Obsessed Read Online Free Page B

seven. I still remember the first time I saw a man who had one arm. It was like a light went on in my head.”
    â€œYou were seven years old.”
    â€œThat’s when I realized why everyone was staring at me. It was my arm. It didn’t belong there, and they could all see it just as clearly as I could. Now I can’t wait until it’s fixed and I can get on with my life. Get started with my life.”
    â€œDid you tell your parents about this?” Emily asked. “Or a teacher?”
    â€œOf course not. It would only make them stare more.” There was a pause. “Like you’re doing now.”
    Emily recrossed her legs. “I’m just trying to understand what makes you hate it so much.”
    Mr. Black leaned forward. Now he was staring at Emily’s legs. “It’s easy for you to say. You have a beautiful body.”
    She shifted her notebook so it covered some of the exposed knee.
    Mr. Black sat back. “One thing that has changed. At least now I know I’m not alone.”
    He talked about the people he’d met on the Internet, men and women who wanted to have parts of themselves amputated. One man had already had a leg removed and claimed he felt reborn, at peace for the first time. A woman had had four fingers from one hand removed and was waiting for surgery on her other hand.
    Mr. Black showed Emily where he wanted the surgeon to cut, precisely two inches above the elbow. Then everything would be better. He could begin looking for a new job in earnest. Reconnect with his estranged daughter. Go out in public without feeling like a leper.
    The session ended and Mr. Black got up to leave. He collected his notebook. Emily shook his hand and then held on, her other hand on his forearm. She didn’t seem to notice Mr. Black’s shudder.
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow evening at the lab?”
    He nodded, his gaze riveted on the arm that Emily held. He cleared his throat.
    â€œYou gave me the address already.”
    â€œRight. Park in the building. If anyone asks, tell them you have an appointment with Dr. Shands.”
    When she let go, a look of relief washed over Mr. Black’s face. He stumbled as he left the room.

    After the session Emily and I went to my office to talk. She stood, surveying my walls. Her eyes flicked over my Wines of Provence poster. She pointed to the crayon drawing of the brain and gave me a questioning look.
    â€œI did that when I was eight. My mother had it framed when I got my doctorate in neuropsychology.”
    Emily gave a wry smile and shook her head. “You’re amazing. You knew from the get-go that this is what you wanted to do.”
    I laughed. “Who knows? She saved all my drawings. If I’d become an astronaut she’d have framed one of my moon rockets. A baseball pitcher? I drew a whole series of Yankee Stadium.”
    â€œYou played baseball?”
    â€œStoop ball. We didn’t have ballfields in Flatbush, we had front stoops. You throw a Spalding,” I said, pronouncing it Spaldeen . “You know, a pink rubber ball.”
    â€œHow fascinating. And?” Emily said, facing me now, her chin resting on her fist.
    â€œYou really want to hear this?” She nodded, her eyes wide. It had been ages since I’d thought about stoop ball, though I’d played it with Danny Ellentuck just about every day after school. “You throw it against the steps and the other guy tries to catch the ball on the rebound. After one bounce it’s a single, two a double. Catch it on a fly and you’re out. Three outs and you switch and the other person gets to throw the ball. The real object of the game is to hit the edge of the step on the stoop because then the ball goes flying and you get a home run.”
    Emily smiled appreciatively. “Where I grew up there were no front stoops, or ballfields either.”
    She picked up a matted photograph I had lying on my bookcase. It was a