Wrecked by Charlotte Roche Read Free Book Online

she’s furnished the place this way just to meet patients’ expectations and make them comfortable opening up. If not—if this is how she actually wants it to look—it would be really tragic.
    I ring the bell now that the other lunatic is gone. A buzzer lets me in. As usual, she is hiding in her office, a room I’ve never seen. Through the frosted glass I can see only that she’s sitting at a desk in there. It’s very fuzzy, but there’s a large desk, and I can make out the shape of a person dressed in pastel clothing. She likes to wear pastel-colored sweaters, often cable-knit. I can also vaguely make out her blonde head of hair. She looks very feminine and friendly. She’s got a 1970s kind of sexiness to her. Sometimes I worry that she’s a lesbian, but I’ll never find out. I wouldn’t like it if she were a lesbian. I want her to have all the same difficulties in life that I have: husband, child, the whole shebang.
    I have to wait until she’s ready. She always needs ten minutes between patients to clear her head and cleanse her soul—which, of course, does not exist. I have no idea what she does for those ten minutes. I suspect she looks over her notes, because it doesn’t seem possible that she could remember all the mothers-in-law and ex-husbands and children’s and pets’names that people jabber on about all day. In eight years with her, she’s never made a single mistake about things like that with me. I keep waiting for her to refer to my husband as Oliver or whatever. Or to say “your son” instead of “your daughter.” That’s why I think she hoards notes about all of us loons behind that frosted glass—notes she quickly updates after each hour with the various new names that have come up. I imagine her partner—hopefully a man—quizzing her about all the names of her patients’ family members.
    I have my choice of sitting on a chair in the hall or going into the room where she hosts group sessions. There are probably a dozen chairs in that room. It’s where the group marriage counseling takes place. Back when we went to marriage counseling to save our relationship, my husband and I chose to do it privately, just us two, rather than with a group. My husband is very much opposed to groups—whether it’s tai chi, therapy, or whatever. Only when it comes to sex is he not opposed to groups.
    There are pictures on the walls that I think Frau Drescher painted herself. They depict naked people in the Garden of Eden. Snakes are wrapped around the bodies. There are brightly colored flowers all over the place. The people aren’t fully visible—they’re more like silhouettes. In the group room is a well-stocked bookcase, which I find reassuring. It’s proof that she did study the stuff she uses to fiddle around with my head. It shows she’s clever, and if she doesn’t manage to make progress on something she can consult her books. When I arrive much too early, I grab a random book off the shelf, open it to a random page, and try to understand what’s written. But it never works. It’s insanely complicated stuff.
    At the top of the hour she quietly emerges from her office and comes to look for me. I hear her footsteps, always following the same route: first she looks in the hall, then she comes down to the group room. She stands in the doorway and says, “Right.” She smiles encouragingly.
    I stand up, go confidently toward her, look her in the eyes—as my parents taught me to do—shake her hand, and say,
“Guten Tag.”
    I find it uncomfortable making physical contact with her. But it’s part of being a member of society. Still, I’d rather not touch her. Not because I find her disgusting, but because I feel as if we should have a strictly mental connection, and physical contact of any kind disturbs that. Disturbs me, anyway. I’ve never talked about it with her. Maybe I should sometime. Then perhaps we could forgo the handshake. A lot of what I think I want to talk about vanishes