Hiya Readers
Are you ready for therapy?
xoxo Dana
Chapter Four
Motivational posters, proclaiming I should be “proud” of who I am and live each day to the fullest, line the walls of Dr. Byrd’s office waiting room. Half a dozen chairs are nestled in between end tables with magazines and faux bouquets.
The receptionist, a large woman with hoop earrings, types my name into the computer, then date of birth and appointment time. “Alright, Wilhelmina, you’re all checked in.” She glances at the nearby digital clock, then hands me a clipboard with a couple pages. “Bring this back to me when you’ve filled it out. He’ll be done soon. Maybe eight minutes.”
The waiting area is bigger than I expected for two therapists. There’s only one other patient here.
It only takes a couple minutes to fill out the paperwork—medical information, family history, allergies—and I return the clipboard to reception with plenty of time to spare. I lean back in my chair and pick up the closest magazine. Log Home Living. I grimace and drop it on the end table again.
One of the doors to the left of the reception opens, and a woman with long black hair and downcast eyes exits the office. She pauses with the receptionist to check out, and I flip through my phone. Have to kill time somehow.
A couple minutes after she’s gone, the receptionist calls out my name. “Dr. Byrd will see you now.”
Inside, the office is small and minimally decorated. A calendar, a square analog clock, and a couple paintings hang on the wall, and the only furniture is an oak, L-shaped desk with attached shelf, two uninviting green armchairs, and in the far back, a long table with a small tabletop shelf. Two folding chairs are tucked in a nearby corner.
The soft yellow hue of the walls lends the room a warm and inviting atmosphere. That must be useful for a shrink.
“Good afternoon, Billie. I’m glad you’re able to join me.”
Behind the desk, Dr. Byrd is a tall thick black man with an angular jaw, sitting on a mesh swivel chair. His hair, black and coarse, is dreaded and pulled back into a ponytail. His rich brown skin stretches as he smiles.
I take a seat in the nearest armchair.
“I’m Andrew Byrd. Feel free to call me Andrew or Andy if you like. If you want to call me Dr. Byrd, that’s okay too.”
I glare at the floor, but my options are limited. I drop my bag next to the chair and look him in the eye. “Hi. I see you know to call me ‘Billie.'”
He nods. “Yes, I talked to your mother this morning.”
My jaw clenches.
“She called to talk about your missed appointments. She was concerned, so I’m glad you decided to visit me today.” He gives me the opportunity to respond, but I have nothing to say. “She was the one who set up your appointments, right? She must be very worried about you to be so proactive from halfway across the country.”
The square clock behind him claims it’s been a minute. The second hand inches forward. That can’t be right.
“She insisted on providing me with some family medical history since you hadn’t filled out the paperwork yet. She has a rather severe bipolar disorder, right? It sounds like it took her a long time to get the help she needed, so I’m glad you’re here sooner rather than later.”
The ragged edges of my fingernails are down to the quick, but I dig at them. I need something to pick at.
“Your sister and friends are worried about you too.”
My head shoots up. “You talked to Mo?”
He meets my gaze without hesitation. “Your sister? No, your mother thought I should know.”
I don’t want him talking to my mother either, but she insisted I sign the release form.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, Billie.” His chair squeaks as it rolls back a couple inches, and his umber hands clasp atop the desk. “You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to, but you came here for a reason. If you choose to stay, I would be happy to sit with you until you’re ready to talk.”
I doubt I’ll ever want this conversation. Why discuss my life with a complete stranger?
Not that I have anyone else to talk to.
Jimmy tries so hard to be supportive, but there’s a great deal of confusion and a hint of judgment behind his kind eyes. He has never understood.
Dad and I are only now mending our relationship, and I’ve already relied on him enough. Our structure isn’t sound enough to support all my shortcomings.
As much as I love Imogene, she’s two years younger than me and has never filled the role of confidante.
And my mom? Obviously, we have a great, healthy, open relationship.
Then, there’s Xander.
I can’t imagine my relationship with him being anything but rocky. Our fights are a constant, even when we’re friends. It’s easier to keep him at arm’s length. No matter how much it frustrates him.
Behind the desk, Dr. Byrd watches silently.
The clock behind him now reads ten after.
This is going to take forever.
Maybe after the wedding, Mom won’t care anymore. Maybe then, I’ll be able to get out of this and have control over my own life again. But that’s just a maybe, and until then, she’s decided to act like a mother for the first time in nineteen years. The fact that I’m an adult now is meaningless.
I clear my throat and lean forward. “I’m not going to skip any more sessions.”
He nods. “Thank you for telling me.”
“But you should know I have no intention of talking to you about anything.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t want to be here. I don’t belong here. There’s nothing wrong with me. And I’m perfectly capable of dealing on my own.”
“I’m sure you are, Billie.”
Good.
“But perhaps—” Dr. Byrd lays a hand atop his notepad “—it would be nice to have a conversation instead of sitting in silence for fifty minutes every week. We could exchange pleasantries at the very least.”
My resolve softens. “That could be negotiated.”
