Sanity's Only Skin Deep Read online

  Sanity’s Only Skin Deep

  Adam Aust

  Copyright © 2017 Adam Aust

  All rights reserved.

  “The mind is everything. What you think, you become.”

  - Anonymous

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Parts:

  I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII

  Sample Chapter from A Glitch in the System

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  I am forever indebted to Maggie Astolfi, who supports me unconditionally, even when I indulge in lunacy. Special thanks also to Matthew Sullivan; your plot feedback has been pure gold.

  I

  Sarah Evans closed the bathroom stall door, lowered her skirt, and rolled her leggings and underwear down below her knees. As she sat, she saw it—the new gash on her inner-right thigh. It was bigger and felt deeper than usual, and it must have been at least a week old, judging by the scab’s raised edges and the shiny pink skin outlining it. Dammit, she thought, tracing it with her index finger. I’d better not be doing this at work.

  After finishing up in the ladies room, she strode down the hall to her office. Her frosted-glass door shut with a metallic clack behind her as she snatched her phone’s handset off the cradle and started dialing.

  “Maury? It’s Sarah. I’d like to come in for a session as soon as possible. I’ve apparently been at it again.” Obligatory question about whether I’ve been going to my meetings in three, two, one . . . “No, I’ve been too busy. I promise I’ll start going again after trial. But for now, I just haven’t had the time. Can you see me this week?” She waited as he checked his schedule. “Tomorrow night at seven works. I appreciate it. See you then.”

  She replaced the handset and exhaled through slack lips.

  Sliding open her top drawer, she withdrew her scissors, splitting the blades and holding them up to the light. The tips looked a little rusty, but she had to squint to even see that. That could be blood. Wouldn’t there be more, though?

  Just then, she heard two knocks and her door abruptly opened. David Marshall, the senior partner at her firm, was standing inside. “Sarah, got a minute?”

  “I—”

  David’s eyes jumped from Sarah’s face to her hands. She snapped the scissors closed and dropped them to her lap. “Of course,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as guilty as she felt. “What’s up?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news about your role on the Omnicron case. . . .”

  II

  Sarah pushed the buzzer labeled “Dr. Maurice Wexler” outside the quaint apartment complex in Manhattan’s East Village. She’d been nervous at first about seeing a therapist here; this place seemed so . . . unprofessional. Day or night, you might rub elbows outside with heroin-addicted skateboard punks, schizophrenic garbage-can scavengers, or hippy-era folk-musician types, ambling about in various states of sobriety, pontificating about bizarre political views. Once she got to know Maury, though, she understood the draw: this place fed his fascination with the human psyche in the same way the internet fed her tendency to procrastinate. He was meant to live in the East Village, and that was nothing to worry about. It just took some getting used to.

  Now, three years in, she stood fidgeting on his front landing oblivious to her surroundings, poring over yesterday’s events.

  Just after she’d discovered yet another mysterious flesh wound, David Marshall, head of the litigation department and lead counsel on the Omnicron case—her biggest assignment since being hired as an associate attorney at Paulson LLP—had slinked into her office unannounced as she was scrutinizing the rusty (bloody?) tips of her firm-issued scissors. He’d then sat and unceremoniously relieved her of her most important duties on the Omnicron case, sending her headlong into an unrelenting, introspective hell that robbed her of all but three hours of sleep in the ensuing twenty four. She’d been counting the seconds until she could see Maury and get her head back together.

  A loud buzz yanked her back to the present as the front door of Maury’s complex clicked open. She pushed her way through the unlocked portal and ascended to the third floor, where Maury was waiting.

  He stood holding the apartment door open, with the gentle overhead light reflecting off his high forehead. He was average height and thin-limbed, though he had an old-man’s paunch that Sarah could see through his green woolen sweater. He greeted her with a smile and a hug. And after she removed her shoes—one of his house rules—she followed him to the den, fixing her gaze on his tight gray ponytail as they walked. Faint traces of nutmeg and cinnamon incense hung in the air, which reminded Sarah of the holidays.

  “Tell me why you called,” he said, sitting on his faded-navy couch with his left side pressed against the backrest.

  “I did it again,” she said, settling into the brown leather recliner she’d occupy for the next hour. It was shabby and worn, but it felt amazing—it didn’t just support her weight, it molded to her, welcoming her gently and whole-heartedly, like an old friend eager to catch up. She’d never before or since experienced chair so comfortable. “And, yet again,” she said, “I have no memory of cutting myself. It’s freaking me out.”

  “Have you had any extra stress lately?”

  “I’m about to go to trial on the biggest case of my career. Shit, the biggest case my firm has handled in the past decade. So, yeah, I’ve had some stress. I also just found out that I’ve been demoted on that case. They want me behind the scenes now, overseeing the junior associates’ grunt work. I was supposed to question a witness in open court, in front of the jury. It was a big deal. Obviously, they don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

  Maury looked at her pensively. He waited to see if Sarah would add more, and, when it was clear she wouldn’t, he said in a calm, even voice, “While I can’t say for certain what your superiors were thinking, I’ve had enough lawyer patients to know that performance anxiety and client nerves often lead to strange last-minute decisions just before trial. You shouldn’t assume they pulled you off the witness because of your competence.”

