Chapter Text
"Have you ever thought of inter-cranial cognitive therapy before, Mrs. Anderson?"
I glanced up from the wadded tissue in my hand, resisting the urge to lob it at his face. Dr. Adam Hanover reminded me unpleasantly of a weasel. He was too thin and shifty-looking, with his beady brown eyes and angular face to do well in this kind of work, even if he technically had the schooling to pull it off. His complexion was permanently sallow, as though he'd never quite unplugged from his computer screen. Peter had the same look when he came home from work. The internet was new, but some people just couldn't tear themselves away.
It was what had torn my marriage apart, in the end. A marvel of engineering pops onto the scene and the first thing men wanted to use it for was to ogle naked women. It was all so cruel and petty and mundane. Years of marriage down the drain, for what? So he could lust over someone halfway across the world who wouldn't glance in his direction if they met in real life? That was what it had all been worth to him?
"Ruiz," I said.
"Come again?"
"It's Miss Ruiz."
Dr. Hanover frowned, as though he knew damn well that couldn't be right. There was a suspicious gleam in his eye, as though he suspected he'd caught me in a lie. "Your file says you're Mrs. Evangeline Anderson."
"For another few months, until our court date. I'm getting a jump on things early. Humor me, Doc."
The creased and suspicious look remained, go figure. Dr. Hanover didn't strike me as the sort of man who trusted happy feelings. It was an unfortunate trait in a court-ordered therapist. Maybe he would have done better in accounting. I heard transcription paid well these days. Probably better than working with the crazies foisted onto him by the public health system. Sorry, it was mentally impaired people now. Heaven forbid one of the crazies dub themselves with something less than politically correct.
I couldn't blame him for the oversight, though we'd been seeing each other for weeks now. He probably saw dozens of people just like me every day. It was difficult to parse one from the other when they all told the same sad story.
Dr. Hanover adjusted his spectacles, pressing them to the bridge of his nose with the slender tip of one finger. Even his hands looked slim and twitchy, like two pale spiders lurking on his clipboard. He kept it angled away from me, pausing every few seconds to scratch something on a piece of paper that I wasn't privy to. I suspected he doodled, but I didn't have the courage to stand up and check. I'd already landed myself here. No need to compound the experience by being rude.
"I apologize for the gaffe, Miss Ruiz. I imagine hearing the name must be difficult."
"Oh no," I drawled. "I'm thrilled my husband found an affair partner in an online chat room. I'm thrilled my small business went under. I'm thrilled that I'm now a single mom."
The words tasted bitter on my lips. Not as bitter as swallowing them the first time. Mom had warned me not to date the charming white boy right out of college, but I hadn't listened. I thought we were in love. It turned out, it was just me. Once that first bloom of passionate, honeymoon-fueled love withered and died, the rest of the relationship was doomed. Peter had left mentally long before he'd stepped out physically. I could feel the distance yawning, but nothing I'd done had been able to reach across the divide and touch him. It had hurt to find out he was cheating, but it hadn't exactly been surprising.
Dr. Hanover's lips pursed. "The sarcasm is hardly necessary, Miss Ruiz. If you were paying attention earlier, you'd note that I'm trying to offer you an alternative to these sessions. You haven't exactly made your dislike of me a secret. What I'm suggesting might suit your needs better than these pleasant chats."
He put a lot of emphasis on the 'pleasant' in that sentence. I wondered if these talks made him as uncomfortable as me. Nah. He wasn't the one being asked to spill his guts after a very public meltdown and an assault charge. I'd only spat on the policeman. It seemed like overkill to send me here.
"Run it by me again."
Dr. Hanover sighed. It rustled the patchy mustache perched over his top lip like an ill-fed caterpillar. I always had the odd urge to lean forward and pinch one end, just to see if I could peel it off. It looked too cheesy to be real. I'd told Marco about it one evening over dinner and he'd laughed hard enough to inhale a pea.
"Inter-cranial therapy. It's a personalized, biology-based treatment plan."
I thought I knew what he was getting at. It was a very sanitized and nonsensical way to describe the trend sweeping across the nation.
