1
Feelings
“And that’s the story of how I almost died,” I said, leaning back in an oversized chair.
Dr. Heichman looked at me over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The literal embodiment of every old-school psychologist, the guy’s expression had barely shifted from neutral to annoyed. At least my parents gave me a reaction whenever they wanted to talk about the accident.
“Are we done?” I said, turning my attention toward a window. “Or can we at least move on to something less exciting and more important, like, I don’t know: how and why there’s a horrible Rembrandt knockoff hung on this wall? At least try to find a painter people won’t recognize. This one is terrible.”
“Not all of my clients are as interested in art as you,” he said.
“Guess I’m the special one.”
Dr. Heichman lowered his pen and closed his notebook. “We could spend the rest of your session discussing the qualities that are truly a reflection of your uniqueness, or we could focus on why you recount the car accident in such an unattached fashion.”
“You asked me to talk about it,” I said, staring at him. “I gave you a play-by-play for the millionth time. It is what it is.”
“True. You can’t change what happened.”
“Then why are we still talking about it?” I said. “We’ve been talking about it for, I don’t know, six months.”
“Because I’ve been at this long enough to know when a client is burying their feelings and refusing to acknowledge the implications of something as traumatic as the death of a friend,” he said.
Breath hung in my chest, suffocating.
“Well, I think I’ve managed just fine,” I said after a pause. “Maybe I don’t have to grieve the way you think I should.”
“Okay. How do you think you should be grieving?”
I shifted in the chair, my fingernails digging into the fine leather armrests. Conversations about this were like a nick in my Achilles tendon. Destructive. Painful.
I swallowed, facing the window again.
“You can’t keep your emotions bottled in,” he said, his voice like sandpaper. “That’s like funneling helium into a balloon until it reaches full capacity. You need to release the pressure before it pops; let out some of the tension and slowly adjust. If you don’t, you’ll break.”
“I already broke,” I said, blinking at him. “My friend died. High school went down the drain. Now here I am, stuck in an office with you while you tell me how I should and shouldn’t handle my grief.”
“Being abrasive is completely understandable.”
“This isn’t abrasive,” I said, standing. “This is me.” I grabbed my complimentary water bottle from the coffee table and crossed the room. “We’re done for today.”
“Sit down, Alex.”
I shot him a peace sign over my shoulder and headed for the door.
“Alex.”
I closed the door behind me, my sandals flip-flopping against polished tile floors as I headed for the lobby. Inside, my mom sat reading a copy of Good Housekeeping. I crossed the threshold, earning her attention as I closed the door.
“Well, that was quick,” my mom said, closing the magazine.
“What can I say? He was on a roll today.”
She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder, following me as she eyed her watch.
Our Thursday routine of afternoon therapy sessions started the previous November. With seven months of physical therapy finished and a Thursday time slot open for Dr. Heichman, Therapy Thursdays were our new norm.
Outside, late afternoon heat wrapped itself like a blanket around my skin. The lights on my mom’s Equinox flashed, the car humming to life as we neared.
“We’re meeting your father for dinner tonight,” she said as I reached the passenger side. “He got off early. Thought crawfish étouffée sounded good.”
“Yay for family dinners,” I said, yanking open the door.
Having dinners with the both of them was like doing a swan dive into shark-infested waters. You had to watch your back or one of them would take a bite out of you before you realized they were there.
“So, did you and Dr. Heichman have a good visit?” my mom said a minute later. She pulled the car onto the street, adjusting the volume on the radio to a conversational level. “You got out fifteen minutes early. I don’t want to make assumptions here—”
“Then don’t.”
“—but every time you get out early it’s because he’s hit on something you don’t like. Was it the wreck again?”
“It’s always the wreck,” I said, settling my attention on the buildings outside. “That’s why you signed me up for sessions with him, remember? That’s what we talk about.”
“We signed you up for sessions so you would have someone to talk to,” she said.
“And a therapy app on my phone wouldn’t do the job?” I said, glancing at her. She stared at me, expressionless. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Apps aren’t the same thing as a doctor, Alex. Besides, I like having you there in front of someone. It lets me know you aren’t fiddling with other things while someone is trying to talk to you.”
“Wrong. I’m always mentally fiddling with something. Today, for example, I was thinking about all the great knockoff paintings I’ve seen in my life and how crappy the one in his office is in comparison. I mean, he’s rich enough to buy a decent one.”
“That’s what you do in there?”
“I also watch him write notes about me,” I said, shrugging. “He has this notebook. It’s huge. But he probably sends you the copies, so I’m sure you already know that.”
“Wrong. Him sending me copies of anything would breach doctor-patient confidentiality,” she said.
“Ah! I forgot. Those rules changed when I turned eighteen.”
“Along with your voting status and your insurance premium,” she said.
“Funny how things seem to shift as people get older,” I said, raking overgrown bangs behind my ears. “Ooh, I bet curfew changes too. As in, there isn’t any.”
“As long as you live in our house, you abide by our rules,” she said.
“I can fix that.”
“You can’t,” she said, turning onto another road. “You have one more year in Crighton. You’re stuck with us.”
“Or I could just not get my diploma.”
She glanced at me over the console, her lips a thin line. Conversations about graduation were her sensitive subject. It was either graduate or get cut off. She didn’t care that the last part of my junior year was spent in the hospital. No. Make the eighteen-year-old go another year. Make your daughter the rainbow fish in a small bowl of crabs.
“Don’t start that conversation,” she said.
“It’s called freedom, Mom. Get on board or get over it.”
She rolled her eyes, an exasperated sigh passing her lips. “You’re always like this after therapy.”
“What? I happen to think I’m being nice,” I said.
Copyright © 2020 by Shannon Klare
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
