Chapter 7
This therapy appointment is a real pain in my ass.
I’m gaining levels in CoH like nobody’s business.
As long as I keep this up, I’ll hit the level cap—seventy—before the end of the weekend.
Then I’ll finally be able to start doing endgame instances and raids, where I can get the best gear.
The only problem is that I kind of need a clan for that.
CoH Online has a system where players can find random groups for doing instances and raids, but if you’re in a clan, you have can have structure and schedule.
You don’t get good at anything without structure and schedule.
But instead of leveling, or finding a clan, I’m trapped in a car, being ferried back and forth like a prisoner.
“Her credentials are excellent,” Mom says, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel and her eyes diligently focused ahead. “I think you’ll really like her.”
My fingers run over the embossed cover of the second Children of Hypnos book.
I need to finish this one soon, because the Dreambreaker expansion that’s coming out next month is supposed to be based on book three.
Reading the book could give me some idea of what’s coming in the game, and how to fight it.
That’ll be essential if I want to get into and keep up with a high-level raiding clan.
I’ve been looking through lists of them online.
Specifically, I looked up the one Alissa was in, because of course she was in one.
She had to be, to write those guides. She played on a different server than me, so I paid ten dollars out of my summer money to get Raven moved to that server.
I just need to find someone who’s already in Alissa’s clan to invite me.
The clan is called Ikelos Lair, and they are very exclusive.
“. . . you listening, Evie?”
I snap back to attention.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, what?”
Mom sighs through her nose. “It’s okay. I was just saying that I saw a colleague of Anna’s for a while after what happened with your dad. She helped me a lot, and she recommended Anna for you.”
“You did? When did you have time?”
“I wasn’t working then,” she says, looking at me with concern. “Don’t you remember? I guess you don’t, I wouldn’t have told you, you were so young. I got fired from that job then.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I couldn’t work,” she says. Her voice gets tight, like it almost always is these days.
“Your dad died and I couldn’t do anything.
I could barely take care of you. Thankfully your dad’s life insurance paid out.
I was able to keep the house and go to appointments and get medication until I was back on my feet.
My therapist was the reason I was able to do that. ”
“Oh. No, I don’t remember.” I remember things from being that age—I remember Dad not talking to me much, running from the room when I came in, and suddenly being gone.
I remember playing with Legos in front of the TV.
I remember having a lot of playdates and sleepovers at Alissa’s house.
That was the first year I went to her house.
When we first became best friends. We were seven.
Thinking of Alissa has my hands tightening on my book.
“Did you sign me up for the therapist because that’s what you did?” I ask. It comes out sharper than I wanted, but it’s too late. “Cause I mean, I’m not not able to do things. I’m not depressed.”
The leather of the steering wheel squeaks under her grip. “Depression isn’t always obvious. I’m not saying you have it, only that you need to be aware of the possibility. And even if you don’t have it, losing your best friend is hard. There’s a lot going on in your head you might not be aware of—”
I turn away from her, not interested in listening anymore. I’ve never liked it when people assume they know what’s going on inside me. Even my mom. My head doesn’t work the same way as theirs. Plenty of people made fun of me for it when I was younger. Sometimes they still do.
I don’t notice when Mom stops talking, but she’s silent as we pull up to the therapy office.
It’s the last door on the outside of a long white building.
The sign by the parking lot says there’s also a real estate firm, a physical therapist, a gym, a lawyer, and a caterer working out of the other offices in this building.
Mom turns off the car and starts to unbuckle her seat belt.
“Do you care if I go in by myself?” I ask. I can see the front desk through the door; she’ll be able to tell that I’ve checked in, and she’ll know if I come back out.
She hesitates for a second, but finally says, “Okay.”
I take my book and go inside. Six therapists work out of this office, their names printed on the door.
Chairs circle a small waiting room decorated in light blue.
There are a few magazines, a coffee-table book about pit bulls, and a big picture of a beach on one wall.
The only person there is a woman behind the desk, tapping away on a computer.
She looks up and smiles when I stop in front of her. She’s maybe thirty.
