Love Will Free You

Chapter 5

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Chapter 5

     Friday comes too fast. Instead of riding the bus home after school, my parents wait in the parking lot to take me to my first therapy session. My dad even took off work, which is something very rare; he's devoted to his work. For as along as I can remember, he would always take overtime and spend late nights at the office. A short fifteen minutes later, we've reached Mr. Palmer's office. I can't make myself get out of the car. I'm not exactly sure what it is about therapy that frightens me so. Other than it being an unpleasant experience, of course. Finally, I take a deep breath and muster up the courage to bridge the gap between my car door and the office entrance. I check in and take a seat in the waiting room, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. My mother smiles at me encouragingly, and my father manages a slight nod. Things have still been awkward since that dinner a few nights ago. All three of us sat down and discussed it, but nevertheless it's difficult. Like I said, my relationship with my parents has always been rocky, and I've always wished, and at this moment even more so, that we were closer.

     "Finley Rochefort? Dr. Palmer is ready for you. Step this way, please," a receptionist calls out.

      She leads me down a short hallway and directs me to a room on the left. The door is open, and Dr. Palmer beckons me in.

     "Have a seat, Finley. How are you?" he asks.

     "Fine, thanks, and you?" I respond.

     "I'm doing well, thank you. So, today I just wanted to go over a few simple questions. If you feel I'm prying into your personal life too much or if there's something you don't feel ready for me to know yet, just say 'skip' and we'll move on to the next question. It's sort of like a game!" he says excitedly. I nod and force a faint smile.

     "Okay, first question: what is your favorite memory of your brother?"

     "Skip." It's none of his business.

     "How do you feel now that Ronan has passed on?"

     "Skip." Sad, obviously. If he can't figure that out himself, he doesn't deserve an answer from me.

     "How about this...we'll start a little more basic and then work up to more difficult questions. Does that sound better?" Dr. Palmer questions.

    "Yes," I decide.

     "Tell me about your closest friend," he says. Gosh. I don't really have anyone I would consider a friend, much less a best friend. There's plenty of people I'm friendly with, but it doesn't extend past "how was your weekend" and the occasional hello. I realize it probably won't really matter in the end what my answer is, so I decide to go for it.

     "Well, he's kind of a new friend. He sits next to me in English and my teacher asked me to kind of help him settle in since he just got here Tuesday. He transferred to our school, I mean," I answer.

   "And, what about this person makes you like them?"

    He's beautiful. His eyes are always smiling and they light up when he laughs. He tells me the dorkiest jokes and asks me silly questions (which I never answer unless they're actually related to English class). I can't define it, but something about Phillip makes me want to know him better. The more time I spend around him, the more I think about him, and sometimes he genuinely amuses me, and I feel a grin coming to my face. I realize Mr. Palmer is still waiting for an answer.

     "I can't really tell what exactly it is, but he's always in a good mood." Like that makes any sense. The rest of the hour and a half session is filled with questions about school and home life, many of which I'm able to evade and some of which I'm forced to answer. Finally, our time is up. I feel a surge of what could be happiness but I'm sure is, in fact, not, because I haven't felt such an emotion in so long when I realize I don't have to come back again for a whole week. Thanking Mr. Palmer, I rush out of his office and back into the waiting room.

     "Did Dr. Palmer say anything about wanting to talk to us?" my mother asks.

      "Nope," I answer truthfully, as she gathers her purse and nudges my father, who is deeply rooted in a football game blaring from the television.

     Later that evening, I sit at my desk and chew the end of my pencil as I ponder a particularly difficult math question. Math has never been easy for me, and weekend homework is especially hard since I can't ask questions. 'Phillip is good at math,' I think. Not that it matters, of course.