You’ll Find Me in Manhattan. Jill Knapp

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СКАЧАТЬ psychoanalysis on individuals to prove they have a great enough understanding of the knowledge they’ve obtained while they have been studying here. There are a few ways to get volunteers for this treatment.” He stood up and slowly began pacing the room. His steps were small for a man of his height, and he kept his head down the entire time. I began to wonder if something was bothering him, but didn’t dare ask.

      “Treatment?” I whispered the word, unsure of what he was getting at.

      “It’s really a win-win situation,” he stopped pacing and looked at me. “You would come in twice a week for about forty-five minutes a session, and one of the senior-level doctoral students would analyze you. They would get the credit and experience they need, plus a little extra money, and you would get free analysis.”

      Without noticing, I shot up from the chair. “I don’t need analysis. I’m not crazy.” I immediately sat back down and folded my hands in my lap. So much for coming across as professional or not seeming crazy.

      Dr. Greenfield shook his head. I could almost hear him mentally wish he had a glass of scotch at that very moment. “Just the fact that you think analysis is only for the clinical population proves how far behind you are here, Amalia.” His eyes were narrowed and he had an undeniable look of disappointment on his face. I lowered my head in embarrassment. Shame crept through me like the kind of goose bumps you’d get when you had a fever. I didn’t know which was worse, the fact that I had been recommended for psychological treatment by my professor, or that said professor just confirmed my fears that I wasn’t doing well in the program.

      “This isn’t something I feel comfortable with,” I said, shrugging, reaching my arms around my stomach, this conversation suddenly feeling vexatious, “I am afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

      “That’s a shame, Ms. Hastings,” his voice was low and wry. But I should tell you, if you don’t partake in this portion of the work-study program, then you can no longer work on my project with me.” I saw a small smile tug at the side of his lips, or maybe I was imagining that.

      “Excuse me?” I uttered, trying to keep an even tone. “Since when did going to analysis become a requirement for working on your project?” I had read the forms thoroughly before signing – at least I thought I had.

      “You’ve shown me how irresponsible you can be, and how little effort you are willing to put in to further your education, and ultimately, your career. I asked you this a while ago, Miss Hastings, and you didn’t have a good answer for me then and I doubt you have a good answer for me now. What do you want to do when you graduate with your Master’s from NYU?”

      I was speechless. The truth was, with everything going on in my life over the past few years, just handling things day to day felt like a constant struggle. The future seemed so far away when I first moved into that West Village apartment, but isn’t that how it always goes? One day you’re imaging your future, then in the blink of an eye, it’s here.

      But now, the cushy idea of “future Amalia” having to make these decisions was gone. The time was now. I only had a little over a year left here and I had to start making some serious plans for my future.

      I looked down at the floor. The old, slightly torn, carpeting mirrored my feelings of uselessness. Maybe going to therapy wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

      Without further consideration, I backed down.

      “You’re right,” I conceded.

      “What was that?” he took a step closer to me and turned his head slightly as if to indicate that he wanted me to speak louder.

      My feelings of dejection slowly melded into ones of anger. I felt my hands ball in fists. The man was getting way too much enjoyment out of this.

      “I’ll stay in your program,” I enunciated each word through gritted teeth. “I need the money. So I guess that means, starting in the fall, I will be going to analysis.”

      “It will begin at the end of October.”

      I nodded, unsure of what else to say.

      Dr. Greenfield stared at me for a moment. The wrinkles around his eyes looked more pronounced today than usual, and for a moment I felt sorry for him. What did I really know about this man? His arms were folded across his chest and I noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. I let my shoulders sink a bit and relaxed. There was really no point in me getting all worked up about this. One more year in this hell hole, and I’d be out. Might as well make it as easy on myself as I could while I was here.

      I took a deep breath. “Is that all, sir?” I kept my face poker-straight, unwilling to take any more criticism.

      He looked at me for a beat longer and then said, “Yes, that’s all.”

      I turned on my heel and headed toward the door, chewing on the bottom of my lip the whole time.

      “Oh and Miss Hastings,” he called out to me just as I was turning the doorknob. “When you get here Monday morning, do not be late again. This is your final warning.”

      I merely turned to him and nodded, unable to speak out of fear I would curse him out.

       Eight – Olivia

       Three months later

      It was fall again in New York, which means you could expect to see lots of Burberry scarves, black tights, pumpkin spice lattes, and fingerless gloves. Here in the city, and in most of the northern states, fall lasts for about two weeks until the harsh, oppressive winter begins. It was September 14^th and classes had been going on for nearly three weeks. Our cohort only had four classes left to finish our requirements for graduation. Two this semester and two in the spring. Of course, our senior seminar class was being taught by Dr. Greenfield. There was just no escaping that man. We could all at least take solace in the fact that senior seminar was a core class and was only held once a semester. We would all be taking it together. The other class that Alex and I chose this semester was called “Cell Biology – the Nucleus and Beyond.” Alex pointed out that the class would stand out more on our doctoral applications than any of the other courses being held. I thought it sounded like a Star Trek episode and agreed to enroll.

      Deep breath.

      I sipped my green tea grabbed from a local café near Union Square and slowly walked to my biology class. I wanted to savor the beautiful weather while I could. It was a little after two-thirty and my building was about ten minutes away. I had plenty of time to make it to my three o’clock class. I took another deep breath as a pair of two teenage girls walked passed me, giggling as they scarfed down cupcakes from one of the artisan food trucks parked by the curb. They looked so happy and full of life. Even at twenty-four, a considerably young age, I felt deflated.

      I hadn’t spoken to my mother much since the day she told me about the picture. The picture of Alex hugging another girl. She had sent me a couple of follow-up texts asking me if I’d confronted him yet. I asked her in the politest way possible to butt out. Not because I necessarily wanted to be nice to her, more that I didn’t want to engage with her in a conversation about nonsense.

      I shook my head, putting thoughts of her out of my mind, and took a soothing sip of my tea. Eight more months and then we would graduate on May 17^th. СКАЧАТЬ