TABITHA
Fiction by Cassidy McCants Art by Meikel Church
T
abitha is a small woman. Normal-sized, really, but small compared to me, a slightly larger than average woman. I trust some of what she tells me. Of what she suggests, implies. I immediately felt safe enough in her dainty hands. Felt as though she used them to cup all of me, me and my big bones, as soon as I sunk into her me-sized faux-leather chair. During one session, probably our third together, I told her about my relationship with my father. Something I normally don’t talk about. But I talked and talked—I felt my face and neck grow hot, felt a stinging under my arms and in my eyes. I wanted to change shirts ten minutes in. But she listened. Holding a cup of Earl Grey, she listened. She heard me when I said about him, drugs and women and car wrecks and jailtime jailtime jailtime. When I told her about my calling the cops during one of his parties as a kid, she said, Wow, Anna, you became your
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own hero in that moment. And I could see it in her eyes. I’d truly impressed her. This woman had to have seen, to have heard, everything by the time she met me. But I’d impressed her. I remember—throughout the rest of the session her eyes were not only softer but more respectful, as though she regarded me as her hero. I’d never been my own hero. Herohood sounded nice. She looked at me like I was big in more ways than one. So I couldn’t stop there. I lost sleep some nights—and sleep continues to escape me—thinking about what else I could pull from my childhood, moments when I might’ve been my own hero without realizing it fully. When I’d fall asleep the week following that session, I’d dream about diving into pools of various substances. Myriad materials, textures, patterns. I remember a slow descent into paisley, a quick dip into Kleenex. Falling into forks, dunking into apple