Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Age Forty-Eight
I was born in an insane asylum to a drug-addicted prostitute.
But right now I may punch someone in the face, or vomit all over the faded paisley rug. Perhaps both. This is probably not okay in a church therapy office. Since I’m a public high school counselor, neither would likely bode well for my reputation.
Marti, the lady across from me wearing the Christian fish necklace, unsettles me. She’s nothing like other ministers or religious therapists I’ve met. She’s real. She’s funny. She’s clearly knowledgeable and intelligent. My church friends Jim and Claudia recommended her. But why does she make me want to hide? We both claim to believe in Jesus Christ. What’s with this sudden sweatiness from the simple question she asked?
“Danny,” she starts, “will you tell me about the most painful memory connected to the woman you call Mom?”
The Others (the people only I can see and hear) don’t like her question. Kendra, one of the Others who is always recording my words on a clipboard, frowns and shakes her head. Garrison, the soldier in combat fatigues, squares his shoulders and locks his jaw. I close my eyes so they don’t distract me.
Deflection is necessary. “Haha, well, how much time do we have?” My voice is louder than intended. Hopefully this flashy smile covers the shakiness of my hands. I glance at my wife Grace as she sits angled toward me with a gentle hand on my knee. Her patient, tender expression encourages me as she nods, prompting me to continue. Sweat oozes from every pore, and I’m thankful for the air conditioning an overhead vent provides as it blows coolness across my neck.
A voice only I can hear, one of the Others who calls himself the Bossman, speaks up. “You’ve told the story a hundred times, Danny. You’re fine. Man up.”
Swallowing the rising lump in my throat and taking the familiar preparatory breath to separate from any vestige of feeling, I answer. “Well, Marti, if it’s bad, I lived it. The locals called our area south of Lexington ‘The Pit.’ Somebody blew away my cousin in our front yard and we saw the aftermath. I was molested multiple times over the course of several years. My adoptive mom and my uncle were kind of like the gang leaders of the neighborhood, so they ran drugs and girls and whatever else they wanted. The cops were paid off, and—no surprise—they never came around. And from what they said more times than I can count, my folks paid two hundred dollars to buy me as a little kid in some kind of black-market ring in the foster system. They were all crazy. Me, too. But praise God, I’m different now! Jesus saved me as a dumb punk, although He hasn’t really been around much the last few years… He must not care about the fact that I’m crazy. So I’m saved, but still a little crazy though!”
My laughter is once again too loud. The Bossman whispers, “See? Good job. You did fine.”
Marti’s brow furrows. “Wait a sec. You were literally bought for two hundred dollars? Isn’t that trafficking?”
I shrug. “That’s what we all call it today. This was back in the seventies, so it was more underground. But you must not have had much contact with the local foster care system. People with money will buy what they want, and they will always find a seller.”
Marti leans in. Can her eyes peer into my soul?
“That’s some super heavy stuff,” she says. An uncomfortable pause follows as she studies me. “Has anyone ever asked you about the lack of emotion you express as you tell your story? Sometimes laughter is a mask for some incredibly deep pain.”
Working in the public school system taught me how to answer without answering. Clearing my throat, I wipe imaginary dirt from my knee. “Ha, yeah, that’s a good point. You’re right about that.” Garrison and Kendra both glare at me, but I look past them out the window behind Marti toward the sunshine. A late May breeze dances through the pink dogwood tree outside. Imagination has me sitting on a bench under that tree, looking up through the branches raining petals, enjoying the Kentucky springtime. Anywhere but in here.
Marti waits a few moments with a content smile. “You didn’t actually answer my question,” she says. How can words sound kind and scary at the same time?
Shrugging in silent defeat, I hold out my palms. Why did I let Grace bring me here? Can she sense my irritation?
Marti shifts in her seat and rests her notepad on one knee. “How about this?” she asks softly. “Let’s start at the very beginning, with a complete family history.”
If I look at Garrison and Kendra, the judgment and shame emanating from them will send me into a tailspin. Their discomfort with where this is going is palpable.
“Oh, boy,” I say, clapping my hands and rubbing them together. “You buckled in? Okay then. Here we go!”
