Love Will Free You

Chapter 2

--- I'm out of the country on vacation right now, so updates have been kind of slow. Sorry about that, but once I get home they'll be more often and hopefully the chapters will get longer. Thanks! :) ---

     The car ride home is uncomfortably silent; no one says anything. I can't determine if my parents are pleased with Mr. Palmer's diagnosis or not. Are they really so naïve that they can't recognize grief in its' rawest, most vulnerable state? Do we really need a doctor for this? It seems to me that they really don't miss Ronan. It seems harsh, and everyone talks about how much all parents love their kids, but I don't buy that. I've seen too many cases where the parent gave up on the child. My parents' lack of grief scares me. If they don't express sadness over the loss of my brother, do they really care about me? Ronan was always the better kid. He never had a major teenage rebellion or anything and always pretty much did what he was told. I, however, had been quite the handful. My parents and I had never gotten along very well, and since Ronan's accident, we've only drifted further and further apart.

     As soon as we pull into the driveway, I hurry to my room, stopping on the way at the bathroom to wash my hands. I need time to think. If my parents accept Mr. Palmer's diagnosis, which I know is incorrect, they'll want to pursue some kind of treatment to get me "stable" again. Not that I ever was, but that's beside the point. Treatment could mean medicine, which I could easily hide and not take, or therapy, which after today's traumatic diagnostic session, I can't imagine undergoing on a regular basis. Honestly, Mr. Palmer is the most ineffective and unhelpful therapist on the planet. For one thing, the man wears a hairpiece, and secondly, his office is drab and smells like mothballs.

    I sit on my bed deep in thought, consciously reminding myself not to bite my nails, despite my nervousness. There are so many germs under fingernails; it's quite disgusting and there's countless diseases one can catch from the trapped bacteria. I'm interrupted from my medical diagnosis of the germ density underneath my fingernails by a knock on the door.

     "Finley? Your mother and I would like to talk to you. May we come in?" my father asks.

       "Yes, the door's unlocked," I reply. My parents enter and sit down, my mother perched on the end of my bed, and my father in my desk chair.

       "We've thought about what Mr. Palmer said, and we've come to a conclusion." So quickly?

       "We think it's best for you to -" my father's cellphone rings. He glances down at it before pressing the mute button and returning his attention to me.

       "We think it's best for you to take up regular therapy sessions. Dr. Palmer is close-by, and seemed very helpful, so naturally we'll just use him. He suggested weekly sessions, perhaps an hour or two each." 

      "At least for a few weeks, until things get better," my mother adds after seeing my expression. They've got to be kidding. Mr. Palmer, helpful? Those two words just don't go together. I can't stand Mr. Palmer and his greasy hairpiece and his musty office. He forces me to relive the moments that I can't stand to remember, like how I felt when I found out Ronan had been in an accident. Why does he need to know how I felt? Those are my emotions, not his. How I felt then has nothing to do with how I feel now. And what does it matter what my favorite childhood memory was? He asks way too personal questions that are memories I'd rather keep to myself. There's no way I can go see him every week; I'll go insane.

     "On that note, we'll leave you alone to think. Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes." And with that, my parents leave, both looking pleased and relieved that we had our little talk. I guess they're happy I took it so well, but to be honest I was just so shocked I didn't think to try and defend myself. I have to think of a way to avoid this. I was on the verge of a breakdown after the appointment with Mr. Palmer today. I know one thing for sure, I don't have a problem and they're wasting their time. Therapy won't solve anything. Therapy is for people with serious problems, and I don't fit that description.