36. Then
Then: February 7th
I t’s a week until Mom’s big birthday surprise, but I think Dad and I have it all figured out. If she overheard any of our conversation from that night, she doesn’t show it. So far, I think we are in the clear. It’s Friday, and today she is driving me to another therapy appointment.
I have my license now and can drive myself, but she says that she wants to go with me. Probably to make sure I go, but rather than asking her why, I let it be. If she wants to sit in the lobby for a solid hour while I mostly nod at the therapist, fine. My therapist is okay, but it all seems a little pointless to me, if I’m being honest.
Dr. Gurkle is the type that you never catch smiling. She is all professional and all business. She does not laugh when I try to crack jokes to ease the mood, nor does she smile if I offer her a compliment. I haven’t given up hope though. I know one of these days she’s going to crack, just the tiniest sliver, and it’ll be gold. It’s all I want from these sessions anymore, and it’s quickly become a bit of a game.
After the evaluation with Dr. Gurkle, I was scheduled to see her once a week. Always on a Friday afternoon immediately following school.
I have an idea.
“So, how are you doing today, Phoenix?” she asks me in her monotone voice. She sits behind a dark mahogany desk that looks extremely important and expensive, while I sit in a cheap, worn, leather chair that has probably seated a thousand butts before mine. I try not to think about it too much.
“Fine,” I retort, bored. I don’t know why I still have to come here. I haven’t had any more blackouts, and I’m doing fine. I’m okay, really. Can’t she see that?
She sits there with a large laptop, taking notes every time I speak. I don’t have a clue what she is writing about me, but I’m not sure I want to know either.
“How have your stress levels been lately?” she asks me for the hundredth time.
My answer is always the same. I hope she’s getting paid a decent amount, because I can’t imagine sitting here like this every day with people like me if she wasn’t.
“What are you doing for Valentine’s Day this year?” I ask her, and she glances up at me from the computer. She doesn’t crack a smile. Darn. I’m not done yet.
She raises an eyebrow and leans back into her comfy, leather chair. “Why do you want to know?”
“I just wondered if they gave you the day off. They should since it’s a holiday and all,” I suggest.
She doesn’t appear phased or impressed, but she’s paused clacking away at her keys for the moment. I have her full attention.
“Is that so? And what do you plan to do on this holiday?” she asks me. Back into therapist mode. The woman is a machine. I’m not phased, not one bit .
“Oh, loads. It’s also my mom’s birthday,” I say.
She quirks her eyebrow again and nods. For a second, I think she’s going to slip, but she doesn’t. It’s as though she really wants to but knows that smiling would be unprofessional.
“Really? Well, that’s quite the celebration then. A birthday and a holiday.”
“Yep,” I say, smirking.
“And do you get the day off?” she asks me.
Her question has thrown me off guard. What is she playing at? Has she figured out my little game? She is good, I will give her that, but how good are we talking here?
“Well, no… I have school that day,” I say flatly, my voice full of disappointment. There was a time or two when Mom pulled me out of school for the day, calling it a “family day,” but nobody’s brought that up this year. As far as I know, it’s a regular day. Except for the surprise Dad and I have planned after school and work. It can still be special.
“Ahh, I see. Well, like you then, I too have to work that day. Somebody’s gotta pay the bills, right?” She winks at me.
It’s not exactly a smile, but it’s close. Does that count? Wait, what is she talking about?
“Do you make more money than your husband, Dr. Gurkle?” I ask, onto something.
She’s never once mentioned her husband, but she’s wearing a ring. If I can get her talking about herself, the focus will be off of me. Brilliant.
She types something quickly into her computer and then closes the lid. She places both of her palms down gently over the device, looking directly at me.
“I think that will be all for today, Phoenix.”
I can’t tell if I’ve upset her or if she’s back to playing her game with me . I think she’s caught on to my little tricks. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted .
“Oh, alright,” I say, defeated. “Guess I’ll see you next week then.” I scoot back in the chair, getting ready to stand.
Then she says something surprising. “That won’t be necessary. We are done here. Good luck out there.”
For a second I feel confused. I don’t understand. I came here thinking there would be no end. I’d be seventy-five and retired, and she would still be asking to see me every Friday to talk about the same things we always talk about. Now that it’s over, I’m not too sure how I feel about it. What if I’m not okay? What if it does happen again? Maybe I was wrong about her, maybe I should have been listening more to the things she was saying, rather than tuning her out.
“I don’t think I’m ready,” I admit, my voice small. I’m done playing our game for now. I’m serious.
“I think you’re ready for more than you give yourself credit for. I know that you’re a bright girl with big ideas. You’re passionate about the people you love and you love deeply. You’re going to do amazing things someday. I believe it.”
Wow. I take back anything negative I’ve ever thought about the lady. I’d even written a short story about her that didn’t paint her in the best light. I’m a little embarrassed about it now. I’ll trash that piece as soon as I get home.
“You got all that from sitting here with me while I make jokes and say mean things about you in my head?” I say, in disbelief.
At that, she breaks. A smile forms in slow motion across her face, and I memorize it. Especially if this is the only time I’ll ever witness it. But I’m here now, and I take a mental snapshot.
“Well, I didn’t know about the mean jokes part…” she says, and I blush at that.
She continues, “But, yes. I see great potential in you. Don’t sell yourself short, kid. Now go on, get out of here. And hey,” She pauses as I push in my chair and fully stand up this time.
I meet her dark, beady eyes that no longer look like an evil witch’s but someone that truly cares about the people she meets. “Yeah?” I ask.
“I hope your mom has the best damn birthday.” And guess what she does? She smiles a second time.
Maybe I was wrong about therapists. Maybe not all of them are bad people. Maybe some do want to help people with their problems. Maybe that’s exactly who she is. And maybe not all of them sleep with your Dad.
If someone like her can believe in someone like me, maybe there is hope for everyone. I bounce out of there with joy in every step as I walk out to find my mom.