How to Save a Life ✓

XXVI: In Which They Talk

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 

As part of my treatment after leaving the hospital, I'm required to attend therapy twice a week for the first three months. At first I debated the usefulness of these sessions since I went to therapy before, but after some thought, I began to realize that I stopped going to group therapy once things started to get really bad. Maybe these sessions will work if I commit to going, just maybe.

I'm seated in a tan chair in front of Dr Jones as he pours coffee from the coffee maker onto his cup. Once he has two cups, he offers me one but I decline politely.

"I don't drink a lot of coffee. I'm more of a tea girl. Thanks though."

He doesn't seem angry and instead puts the unused cup of coffee back at the counter top. He leans casually against the chair and puts one foot over his other leg.

"I heard from Noah you're living with his girlfriend's parents. Are they cool?"

I relax at the easy question, and my stiff shoulders lean back a little bit. I respond, "Yeah, they're amazing. Mrs Nelson is an amazing cook. At first I was hesitant to try haitian cuisine because I didn't know if it would taste good but they make the best Bouillon."

Dr Jones smiles at my enthusiasm and he continues with the topic. "Did you ever try any other international food before you moved in with them?"

"No, not really. I didn't have a lot of money to go to restaurants. I often just bought groceries and made my mom and I our own food."

"Ah, yes. I remember when I was a child, my mother would mostly cook because we didn't have enough money to keep eating outside. You said you mostly cooked? Where did you learn? I still can't fry an egg without burning it."

"I learned by myself."

"Your mom can't cook like me? It must be something with our generation then." Although the joke isn't funny, the attempt at the mild humor makes me laugh nonetheless. It doesn't sound like my natural laugh, it's more uncomfortable, like I'm trying too hard.

"It's not that she can't cook. I remember when I was six, she made an amazing lasagna. It's just that she doesn't want to anymore. I don't trust her near the stove anyway, she gets really clumsy when she's drunk."

He nods and he doesn't act surprised by what I said. He already knows somethings about me through the group sessions we've had but I never told him the extent of it.

"How often does she get drunk?"

"At least four times a week but it depends on the day. Sometimes she's violent but most of the time she gets tired and sleeps it off. I try to be out of the house when she gets angry."

He suddenly decides to change the topic, taking two sips of his black coffee before continuing. Noah also likes black coffee, they're more alike than I realized.

"I have a daughter around the same age as you and she adores makeup. I think you two would really get along. Because she doesn't have a mom and is stuck with two dads, she makes sure that we know the difference between foundation and concealer so we can get her the perfect birthday present."

I nod, confused about where he's going with this. We never had a discussion about makeup and this relates nothing to our previous topic.

"Last year she got into a fight at school and a girl punched her in the face. She thought she was being sneaky and tried to cover her black eye with counselor. I noticed it though and my husband and I reported the girl to the principal. Sometimes when you're scared, you might be afraid to speak up about something that happened to you, but the truth always comes out."

The confusion grows on my face and I lean forward, my hands on my knees. "What does this have to do with what we were talking about?"

"I noticed you had a black eye a couple of weeks ago. You did a good job covering it, but it was really hot that day so some of the counselor slipped off. Do you remember what happened?"

It's then that I realize where he's trying to go. That sneaky little bastard. Now I know where his daughter get's it from.

Even though I know I shouldn't, I feel the need to lie. "Some kid accidentally hit me in the face as she was scratching. It was an accident though."

Dr Jones' eyes slightly squint as he mixes the contents of his cup with a spoon, the slight clatter noises could be heard in the background.

"She must have hit you hard if you resulted with a black eye."

"Yeah, she's in the wrestling team. Even a handshake from her hurts."

I don't know if he believes my life, but he stands up and put his cup in the sink. I look at the clock and realize our time is almost up.

"I think we did good work today. Don't forget to come back on Friday, it would be good for you to attend those group sessions again."

I give a small smile then start to head up the stairs. Putting my foot on the first step I suddenly remember something I wanted to say, "I'm thinking of going with Noah and Didi to Seattle tomorrow for a couple of days. I should be back in time though for our next session. Is it all right if I go?"

"I trust Noah to take care of things over there. You can go but be back in time before Friday, hospital orders."

I wave goodbye and leave the building, suddenly hit with chilly air from the cloudy day.

The next time I come back to this building I would have seen my father for the first time in years.