Safe Haven

In high school, I was more mathematical than I was anything else. Sciences were fun, but they weren’t necessarily my forte. I couldn’t draw well enough to excel in art, much less take classes and anything on practical living I avoided, mostly because I couldn’t stand the way the teacher in charge of that department talked to high school students.

I was a math geek to my core, but I did find solace in my English class despite it.

It came easy to me. Papers flowed out of my mind, onto the paper with little effort and grammatical errors weren’t a problem considering my need for perfection.

I always blamed it on being a damn good bull-shitter.

Unfortunately, my talent of bullshitting had shriveled up. Everyone could see through me and my words - most of the time. Even if the image they had was unfocused and unrecognizable, they knew that it was there.

Staring down at the leather-bound journal, I couldn’t help but to wonder if Fletcher had dug up my school records and was able to see the comments my English teachers had left me: the little, ”Wonderful English student! Marlow could have a real future in journalism!” and “The best student I’ve had the honor to have in class for well over ten years of teaching!” commentaries that had been written beside my bold and declaring A.

“I know, it may seem a bit elementary to keep a journal, but we aren’t making progress here. I’ve considered sending you to group therapy, but I assumed that you wouldn’t budge there either,” Dr. Fletcher stated, lacing her fingers together and resting them over her crossed knees.

She looked decent. Her roots had finally been covered, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail. A purple sweater that wasn’t all that hideous was matched with an okay skirt. And, the woman was wearing high-heeled boots. Nothing designer, nothing truly in style, but she was wearing heels – the first time I’d ever witnessed it.

And, to even further my suspicion of her being in an extremely good mood, she’d pulled her chair out from behind her desk to get a little homier with her patients.

As I fiddled with the front cover, she smiled upon me with a proud glint in her dark eyes – as if she’d found a solution to my problem after weeks of getting nowhere with me.

“You don’t have to show anyone what you write about or tell anyone, but keeping emotions in for prolonged periods of time only escalates those feelings, Marlow. You need to find a way to vent.”

That was it? That was her conclusion to why I was the way I was? I was a terrible communicator?

My mother sat outside, flipping through ancient magazines and paying a significant amount of money for what? For my therapist to hand me a journal and send me on my way?

Not that I was really complaining if it meant never having to come back again.

“Use it at your will, Marlow. I have a feeling that you don’t feel like discussing anything today, so I’ll let you off the hook. I’ll see you Friday, at two o’ clock?”

I stared at her, masking my amazement. Was she being serious?

Dr. Fletcher had to have met someone between my last session and my more recent visit to her office. She was too happy and too carefree for it to be anything else.

Without saying a word, I hoisted myself out of her thick, heavily cushioned sofa and wandered out to my mother who looked as if she’d expected my session to last a little over ten minutes.

In silence, the two of us walked toward her blue minivan, the sharp crack of her heels on the pavement of the parking lot making the only sound to fill the void between us.

Just as we reached her slightly rusted vehicle, she broke the question. “What’s that?” she asked, gesturing to the leather book in my hand.

“A journal,” I stated honestly, though I had suspicion that she already knew what exactly Fletcher was going to do. She was too accepting of my extremely short session for me to believe that this hadn’t been premeditated.

We were forced to stop talking as we took a moment to slide into the vehicle and strap ourselves inside. “You never did tell me how Ray’s birthday party went… Did you have fun?” my mother asked hopefully as she pulled out into the street.

No. “Yeah, it was great.” As much as I wanted to be honest with her, I couldn’t. My mother was such a hopeful person. I didn’t want to ruin her good day so early. I felt my hands fidgeting with the book, my nails tapping on the cover carefully out of nervousness.

My mother remained oblivious to my dead giveaway that I was being dishonest. “So…”

“So… what?”

“What did you do? Did you meet any nice people?”

Sort of. I mean, I ran into John again, Mom. He’s just delighted to see me in town. “A few. I hung out with Ray most of the night though.”

“I see…” There was no denying that she was a little disappointed that I hadn’t strayed and mingled. The way her tone fell a little flat told me all that I needed to hear. “Ariel sounds like a very nice girl. You should invite her to dinner some time. We’d all love to meet her.”

I closed my eyes and resisted the urge to shake my head.

I knew she was just trying to be helpful and guide me in the right direction, but I couldn’t help but to feel a little resentment rise in my stomach.

Regardless, I forced myself to not make the conversation difficult. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

I sighed. “She’s in college, Mom. When she’s not working, she’s either in class or studying or busy with her family.” I tried with all my might to not sound snappy with her, but I had a feeling that I’d failed because the remainder of our ride was left in silence.

We pulled into our driveway and were walking in our separate ways before the quietness between us was broken.

“Are you going to use the journal?” my mother asked, stopping at the bottom of the porch to question me before I got into my car so I could drive myself to work the afternoon shift.

I shrugged before getting inside, not wanting to disappoint my mother any further.

It wasn’t until I parked in the space I’d claimed as my own at The Poisoned Pen that I came to the conclusion that I wouldn’t write in the journal. As much as everyone else wanted me to express myself, I couldn’t. Especially in a book that anyone who wanted could look in if they wanted. Even if it had a lock, I couldn’t say that I would feel comfortable filling its pages with my secrets and innermost thoughts. It was too much of a risk that I wasn’t willing to take when it came to people seeing it.

With a sigh of defeat, knowing that everyone was going to frown at my decision, I stuffed the leather booklet under my seat before returning to a long day of taking inventory.