A Valued Patient

There is no worse patient than one that was forced into care. Usually I wouldn’t take on a client like this in the first place, but I was blindsided.

Her friend threw her into the room 15 minutes into the appointment, and when the patient tried to leave, it was revealed her friend was holding the door.

“May I sit down?” she asked politely. I gestured to the couch in front of me.

“Did you come here because you—”

“You can tell I was forced to come.”

I didn’t ask any further questions, and the client said nothing.

She had long but clearly uncared for red hair, wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, and her right arm seemed to be made of a dark metallic material.

I informed her five minutes ahead of the appointment’s end, and she tried the door immediately, her friend complaining about getting hit in the face. He continued to insist she needed help as they left my hearing range.

Our second appointment wasn’t much better, except that she actually offered eye-contact. Her face had a bad burn scar on the right side, and her eyes moved as if reading something invisible. Five minutes before our appointment officially ended, she left the room quietly.

The next two appointments went much the same. It felt unethical, but she’d paid in advance for a year, so I chose to bear it.

She finally spoke to me again at the fifth appointment.

The first thing I noticed was that her hair had disappeared aside from peach fuzz. I would have probably done the same with such obvious tangling. I hoped it was a sign she felt better.

“I need to be better for my son,” she said after about 10 minutes.

“How do you need to be better?”

“I need to be less of a mess. I probably shouldn’t be away from him. He’s only four months old,” she took a deep breath, “I wasn’t supposed to do this alone.”

Postpartum depression is bad enough, but paired with actual grief… Honestly, it was impressive that she had the sanity to shave her head.

“Have you lost your partner?”

She laughed like she was trying not to cry.

“In the sense I don’t know where he is, yes, but he’s just missing, not dead.”

I didn’t argue.

“Who the fuck am I kidding? If he weren’t dead, he’d already be back. I just can’t…”

“You don’t have to give up on him,” I assured, “We can hold on to hope with the unknowns, especially when we’re already making choices to deal with reality.” I gestured at her haircut.

She sighed with relief this time.

“Now, we haven’t had the time before,” I said, “But we should start with an intake form, so I know how to help you improve.”

She nodded.

“Why do you want therapy?”

We started with building a framework to take care of her physical health. That didn’t mean I neglected her mental health. We needed to wade through it to find what was stopping her from eating enough food, carrying her son around, or brushing her teeth. She revealed to me around the time her hair reached an inch in length that she never wanted to brush it again, and would keep it short. I agreed that was the wisest option.

When things felt solid, we talked more about her missing husband. He was kind but prone to teasing, and Catherine’s first romantic relationship, and every other first expected to come with that.

I broached the subject that her lack of outside experience may have led to an unhealthy attachment that wasn’t obvious until he was out of her life, though a spouse as an important pillar of one’s mental health was incredibly normal. Despite my caveats, she wasn’t particularly receptive, insisting that her lack of outside experience was merely because she’d never been interested in sex or romance with anyone else. I made no further comment.

The friend who brought her was in fact her late godfather’s son. She had once been accused of murdering her late godfather, who had mentally and emotionally abused her since she was ten. The son had fervently pursued prosecution. She does not consider him a friend.

I asked, obviously, how he managed to force her into a therapy appointment.

“He’s good at his job,” she admitted.

“What’s his job?”

“CEO of Eiselcorp. I appointed him.”

“Why did you appoint him?”

She took a minute before answering.

“I don’t want the job. I’m only keeping my job because I keep starting projects I can’t leave, and my projects help people, for a price.”

“Why don’t you want the job?”

She sighed.

“I don’t want anything to do with him, but if I just leave then I’ll be more complicit than if I try to do good with it.”

“What’s the job you want?”

“If it wouldn’t make me feel guilty to leave, I’d go back to the Quartz Institute in a heartbeat, but…”

I waited for her to finish the thought, making it clear I was listening.

“I don’t know if I actually miss the job, or the company. Every time I think about the institute, I think about Pete. What if I hate it when he’s not there?”

“Is there anything you definitely hate because he’s gone?”

She looked around the office for awhile.

“Myself.”

“All of yourself?”

She assessed me.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s not healthy to hate yourself,” I said, “I won’t push further this time, but I want to talk about it next session.”

She cried at the next session.

