I drag a palm over my face, avoiding eye contact. It’s my third session, and something about today makes me want to bolt out the door.
“What about her?”
I’m aware I’m being short with her, but I can’t help it. Today just sucks. Like my skin is two sizes two small, and everything seems to hurt no matter what I do.
Dr. Frances adjusts her glasses up her nose.
“How would you describe your relationship?”
I sigh. I’m really in no mood to talk about my mother today—or any day. I thought I’d come in here and talk about my time in prison. But we haven’t breached the subject in the three weeks I’ve been here. All she wants to talk about is myfuckingchildhood.
“Nonexistent.”
Dr. Frances smiles, looking like she has all the patience in the world. Or until our fifty minutes are up. Only another fifteen left …
“Can you please elaborate?”
“She went to prison when I was around twelve years old,” I say matter-of-factly, then shrug. “I think the last time I saw her, I was fifteen or sixteen.”
“She’s still in prison?”
“No, she got out a few years back.”
Dr. Frances lifts her eyes up from her scribbling. “Have you been in contact?”
I scoff. “Why?”
“Because she’s your mother.”
Her calm voice grates on my nerves, and my knee starts to bounce. I hate where she’s going with this, and I hate myself more for shutting down.
“She stopped being my mother a long time ago.”
She tilts her head, eyes steady and receptive.
“And how does that make you feel?”
I laugh coldly, chewing on the raw skin of my thumb. “You want me to tell you a sob story?” I grit out, my teeth still gnashing on my thumb, knee bouncing up and down. “Is that what you want? You want me to tell you that I feel abandoned, and that I wish I had a mommy? What’s the point, she’s not the only one who fucking abandoned me.”
I cringe, falling silent. I didn’t mean to say the last part. It just … slipped out.
She’s going to have a field day with that one.
I watch her jot down some notes, and I fight the urge to stand up and rip the notepad out of her hands. Shred the papers up like a feral dog and bark at her until she fires me as her patient.
Her gaze meets mine, and I feel my throat close up with dread. I hear her question before she even speaks it.
“Who else do you feel has abandoned you?” she asks.
I rip my thumb away from my mouth but continue the assault by picking at the skin with my fingers. Running my tongue over my teeth, I chew on my barbell, and I look everywhere but at her. I stare at a faded picture of flowers on the wall behind her chair. Then to her untidy desk near the window. Then at my feet. Finally, I meet her gaze.
When I speak, my voice sounds a lot younger than what I am now. “Whohasn’tabandoned me?”
She slowly nods in thoughtful understanding like the good little therapist she is. Then checks her watch.
“I think this is a great place to stop. We can dive deeper into the topic of abandonment in our session next week.” She looks up and smiles. “You did really great today, Huxley.” I hate how her small praise affects me positively, but I keep my expression flat. “Anything else you wanted to discuss before we wrap up?”
My mind goes immediately to Connie and the horrible way we left off six days ago. Not to mention what I did over the weekend just so I could get back at her. A guilty pang slices through my gut, and I quickly push it all back down.
