Rare Objects by Kathleen Tessaro Page B

of those was I finally deemed lucid enough to meet with Dr. Joseph, the psychiatrist.
    With his closely trimmed beard, spectacles, and shiny bald head, Dr. Joseph looked like a modern-day Santa Claus. But looks were deceiving. Beneath his benevolent exterior, he held our fate in his hands. Without his signature on the release papers, none of us was going anywhere. Every question he asked was a test, each answer proof of either recovery or illness, and all the while he took endless notes with a shiny silver pen. It must’ve had a broken nib because it made a soft scratching noise on the paper like a thorn scraping against skin. I couldn’t work out if more notes meant a right answer or a wrong one.
    He wanted to know everything—why I went to New York in the first place, about my job, why I’d tried to do myself in.
    I gave him the edited version—told him about the customerwho accused me of stealing, described the scene he made on the dance floor. I could still feel the shame; the humiliation of being escorted to my locker by the manager, the other girls standing around, watching, more indifferent than sad . . . Lois hadn’t even bothered to look me in the eye.
    â€œI felt so exposed.”
    â€œExposed?” More scratching, pen against paper. “What do you mean by that exactly?”
    How could I explain it? A feeling that all my life I’d been heading down an endless hallway lined with mirrors, running as fast as I could, doing anything to distract myself and avoid seeing my own reflection.
    â€œMiss Fanning,” he prompted, “you were saying?”
    I realized my mistake at using such an open-ended word. “I don’t know. That was a stupid thing to say. I don’t know why I said it.”
    â€œAnd that’s what precipitated the incident? Losing your job?”
    â€œYes.”
    He seemed unconvinced. “Are you sure nothing else happened? Before?”
    I didn’t understand.
    â€œYou may have been aware,” he continued, “that we performed a complete physical examination on you when you were admitted. I have the results of that examination here.” He paused, resting his hand on a folder in front of him. “Are you certain there isn’t anything you want to tell me, Miss Fanning? Something you would like to confide?”
    I looked down at my hands folded in my lap.
    â€œThe report says you’ve had an operation within the past six months. An abortion. You were pregnant when you came to New York, isn’t that right?”
    My head felt weightless and my mouth dry.
    â€œAnd the father? Who was the father?”
    â€œNo one . . . I mean, someone I knew in Boston,” I managed.
    â€œThat was the real reason you left, wasn’t it? You were running away.”
    I couldn’t answer.
    Sighing heavily, he leaned back in his chair. He already had low expectations, and still I’d managed to disappoint him. “Most women see children as a blessing.” He waited for me to explain myself but I had no excuses. We both shared the same poor opinion of me. “Can you see that your problems are of your own making?” he asked after a while. “That in trying to escape life you’ve only made yours worse?”
    â€œI guess I’m not like other women,” I mumbled.
    â€œNo, you certainly are not. There’s a line between normal and abnormal behavior. You’ve already crossed that line. Now you must work very hard to get back on the right side of it again. Make no mistake: it will require all your efforts. You’re in a very dangerous position.” He held out his hands. “Look at where you are, Miss Fanning. You’re a burden on society. Sexually promiscuous, morally bereft; if you don’t change, then this is most likely where your descendants will end up too. I’ve seen it time and time again. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
    The mirrored hallway came to