“I killed him,” she whispered as she curled in on herself, “I killed him but I have to stay alive because I can’t just leave Harold, so I just—”

Tears stopped her from finishing her thought. I offered water and tissues.

I suspected the answer but…

“Who did you kill?”

I asked nonetheless.

“Pete.”

“You were on the other side of the country when—”

“I built the suit.”

It was wrong to speculate about my clients’ family members. I just accepted the information they told me. Nonetheless, it was hard not to recognize the date of her husband’s disappearance, and his last known location.

“It had a fail-safe,” she explained, “Designed to enhance his powers until they reached dangerous levels. Then it would reverse polarization and power suppression would activate. It was so he wouldn’t accidentally harm someone. He wanted it around, but the planes… Planes take a lot more power to stop than bullets.”

“Your husband,” I shouldn’t speculate, but I needed to be on the same page, “Was Electron?”

She nodded.

“And you built his armor, so you feel responsible.”

Nod.

“Are you responsible?”

She paused, then shook her head.

“It stopped sending vital or geographical information once he got them into the Hudson, but the signal didn’t disappear altogether until three days ago.”

“So he’s dead?”

I immediately regretted saying it. It’s not my job to finish a client’s thought, just refine them to be sure I understand.

She stopped crying.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t just get to decide he’s dead. You said I didn’t have to—”

“I’m sorry. I was caught off guard and didn’t think through my words.”

“That makes two of us. Fuck!”

I avoided speaking for awhile.

“He’s probably dead, but,” She sighed, “But I feel like I would know if he was dead, and I don’t know, so he can’t be dead, but that’s ridiculous because he’s been gone for nine months already, and he wouldn’t fucking leave me that long, but…” She screamed.

We sat in silence.

“Our last conversation—it wasn’t a fight, but we argued. I wanted him to retire, stop being Electron, so we could both be there for our child, and he insisted it wasn’t something he could choose, like he had to be Electron or he’d explode.

“We didn’t finish the conversation. I don’t know how he felt about me when he…”

She started crying again.

“I didn’t know your husband, so you may correct me if this seems inaccurate, but if he thought he might die, he wouldn’t have held on to any anger. He would probably just want to be around you again.”

She didn’t stop crying, but she smiled.

“Thank you.”

I offered silent comfort.

“This opens up a lot of things I didn’t know how to talk about,” she admitted.

“I’m glad you feel you can trust me.”

“It’s more that I have a lot less to hide now that I’ve admitted the major secret.”

Still progress.

“I can’t cry in my right eye,” she revealed. I guess the burn scar made it less obvious that there wasn’t any irritation on that side, but her eye looked clear especially compared to her left eye.

“That must be uncomfortable,” I said.

I don’t think the fact that her husband was Electron made her attachment to him any healthier, though she seemed relieved to have now admitted her guilt to me.

We’d avoided any further major breakthroughs for about six months when I noticed a greater tendency to pace the room, or at least move in some way, during the session. When I asked why she was restless, she revealed that she’d connected with her sister’s mentor, and he was willing to train her in self-defense.

Her sister was a skilled martial artist in several disciplines, a telepath, a telekinetic, a sensitive, a competitive level quilter, and a professional entertainment fighter, among a slew of other skills and disciplines. She was trained by Gareth Shepherd’s head of security, who she is still in contact with.

My client has voiced regret on not spending much time with her sister growing up, and although they lived together from the age of 18 into their early twenties, she still feels distant.

I assumed the training had to do with that connection to her sister, as well as a maternal desire to do better at defending herself and her child.

Imagine my surprise almost 18 months later when a woman wearing Electron’s old symbol appeared in his same territory with greater skill than made sense for how long she’d been active.

I couldn’t ask directly about her identity. Though accidentally forcing her hand to reveal her husband’s identity worked, that didn’t mean it would work if I forced out her identity.

I had to be subtle.

“How do you feel about Tesla Coil, considering her possible connection to your late husband?”

The question admittedly wasn’t as subtle as it probably should be, but my client was self-admittedly bad at reading people.

“I don’t think it’s my job to decide what other people do in the wake of my husband’s legacy, but she doesn’t seem to be doing any harm.”

“I’m glad she isn’t dredging up old guilt.”

“No, if anything, she’s relieved some guilt, frankly.”

She was definitely Tesla Coil, but I had to act like I didn’t believe that.

