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the silver of his hair and the blazing white of his teeth. Dr. Sterling’s name fits him so well, I have to wonder if he made it up. Do therapists have noms de psych , I wonder, like writers have noms de plume ? I can just picturing him free-associating to come up with it: sterling, silver, born with a silver spoon, sterling reputation… Maybe he did make it up himself. Maybe he needed it so crazies like me couldn’t stalk him.
    “Mariana, how are we?” He shakes my hand as he always does when I arrive. He has a confident handshake, warm and firm, and he keeps maximum eye contact. I bet he studied handshakes at a conference. Probably in Hawaii.
    Why do I always over-analyze everything when I come here?
    “I’m fine,” I say in a tiny voice.
    “Good, good.” He steps back and gestures me through the door. “Shall we?”
    What would happen, I wonder, if I said, “No we shalln’t” and walked out the door? Would he call my mother in Mexico City? Probably. I’m here under doctor’s orders, after all. My mother let me come to Fitzgarren only because Dr. Sterling agreed to take me as a client. That and the fact she really needed to get away from me.
    So I follow Dr. Sterling into his office. It’s painted in the same soothing colors as the waiting room—pale grey carpets, shiny black desk. The only thing that breaks with the pattern is the couch, which is round and deep red and squashy. I can imagine Dr. Sterling advising the decorators. “I’d like the walls done in Tabula Rasa and the couch in Return the Womb—and put it in the center of the room so all the focus is on the client.” I wonder if rounded edges are meant to be less confrontational, if they’ve removed all the corners the way they take sharp things away from you at Westgate. Aside from the couch, the room is furnished mostly in books, lined up neatly by height on the built-in shelves. Artfully interspersed are the artifacts of Dr. Sterling’s travels. Although he doesn’t actually believe in the supernatural (he has made that very clear) the doctor appreciates the symbolic significance of ritual statues and ceremonial vases. The empty eyes of three ebony masks watch me from the nearest shelf.
    “So.” Dr. Sterling settles himself behind his desk. He steeples his long tan fingers and leans toward me in a way that clearly says I’m totally engaged. “Mariana,” he says, “How have we been?”
    “We—I mean I have been fine.” Why does he always say we as if we’re conjoined twins? Doesn’t that go against some psychology rule about boundaries? “You know, more or less fine.”
    He looks at me expectantly. “More or less?”
    I fidget uncomfortably on the womb couch. I should have just said fine. Now he’ll want me to talk about something, probably Enrique. I cast about in my mind for something else I can throw him. “Well…I had a nightmare last night…” I say, and instantly regret it.
    Dr. Sterling leans forward another fraction of an inch, almost bumping the silver perpetual motion statue on his desk. Its pendulum sways. “Interesting. Tell me about the dream.” He cycles one hand as if to reel the story out of me. “Please.”
    “Well…” I try to sit up straighter, but the couch is too squashy. I take a deep breath. “I’m walking toward a house—no, more like a castle. A manor house, maybe? It’s big and made of stone. It’s dark. I’m following a girl.”
    He gathers his legal pad and pen off his desk. “Describe the girl.”
    “She has red-blond hair, long and wavy. She’s wearing a copper-colored dress, very old fashioned, like Victorian. Very fancy, formal.”
    “Like one would wear to a wedding? A prom?”
    “I guess.” The dress was actually much more formal than that, more austere, but I don’t want to make it sound funereal. He’ll read into that for sure. “Yes.”
    Dr. Sterling nods and jots something down on his legal pad. “Go on.”
    My face feels hot. I thought the dream would be a good