  “There’s nothing else to assume,” she said shrilly, raising her hands palms-up. “I had been preparing that witness for months.”

  “Did they hand the witness off to another associate?”

  “No, to a partner. He’s much more senior.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Sarah bunched her eyebrows and rolled her head to face Maury. Even though she disagreed with him, she found herself savoring the deep, woodwind vibrations of his voice. And her body felt like wax melting into a puddle in that chair. She could always relax here, which is probably why she could always find the time for her sessions with Maury, even though she struggled to make her weekly support group meetings.

  “You said yourself this was the firm’s biggest case in a decade,” he continued, still calm and measured. “Firm management might have insisted that the most experienced attorney available take that witness. Put yourself in their shoes. On a case of that magnitude, would you want your courtroom attorneys to be high-potential, but unproven practitioners, or battle-tested partners with a track record of success?”

  Sarah rolled her head back and stared at the ceiling again.

  “And while we’re discussing the trial team,” Maury continued, “let’s not forget they chose you for this team. Give yourself credit for that. You’re still a fairly junior attorney, Sarah. Your opportunities will come. Just be patient.”

  Sarah looked over at Maury through the corners of her eyes.

  “Any other sources of stress?” he said.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  He tittered. “You know, Sarah, you could probably avoid some of thes
e more serious incidents if you would just attend your group meetings regularly. They really seem to help. I don’t understand your reluctance to go.”

  I’m surprised it took him this long to bring it up. “You know, Maury, if those meetings weren’t free, I would think you had a financial stake in how well attended they were.” She looked over, and they exchanged warm smiles. “Besides you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  III

  Trial went as expected—ten sleepless nights of corralling evidence and coordinating legal research with nerve-wracked junior attorneys in a cramped back room. It was never clear from her vantage point how well the case was going, but the fact that every one of her tasks seemed to be an emergency didn’t bode well. Just finding time to eat had been a struggle.

  Despite the tight schedule, she’d apparently managed to gore herself twice during trial. Again, she couldn’t remember when or how she did it.

  Back home, her sister Molly had surprised her with an unannounced visit. Thinking she was doing Sarah a favor, Molly had run a load of laundry for her, discovering by accident several of Sarah’s bloodstained garments. She confronted Sarah about the source of those stains, and in the ensuing, awkward conversation, Sarah, greatly embarrassed, conceded that she’d been cutting herself since as early as high school, and confessed that their parents had secretly chauffeured her to therapy for years. Molly’s “how could you do that to yourself?” look had been soul-flattening. Shock, concern, disgust, and disappointment seemed waft off her, thickening the air between them, despite Sarah’s insistence that she had things under control. The mood had lightened only slightly when Molly hugged Sarah goodbye and said, “I’ll check in on you.”

  Alone again, Sarah stared frequently at the two slashes on right side of her rear end, poking at the blood-encrusted marks, shaking her head, and thinking, You’re becoming quite the fucking head case, aren’t you?

  With Molly gone, though, Sarah could at least refocus on work, which she did, attacking her assignments with monk-like dedication. No blogs, news websites, or online shopping. For four straight days—including Saturday and Sunday—she ate every meal at her desk, rising only infrequently to use the restroom.

  Booting up her computer the Tuesday after Molly left, Sarah saw her cell phone light up—Molly was calling. Sarah ignored her. Molly called again. Sarah ignored her again. Jesus, Molly, she thought, shaking her head, it’s the beginning of the work day. Undeterred, Molly left text messages: “Need to talk”; “You lied to me.”

  Sarah silenced her phone and flipped it over, just as David Marshall shoved his way into her office. “Sarah? Got a second?”

  “Of course,” she said, doing her best to look happy and eager—and to block from her thoughts what happened the last time David stopped by for a “quick chat.”

  He grabbed the stack of papers on Sarah’s visitors’ chair, scanned her desk for an empty spot to put it, and, unable to find one, dropped the stack on a covered banker’s box near the wall, and sat.

  I really need to get this place organized, she thought.

  “I know it was tough having that witness taken away from you just before the Omnicron trial,” he said soberly, peering straight at her, almost through her, “but it was just business. The client was getting nervous about having an associate stand up in front of the jury on such a big case.” He paused here for an uncomfortably long time and trained his eyes on hers, seemingly trying to prompt a response. The silence lingered, feeding her fears, but she knew better than to fill the space with nervous chatter. I must have fucked something else up. Must have . . .

  “Anyway,” David continued, in a conciliatory tone, “you handled it like a professional, and you did great work orchestrating things behind the scenes at trial.”

