She rolls her eyes. Is she mocking me? “Look, I get you’re a little embarrassed, but I’d rather you see the best than some unknown psychiatrist across town whose reputation I can’t ensure.” She crosses her arms. “And he is not my boss. We simply work in the same hospital.”
“When he comes to the ER he gives you orders, like how many drugs to pump into a patient, right?” I raise my eyebrow and wait.
Again, she mirrors my expression and says nothing. I curl my toes in my shoes. “How is he not one of your bosses?”
With a deep inhale through her nose, she employs her best therapeutic voice. “This is not about—”
“Yes, it is. I don’t need to do this.” I glare at my phone. If I make eye contact, she will bring me to tears or to screaming. This time I copy her and draw in a calm and collected breath. “I’ve already told you I’m not going to kill myself or harm myself or engage in any risky behavior or—”
“That’s not why you’re here,” Mom snaps.
“Um, yeah, I think it is. You didn’t even seem to care until Malin—”
“This has nothing to do with her.”
The door to the office clicks and fluorescent light fills the room. A tanned, middle-aged man with freshly barbered hair walks in. The same man from our assembly three days before.
“Thea, this is Dr. Kowalski.” Mom rises and gestures for me to stand as well. If he’s not a boss, she certainly holds him on some kind of pedestal. I reluctantly pull myself up and shake his hand.
“I’ll leave you two,” she says to him. “Thank you again for making time to see Thea today.” Her closed-mouth smile, the one that’s usually reserved for our ridiculously hot FedEx guy, is given in parting to Dr. Kowalski.
“It’s no problem, Vera. I’m glad to help you and your family.” He grins warmly at her while holding the door and then squeezes her shoulder as she exits.
I furrow my brow, wanting Mom to notice my perplexed reaction to this way-too-intimate exchange, but she doesn’t. Apparently, I have already been forgotten. I flop on the couch with a thud of frustration, pull out my phone, and take note of the time. One hour, Thea, you can do this. I’ve already buried my fingers into my hair in search of release.
“You are very fortunate to have parents who care for you so deeply.” Dr. Kowalski’s voice has changed from the authoritative presenter on Wednesday to a little too fatherly. He has positioned himself in the same armchair Mom just vacated. “Are you expecting an important message?”
“Excuse me?” I stop pulling through my curls and stare back at his attentive expression, not knowing what I should say.
“Your phone. Are you waiting for a reply?” His vowels sound like they are going to fall out of his mouth, just like Mom’s parents back in Poland.
“Um, not really.”
“Okay, great. Would you mind if we turned our phones off for the next hour then?” He takes his out and holds the power switch. I gawk at him. Don’t doctors consider their smartphones an extra appendage? “Can you do that?”
“If they need me, they know where to find me. This time is for you, so I would prefer if neither of us is competing for attention from the rest of our social and professional networks.”
“I guess.” I click my screen off and place it facedown on the arm of the chair.
He glances between me and the armrest. And waits.
I exhale loud enough for him to hear, power it off, and drop it into my purse. If I can survive entire school days without it, I guess I’ll be fine for the next hour.
He leans away to place his phone on his desk and pulls out a green file from the top drawer. I catch my name on the label. He opens it to reveal a surprisingly large stack of papers, covered in Mom’s distinctive flowing script. “Thea, your mom shared that over the past week you have appeared more tense and distant than usual.”
“Than usual?” Ugh. She must have told him about the breakfast incident. What else does this guy know about me? He probably has all kinds of embarrassing information, like how I still sleep with my stuffed gorilla and talk to my cat. Sweat begins to seep through my T-shirt, and I reflexively reach for my hair.
Through heavy-framed glasses, his gaze shifts up. I almost didn’t notice his subtle observation of my every move. I lower my hand to the base of my neck and pretend to massage out a tight muscle. He turns from my file and writes something down in a spiral-bound notebook. While his attention is diverted, I restrict access to my mass of curls with a quick bun and then confine my hands by squeezing them between my knees. He’s already figured out my nervous tell. Dang, he’s good.
I assume the book-balancing posture we practice in drama. “Is this going to work if my mom can chime in about my life every time we meet?”
“I would think not.” He completes his scribbles with an enthusiastic-looking underline and then adjusts his glasses to focus back on me. “However, that will not happen. Going forward, what you say in here will be confidential. Your words will stay within these four walls unless you choose to share them with your family or your safety is at risk.”
“Good. And my safety is not at risk.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” He nods curtly. “Please be advised I am no more aware of your mother’s concerns than any other young person being seen for therapy.” He holds up the first pile of papers from the folder. “All parents of patients under eighteen years old complete a questionnaire. So, my knowledge of Vera’s concerns for you is completely separate from my work relationship with her.”
I scrunch my nose when he says Mom’s name. Is he on a first-name basis with all his patients’ mothers? He doesn’t seem to notice my reaction this time and continues.
“What I am interested in finding out today is whether you agree with your parents’ concerns.”
In an attempt to contain a more boisterous outburst, I snort in a most unattractive way. Ashley would be ashamed. “Unlikely.”
“Why do you say that?” He rests his elbow on his chair and crosses his ankle on his knee.
My palms become clammy between my legs, but I dare not release them. It’s like he’s giving me permission to go ahead and badmouth my family. He waits, fixes his glasses, and again stares back at me. Would Mom expect me to fudge the truth and preserve our family image? I don’t think so. She’s the one who wants this to happen. She must know some of our dirty laundry will get aired in these conversations. I crack my knuckles between the tension of my knees. I need to say something. She said this guy is the best, and I don’t have anyone else I trust enough to talk with about this stuff.
Despite feeling like vomit is on the verge of entering my throat, I begin to speak. “Well, they ask me questions sometimes, about how I’m feeling. But unless I give them a response that meshes with what is already in their heads, it’s like they think I’m lying. Frankly, I don’t think they even care about what’s important to me. Which would be a good first step to really understand how I feel.”
He nods, and his silent attention encourages me to continue with more confidence. “So, to answer your question, I would guess my mom thinks I’m just hitting puberty and I’m acting all tense”—I add air quotes—“because I need to eat more food with iron and calcium now that I’m … you know … menstruating. Except she’s two years too late.”