“Hi,” she says. “Can I get your name?”
“Evie Leigh,” I say. “L-E-I-G-H.”
“Great. Hi, Evie.” She grabs a clipboard and hands it to me.
It already has papers clipped to it, and they have my name written at the top in cursive.
“We’re glad to have you. Your mom sent in your insurance information and medical history, so you’re good there.
If you could fill out these two forms and bring them back up to me when you’re done, I’d really appreciate it. ”
“Sure.”
I find a chair that looks good and settle in. The forms are short surveys. One is labeled PHQ-9 and the other GAD-7.
Did Mom tell them I needed this? That I was anxious and depressed?
I guess I haven’t been sleeping like normal, and I haven’t been eating a lot, but that’s because I’ve been busy playing CoH or wandering through the woods.
I circle “several days” on the sleeping and eating parts of the PHQ-9, then do “not at all” for the rest. For the GAD-7, I circle all the zeroes down the row, and write a big zero in the bottom score.
I circle “not difficult at all” for both surveys.
I return the forms, pen, and clipboard to the receptionist.
“You’re quick!” she says. “Thank you. Anna will come out to get you in a few minutes.”
I return to my chair and crack open my book.
Like the first, this one has a bookplate in the front with Alissa’s name on it.
It’s in neater script here; she was older when she wrote it.
Her handwriting was garbage until she got obsessed with calligraphy in seventh grade. I skip to my bookmarked chapter.
I read for a few minutes before the receptionist says, “Can I get you anything to drink?”
I look up. She’s standing in front of me with her bottle, clearly on her way to the water cooler across the room.
“We have tea too. And coffee, but I’m typically not supposed to offer that to patients.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
She turns to go, then glances down. “Oh . . . you’re reading Children of Hypnos? Getting ready for the new book?”
“Reading it for the first time,” I say as she goes to fill up her water bottle. “I know it’s kind of a kid’s book. . . .”
“Oh no, not at all,” she says. “I mean, technically, yes, but the themes are applicable to everyone, don’t you think? If we can’t talk about mental health issues with teenagers, who can we talk about them with?”
“I just like the weapons and characters,” I say.
She nods and screws the top back on her water bottle. “They’re great. Who’s your favorite?”
“Emery,” I say. “She has a lot put on her, but she always tries really hard and does what she thinks is right.”
“Emery’s a great one.”
She returns to her computer. I stare at the pages of my book for a minute, knowing I’m allowed to go back to reading, but feeling like I have missed something in this conversation. She wasn’t just asking because she wanted to make small talk. She wasn’t doing some social necessity thing.
“Do you have a favorite?” I ask. She looks up, seems genuinely surprised that I asked.
“Wes,” she says, “but since you haven’t read all the books, I don’t want to spoil them with why.”
I smile back—not in a forced way. “Thanks.”
Now the conversation has ended, and I can go back to reading.
Anna Henderson is a middle-aged woman with neat brown hair, neat clothes, a neat desk, a neat office. Everything about her is clean, well pressed, and in order. I tuck myself into a corner of her couch and try not to touch anything.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Evie,” she says.
“Before we get started, there are a few things we need to go over. First, it’s important for you to know that anything you say to me is kept confidential and will not be shared with anyone else, including your mother.
I’m here to help you, not to report back to your mom about how you’re doing.
There’s only one exception: I’m a mandated reporter, which means I’m required, legally and ethically, to report to authorities if someone is being harmed or is in danger of being harmed. That includes you. Okay?
“Second, if you’re ever uncomfortable with a question I ask, you can tell me so, and I’ll move on. You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, and you don’t have to share any information you don’t feel comfortable sharing. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“Um. Yeah. My mom calls you Anna, but should I call you Dr. Henderson? It felt kind of weird.”
“You can call me Anna, or Ms. Henderson, if that makes you feel more comfortable. I don’t have a doctorate; the letters after my name stand for licensed clinical social worker. I still have a lot of education, just not the kind most people think of. Anything else?”
“Oh. No, that’s it.”