"You want me to get Yeerked?" I echoed, unable to keep the faint note of disgust out of my voice.
I knew what a Yeerk was. At this point, even grade-schoolers knew. They'd arrived on Earth around five years ago, causing one of the largest geopolitical stirs in recent history. Every government on Earth had been tripping over themselves to roll out the welcome mat first. They all trotted out the same tired line. They wanted to promote peaceful co-existence with the first extraterrestrial life confirmed to have visited our planet.
Everyone with half a brain cell knew it was bullshit. The Yeerks were a parasitic species. That had the potential to turn wars on their head. The Yeerks claimed to be a peaceful force seeking companionship, but it only took one to turn on that ethos to ruin it for everyone. The Yeerks were as much weapons as they were our new neighbors. They'd wormed their way into other trades too. Medicine. Science. Physical therapy. And now behavioral therapy, it would seem.
In their natural form, they resembled the overlarge slugs that gathered on my porch after a heavy rain. They were largely defenseless without a host. You rarely saw them outside of a body. In the beginning, they'd used seven-foot-tall lizard things to communicate. Every joint had been equipped with a scythe-like blade. It wasn't any wonder they'd switched to using people the second they could recruit voluntary hosts. I'd never forget seeing one of the knife-monsters in public for the first time. The species had a formal name, but I'd never bothered to learn it. They were rare, even before the Yeerks began taking human bodies.
"Infested," he corrected. "Though even that feels like a somewhat aggressive term. The Yeerks are striving toward mutualism with our species."
"You're asking me to put a slug in my brain to make me feel better?" I asked.
I wondered if he could hear how absurd that sounded. Let a whole other consciousness into my head just because I was struggling but didn't trust the weasel in human form to understand what had driven me to a nervous breakdown. It was hard enough to live the farce. Why would I give an alien a front-row seat to how pathetic I was?
"Not asking," he said hurriedly. "That would be a breach of professional ethics. I can't order you to do anything, Eva. I'm just making a suggestion. There's some early research that shows a positive correlation between a short-term partnership with a symbiote and long-term happiness afterward. There's some manipulation of the neurochemicals, yes, but largely it's like having a friend on hand at all times. The only time you'd have to worry about being overtaken is if your symbiote senses an intention to harm yourself or others."
Translation, it could curb the desire to belt my husband across his too-handsome face every time he came to get Marco for the weekend. It might be worth considering if only for that. My temper was never far from the surface these days.
"And I wouldn't have to come back here?" I checked.
Dr. Hanover finally cracked a smile. "Yes, Eva. We'd be through with each other. You'd spend the next month talking to a Yeerk, instead of me. If you decide you want to carry on with the partnership after that, it's your business. I really do think you could find a workable arrangement. You'll forgive me for being a little forward, but you're an intelligent and capable woman. You're not done. You just hit a... a snag."
That felt like a charitable way of saying that my life had gone up in flames. I had to admit, it might be nice to shift the anxiety onto someone else for a change.
"And if I said yes? Do you just bring one in here?"
He shook his head with a chuckle. "You'd visit a center and interview. You can go to a public mixer and mingle if you like. Most people start out that way. Or you can take a test and see who you mesh with on paper. It's your choice and my professional recommendation. Take it with a grain of salt."
I sank a little lower in my chair. It felt like a huge thing to do on a whim, just because I hated coming here. It held a little appeal, dealing with the problem in private. I wouldn't have to waltz through the doors of a clinic, exchange nervous small talk, or read the few magazines they kept on the end tables to avoid eye contact with the receptionist. I didn't want to be here. Didn't want to feel like I needed to be here.
"Where's the nearest center?" I asked. "And when's the next mixer?"
Dr. Hanover's smile widened. It should have made him look friendly and approachable. Mostly, he looked sweaty. "I'll have my receptionist leave the details on your answering machine. Try to have a little fun. It will make the decision easier."
I nodded and brushed the creases from my slacks. I wasn't sure why I kept wearing business attire. I didn't have a business to go to. Just a grocery store smock waiting on the end of the bed. I had an evening shift tonight, which meant Marco would be alone after school. Again.
"Thanks."
And for once, I actually meant it.