I nodded my head and watched as he immersed himself in my writing. It didn’t take him very long to flip through the pages. He was closing the journal before I figured out he had finished. I thought I had written more than just a few minutes of reading.
“Well, I want to thank you for completing the assignment. Now let me ask you: first, how did you feel while I was reading it? And secondly, how do you feel now after having written it?”
I paused for a moment.
“Be as honest as you can,” he continued.
“Well, I was nervous, I guess. I wasn’t sure what you were thinking. Was it good? Was it bad? What I wrote, I mean. I was afraid you’d analyze it and see what a head case I really am.” I stopped and waited for his response.
The corners of his mouth rose. “You are not a head case, Christy. You are just a girl—” I raised my eyebrows. I wasn’t a girl anymore. A girl implied innocence, someone who was looked after because she wasn’t old enough to be on her own. “A woman, excuse me, who experienced something traumatic and is trying to take steps to overcome her fears and anxieties. You are not a head case. And seeing a psychologist does not make you one either. Do you know how many patients come to see me? Lots. You are one of the few I actually enjoy seeing.”
Despite the anxiety I felt about being a nutcase, Dr. Stone was doing a pretty good job of calming those fears.
“So, let’s talk about how you feel about what you wrote. Was it hard for you?”
“Surprisingly, no. Once I started writing, I just sort of went off. It probably didn’t even make sense.”
“No, it was perfect, just what I wanted. Don’t underestimate yourself, Christy. Even though you think things haven’t worked out, you have a loving family and wonderful friends who would do anything for you.” He smiled then continued, “You have a job you use to help support your family, you are also going to school and getting your degree. Your parents would be proud.”
He couldn’t know that. How can anyone, really, claim that people they love, people who have died, would be proud of them? People can say it, but it doesn’t mean it’s true. It doesn’t mean they really know. It’s impossible. No one can know how a dead person might feel.
“Christy,”
I looked up at Dr. Stone. “You can’t know what they would be feeling.”
“They were proud of you before the accident. And after everything you and Mitchell did to keep your family together, I know they would be proud of you.”
I shook my head. I didn’t believe him.
“I have two assignments for you this week. I want you to talk to your brother, your sister or even Devin about what we just discussed.”
“You want me to ask one of them if I think my parents would be proud of me?”
“Yes.”
“They would think I was crazy or worse, that I was a pathetic loser. I can’t do that!”
“I want you to try. No one who truly loves you will ever think you are crazy or pathetic.”
I sighed. I wasn’t sure I could do it. “And the second assignment?”
“I want you to write about high school—”
My sharp intake of breath alerted him to my anxiety.
“Not what happened. I want to know what it was like for you before and after The Incident. You don’t have to tell me about anything you don’t want to talk about.”
That didn’t sound too bad. “I can do that, I suppose.”
“Good. Now I want to talk about what you’ve written. You obviously look up to your brother. You’re what? Three years apart? Yet, you talk as if you were the same age.”
“So? We’re close.”
He chuckled softly. “I don’t doubt you. I’m just curious why you feel so differently about your sister.”
“You’re the therapist,” I answered.
“Well, what do you think the reason is for the tension between the two of you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Devin?” he prompted.
“Unlikely.”
Dr. Stone pursed his lips. I realized he only does this when he thinks I’m not being honest and he doesn’t want to press me too hard. “What about her cheerleading? You said you don’t like it. Does this have anything to do with—”
“No. I just think cheerleading is for girls who want to showcase their bodies. It’s just another stupid way the “cool” kids create high school social classes.”
He pursed his lips again, and I shook my head. He wasn’t right. I don’t hate cheerleading because of The Incident. It had nothing to do with that.
“I want to talk to you about Mitchell and Megan.” At least he was moving on. “You care about both of them, right?” I nodded my head. “What if it doesn’t work out? How would you feel?”