  Sarah forced the corners of her mouth upwards as she waited for David to say “but . . . ,” but it never came.

  “I was impressed,” he went on. “How would you like to work on a matter with me directly? It would be a much smaller case—nowhere near the magnitude of the Omnicron trial—but it’s probably more important to the company involved, Sonalux Labs. They asked me to put together a team of my best attorneys, and I want you on that team. In fact, I want you to manage it day-to-day. Think you can handle it?”

  Sarah’s blood warmed in her veins. “Absolutely.” She fought the urge to fist pump. “Thank you!”

  “You earned it.” His smile widened. Sarah could feel her cheeks flush. “There are a few preliminary things you can get started on right—”

  Sarah’s office line rang. The caller ID read “Molly Evans.” David stopped, glanced at the phone, then back at Sarah, whose hands were instinctively reaching for the “ignore” button or whatever the equivalent was on her overly complicated, firm-issued Cisco phone. But she couldn’t find it. Her back stiffened. As a mid-level associate, she’d never had the luxury of being able to ignore a call at work. She sat, helplessly gawking at the phone as if it were a fire she couldn’t extinguish, while it proclaimed, with each jarring ring, just how technically incompetent she was.

  “You know there’s—” David began.

  Sarah snatched the receiver off the cradle and slammed it back in place, startling David and cutting him off. “Sorry,” she offered, “I’m really bad with these phones. What were you saying?”

  He squinted at her and paused for a moment before continuing: “I was just saying that there’s a do not dist—”

  The phone rang again.

  “Do you need to get that?” he asked.

  “It’s just my sister. I can call her back.” Sarah waived a hand dismissively.

  The phone kept ringing. Sarah tried to find the “do not disturb” button, which seemed just as elusive as the “ignore” button.

  “Sarah,” David said, “it’s your sister. What if it’s an emergency? I insist.” He looked stern now, his voice tightening. “Answer the phone.”

  She swallowed hard and turned away from David, lifting the handset and whispering into the receiver: “Molly, unless this is an emergency, it’s a really bad time.”

  “Sarah, what the hell? Why do you keep ignoring me? And why did you lie to me?” Molly began.

  “What? I—”

  “I spoke to Mom and Dad about your . . . affliction.”

  Does she keep anything to herself?

  “Well,” she continued, “they were completely shocked.”

  “I guess so. They didn’t know this was ongoing. They thought it ended years ago.” She glanced over her shoulder at David. “I’m sure they’ll now expect a thorough explanation next time I’m home—”

  “Sarah, I don’t think you understand. They had no idea you had ever cut yourself.”

  “What? Yes they did. That’s—”

  “No, they didn’t. They’re obviously worried, but I asked them not to call you. I told them it might just be a misunderstanding and that I would talk to you and figure it out. I’m really worried about you. Why would you lie to me about this?”

  “Molly,” she said as evenly as possible, “I didn’t lie to you. I’m just . . .” She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She looked back at David, who was getting noticeably impatient. How could they not remember taking me to therapy in high school? “Look, Moll, I can’t talk about this right now. I’ll figure things out and call you back, OK? Gotta go. Love you.” She hung up and turned to face David again, fighting the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and struggling to maintain a neutral expression. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said to David.

  “Family’s important, Sarah.” David’s tone had changed. He was scolding her now; a father relaying a life lesson to his recalcitrant daughter. “My advice to you is don’t take that for granted. I lost my first wife because I focused too much on this job. You don’t want to end up in that position. Trust me.”

  She stared straight through him. He said something. You have to respond. “Yes. . . . Thank you.”

  “Now, let me show you how to set
your phone to ‘do not disturb’ so we can actually discuss this case that you will be running.”

  IV

  “Don’t ever do that again,” Sarah said to Molly that evening, bypassing a greeting altogether. It was late, but Sarah was still at the office. She spoke in a hushed voice that made her sound more menacing than she’d intended. “I was in a meeting with the most senior partner in my department—the one person who basically controls my future—when you decided we had to talk at that very moment.”

  “It was bad timing,” Molly said. “I’m sorry. I was just really worried and I wanted to figure out what’s going on.” She paused for a reaction from Sarah, but Sarah gave none. “Have you thought any more about what we talked about?”

  “Yes, in fact. I spoke to my therapist about it over the phone today, and it turns out that a small percentage of patients with my particular condition suffer from minor memory alterations, and I’m apparently in that minority. I was misremembering the distant past. It freaked me out a little that I could misremember something so vividly, but it’s apparently nothing to worry about. Totally normal for this to happen.”

  “You’re telling me your memories are changing and you’re OK with that? I mean, how do you even know your therapist is right about this?”

  “I knew you would ask me that, so I even reached out to Dawn Hamilton and Rachel Moore—two of the other women in my support group—and both of them have had the same memory issues.” Molly was silent on the other end. “There’s no point in turning this into an episode of ER, Moll. There’s no dramatic twist to be uncovered here.”