“How is Harold doing?”

“He’s been asked not to return to another daycare, again. He isn’t abrasive, but he doesn’t connect well with other children. He gets that from me.”

“His father got along well with others?”

“Pete admittedly learned it as a skill while working with his mother, but he got along well with most people.”

“Most people?”

“Rodney couldn’t stand being in the same room as him without trying to start a fight. We didn’t really get along at first. Lawrence didn’t get along with anyone, which helped when I started at the institute, honestly. I felt like less of a problem.”

“Why would you feel like a problem?”

“I mentioned being bad with other people already. I mean, you remember when I first came in. I wasn’t particularly comfortable.”

“No,” I admitted, “But you’ve been impressively receptive for someone forced to come here.”

“I’m not fond of Rodney, but he knows who to pay to get the right results, and he knows me, somewhat.”

“That’s often the way it goes even with friends we like.”

She laughed, and started talking about her history with Rodney and his sister.

I couldn’t hide what I knew from her forever, of course, but I didn’t expect that she would have to save my life.

I was having a normal coffee-date with my girlfriend when the bank across from us got robbed. There wasn’t much we could do beyond normal bystander options, so we made guesses about what actually happened to make the police arrive.

“Hostages,” she said for the fifth time.

“Embezzling.”

“Hostages” for the sixth time.

Our discussion continued until the robbers were running out of the building, one of them throwing a police car our way.

My last words would have been “Why didn’t the police clear the area?” had Tesla Coil not appeared in front of the vehicle, causing it to crush against her back. My girlfriend ran off, screaming, but I stayed a moment, overwhelmed with gratitude.

“Thank you, Catherine.”

Tesla Coil froze, and I ran. I’d revealed an identity again, and in a public setting no less. I just had to hope no one else heard.

What was I going to say when she came to the appointment?

I knew, deep down, that I was fucked.

If she didn’t act like I knew anything, I would continue business as usual, act like I knew nothing right back. If she confronted me, I would have to be honest, but not necessarily forthcoming. These appointments were about her of course, not me.

I knew enough about the woman behind the mask that I knew she could be vengeful, and could probably dig up dirt I didn’t even know was there to ruin me.

For some reason, I didn’t feel I was scared enough, so I remained in awkward standing of wondering how intimidated I should be when I had the time between appointments, until the fateful next appointment.

She did not come alone. The woman next to her looked almost identical, except that she lacked the scars, her arms and legs all looked like normal skin, and her hair was longer. She was also more muscular, and carried herself with a bit more confidence. The eyes though, the eyes were as captivating as on her sister.

“Is your sister joining us for your appointment?” I asked.

“You know who I am,” Catherine insisted, “So we need to talk. How long have you known?”

“I’ve suspected since Tesla Coil’s first appearance.”

She shared a displeased look with her sister.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not my job to force answers you may not want to give.”

Her sister rolled her eyes. It took more effort than I liked not to defend myself further.

“Have you told anyone?”

“Of course not.” I listened to my confidentiality clause.

“Do you think you can still accept me as a patient?”

I thought about it. She was intimidating, but it wasn’t like I had actually learned more information about her than before. She was a client first and foremost.

“If you would still have me, I would be glad to.”

“Can my sister put a lock in your mind then?”

“A lock in my mind?”

“It will keep you from revealing what you know,” her sister explained, “To any interested parties.”

I understood why people might be interested, but I felt mistrusted.

“If you don’t trust me to keep your secret—”

“I trust you not to speak of it, but you’ve clearly thought about it.”

Oh. That made more sense. Telepaths could be anywhere. There was one in the room with me right now.

“Of course.”

I bowed my head awkwardly as the sister gently set a finger on my temple.

I wish I could say it felt like anything, but it mostly felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders, like I knew I wouldn’t think about it if I didn’t have to.

I gave a sigh of relief after she sat back down.

“I think we call this session early,” I said, “And circle back to any discussions next week.”

My client gave a nod, and she walked out of the room with her sister.

Now, why did I record this if it’s meant to be secret?

Well, if you’re listening to, reading, or whatever newfangled way of collecting information there is in your day and age to this, then I and my client are dead, and I wanted a record for posterity.

Tesla Coil was a smart woman doing her best, and assuming you remember her in your history, I thought you should know her a little better.