesn’t take the lead. After eight months of telling him he should feel comfortable in the house, he still won’t take the lead. And I wonder why.

     “What will you have? Coffee or tea?”

     “Coffee.”

     I know how he wants his coffee, so after I tell him to make himself comfortable, I go into the kitchen. I won’t lead him to the living room today. When I say he should feel comfortable, I mean it.

     In the kitchen, I make the beverage with the coffee machine. I add milk and a little sugar just as he wants it. Then I carry it with me to the living room. He’s seated on one of the plush couches, a cushion on his lap. He smiles at me as I near him, placing the coffee on the table in front of him.

     “Thanks.”

     I smile in response. I think he has infected me with smiling. He picks the cup from the saucer and sips. I walk back and take a seat across from him.

     He takes several sips. After a while, he clears his throat. “You look better, Adrienne.”

     I don’t know if that’s a compliment or his introduction to today’s session. He’s obviously lying because there’s no way I will look better when I don’t feel better. And those stupid pills he prescribed are driving me crazy.

     “Thank you, Dr. Hassan.”

     He smiles again, but I don’t smile. I’m already fed up with his smiles. Who smiles every second?

     “I want us to talk about your memory. Do you feel them coming?”

     I sigh and lean forward. My memories have been kicking in but not so much. They’re fragments, and some don’t make any sense. I need to connect them, but it’s impossible because I don’t have the entire set. They’re just meaningless vivid pictures scattered in my brain. Last night, a memory struck me. Jeff and I were arguing in a car, then it trailed away. I don’t know what we were arguing about. I’ve had that memory in my brain for a while now, and it makes no sense.

     I’ve asked Jeff about it. He told me it wasn’t anything serious. He also doesn’t remember what we were arguing about. As for the memories, they’re kicking in. Connecting them is the problem. Memories would be meaningless without the chronological order in which they happened. That’s the exact state my memories are in.

     “Yes, they’re coming. I just can’t connect them.”

     “You’ll need the entire set to piece them together. That requires time. If you keep up with the good work, you’ll have all your memories in due time.”

     I don’t know why we’re discussing my memory today. Jeff hired him to make sure I got rid of those suicidal thoughts of mine. What has that got to do with my memory? Then I realize he has been listening to me all this while. He isn’t only interested in getting paid. He truly wants to know about my mental health. My suicidal thoughts came soon after I lost my memory. I’ve always thought I didn’t know why I wanted to kill myself. But now I do. It’s because I don’t have my memories, and I feel this is the end for me. My suicidal thoughts and my memory loss are connected. It took me so long to figure it out.

     Thanks to Dr. Hassan for broaching this during today’s session, I know why. The only way to truly rid me of my suicidal thoughts is to have my memories back, the complete set. Problem solved. I have to focus on getting my memory rather than contemplating suicide. Dr. Hassan is a genius!

     What about the man I’ve been seeing from my window? Did I hallucinate? I want to tell Dr. Hassan about it, but I’m afraid he won’t keep it personal and tell Jeff if he asks him. I know he’s been giving details of our session to Jeff. I won’t take my chances. I’ll keep it to myself.

     We continue to talk about my mental health and my suicidal thoughts. Today’s session is one of the best. I’ve found a solution to my suicidal problem. I don’t think I’ll be needing Dr. Hassan’s company anymore. I have graduated. But that’s not for me to decide.

     Dr. Hassan thinks I’ve recovered from my suicidal thoughts and if it were up to him, he’d have brought the therapy to a successful end. Jeff has the say, and I know there’s no way he’d trust that I’ve completely recovered. I don’t know if he’s insecure, or afraid that I might kill myself. I’ve told him several times I’m not going to kill myself, but he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I need his protection from some so-called threat.

    Dr. Hassan looks at his wristwatch. “My time is up.”

     I stifle a smile. I want him to leave already and not come back ever again. He’s done his job. God bless him for such wonderful work.

     I say hurriedly, “Let me escort you to the door.”

     “All right.”

     He rises from the couch and waits for me to take the lead. When I do, he follows me to the front door. I open the door, and he steps into the doorway.

     “Take care of yourself, Adrienne. And remember. . . positivity is what will keep you living.”

     I nod and say, “I will. Thank you.”

     He smiles and waves at me. I wave back and watch him walk to his car parked across the street. As he opens the door and places a leg inside, I picture his car exploding in front of him and a massive inferno engulfing him. The only sounds I hear in my head are his screams for help. I stop myself from smirking because it’s not funny. I wonder why I find his death amusing.  Crazy me.