The silence—an emptiness filled by the deafening thoughts flitting through my head—is worse than any conversation of supposed pleasantries could be.
“Billie, can I ask you a question?”
I nod.
“If you don’t want to be here, why will you come back?”
I assumed he was aware of the hold my mother put me in to attend these meetings. Part of me assumed he endorsed the idea. Is this a genuine question? Does he not know? Or is he simply trying to get inside my head?
“Like you said, my mother is worried. She’s adamant I see you.”
He nods. “And would a conversation be an acceptable way to pass the time, Billie?”
What exactly does a conversation entail? How detailed of an exchange does he expect this to be? Is his offer to “exchange pleasantries” legitimate?
“Small talk.” I lean forward. “Nothing deep, no diagnoses, no analyzing my dreams.”
“Whatever makes you comfortable, Billie.” The words are followed by a small smile. “Would you like a water?” He nods toward the mini-fridge hiding behind his desk. He has a plastic water bottle on his desk, half drank.
When I nod, he retrieves a bottle from the fridge and hands it to me. “What are your plans for the weekend?” His deep voice is cool and relaxed.
I twist open the bottle and take a sip. “What I always do. Studying.”
This time it’s different, though. After a nauseating lunch with Dahlia the other day, she asked me to join them for a group study session Saturday night. I’m not sure why—it might have been her kind smile or the way she said it like I’d already agreed—but I couldn’t say no.
There’s a moment of silence as Byrd waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t.
“Did you dress up for Halloween? You attend Bradford, right? The college usually has a big Halloween celebration with the frats.”
I take another drink, this one long, relishing the cold.
The events of Halloween night aren’t the optimal choice for small talk, but there’s no way he would know that. The alcohol, the discomfort of sitting on that stupid stool, my stranger danger anxiety, and my mother’s ultimatum from her sleep-addled brain—that’s the last thing I want to discuss with a shrink. Add to that the awful clenching in my stomach, so tight I felt sick, at the sight of seeing Xander with the girl in the angel costume in the dark hallway.
“I’d rather talk about something else.”
Dr. Byrd raises a thick black eyebrow but nods his assent.
Dad’s in the kitchen when I arrive, stirring a creamy sauce with a bamboo spoon, but nothing gets past him. He must’ve heard the front door because he glances over his shoulder the moment I walk into the room.
Hazel eyes assess me behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his umber face is twisted in quiet concern. “I was starting to get worried. Dinner’s almost ready.” On the counter beside him, steam billows from a plate of sautéed chicken breasts.
I lean against the island. “That’s why I left you a message. I was…detained.”
He raises an eyebrow but redirects his attention to the skillet. With a pair of tongs, he moves the chicken to the boiling sauce, then turns off the burner.
“What are you making?”
“Chicken and asparagus with an herb cream sauce.” He lets the chicken sit for a moment before piling it and the asparagus on two plates. Afterward, he pours a healthy portion of sauce over each entrée. “Let’s sit.” He carries the plates into the dining room, and I grab the two glasses of ice water from the island.
We take our regular seats across from each other, but the food is too hot to eat. Steam blocks much of my view, and I lean back so it doesn’t fog up my glasses.
“How are your classes, Mina?”
I take a sip of water. “We’ve been doing portraits in Drawing. I’m not very good at them, though.”
Dad’s thick lips purse together. “What gives you that idea?”
“I have to relearn everything.” I poke at the chicken with my fork. “I mean, I like having a teacher—and Felix is a great teacher—but everything I thought I knew is wrong.”
“That can’t be true.”
An exaggeration, perhaps.
“Is that what detained you?” He cuts into an asparagus stalk and chews the thick stem. “Your drawing class?”
I frown.
The therapy isn’t technically a secret. I haven’t told anyone about it, but it’s not a secret. And more than anyone, Dad deserves my frankness. We cannot have a healthy relationship if I keep things from him.
But I also don’t want to weigh it down with my mother’s drama. Our foundation isn’t that stable yet.
“No, Dad, I had a last-minute appointment this afternoon.” I drag the fork around the plate, drawing designs in the sauce. “Mom set up weekly therapy sessions for me.”
He lays his fork on the table. “That seems rather forward of her. Did she say why this is so important?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to do it, but she was…convincing. And you know, I think Mo will be pleased.”
“When did this happen, Mina?”
“She wanted me to start at the beginning of the semester, but it got postponed. I guess I’ll be doing this for a while, though.”
“It might be good to talk to someone.”
Dr. Byrd was perfectly nice during our first meeting, but he’s a stranger. I won’t suddenly tell him all my feelings.
“Maybe.”
Dad picks up his fork and knife again and cuts into his chicken breast. Steam rises from the exposed flesh, and he blows on the piece before popping it in his mouth.
But I can’t manage to eat anything. “I don’t know how to talk to people.”
When he swallows, he lays down his knife and stretches his hand across the table. “If you need to practice, you can talk to me about anything.”
A small smile forms on my lips, and I place my hand in his. “Thanks, Dad.”
