“That’s better,” she says. “Now, I think the biggest problem is that you’re not willing to simply accept yourself and the people in your life for the unique challenges you and they face. When we have faulty expectations, our whole world gets thrown off.”
“You got that from my intake sheet?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I got that from your posture. Please, tell me what’s on your mind.”
I glance past the grainy, nonsensical poster of a duck swimming in a lake with the caption, “Get to it!” to the doctor’s credentials, but I can’t quite make out the schools she went to from where I’m sitting.
“Where did you get your degree?” I ask.
“I did my undergraduate work at Harvard,” she says. “I got my doctorate from the University of Guam.”
“Guam?” I ask. “Why not Harvard for your doctorate?”
“I had a falling out with the dean,” she says. “That’s really not the issue here, though.”
“You know,” I say, standing back up, “I think this was a mistake. I’m sure you’re a fine doctor, but I just don’t think it’s going to—”
“How old were you when your dad left?” she asks.
I stop, halfway between standing and sitting and I look at her.
“I didn’t put anything about my dad on the intake,” I tell her. “How did you—”
“Mom, she was around, at least for the first part of your childhood, but she was never really there, was she?” the doctor asks.
I sit back down.
“Let me guess: you got that from my posture, too?” I ask.
“No,” she smiles. “That, I got from your eyes. Listen, Mason, I understand that you’re not the type to easily trust people, and I’m sure all the time you spent visiting court-appointed therapists has left you feeling like we just don’t know what we’re talking about, isn’t that right?”
My mouth is gaping. “Seriously, how are you—”
She smirks, saying, “That part I got from your intake sheet.”
“What do you think I should do?” I ask.
“How should I know?” she responds, reaching into her purse and pulling out a handful of unwrapped gummy worms. She stuffs about half that handful into her mouth and continues. “You haven’t told me anything yet. What’s on your mind?”
“Uh…” I say, trying to remember why I came here in the first place.
“Girl trouble?” she asks. “That one, I ask most men,” she whispers.
“I guess that’s there a little bit,” I tell her, “but what made me decide to seek help happened a while ago.”
I go on to explain my involvement with underground MMA and the fight where everything just kind of went away. She sits, listening, nodding. I keep trying to focus on her eyes, but mine keep moving upward.
Finally, I come to the argument Ash and I had where she basically laid down the ultimatum and the good doctor is finally ready to offer her response.
“That sucks,” she says.
“How much am I paying you per hour?” I ask.
“Not much, but if you stay with me for about a year or so, I bet I can buy a new car off of what your insurance throws at me,” she answers. I don’t know if she’s joking or not. “Listen,” she says, “the troubles we tend to focus on are often not the problem at all. They’re often the symptom.”
“I get that,” I tell her, “but what’s the cause?”
“Keep talking,” she says. “You’ve got a soothing voice. It’s doing killer work on this raging headache I’ve got.”