The First Sun: A Novel by Mindi Hope

Author:Mindi Hope [Hope, Mindi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18 – Abby, then

Doctor Jay sits in the oversized leather chair across from me. His bushy white eyebrows scrunch together as he tilts backward to look at the playing cards in his hands. I’m five months into therapy, and so far, I’m baffled by its purpose. When I first started coming here, he spent our designated one-hour session asking open-ended conversation starters, like “Tell me about yourself” or “Tenth grade sounds so fun, I’d like to hear all about it.” Those attempts to get me to pour my heart out to him ended the same way, with the sound of crickets filling the room. After a few sessions, he changed tactics and added puzzles and card games as he asked questions. Admittedly, time goes by faster with the games, but there’s still no discussion about anything relevant—nothing about the panic attacks, the fire, or my deadbeat dad’s departure.

When this week’s session ends, he’s just beaten me at the second game of Phase 10, though he tried hard to let me win by throwing me the cards I needed on purpose. As I exit to leave, he stands and adjusts his glasses up his nose, the hem of his pants swallowing up his wing-tip shoes.

“I’d like to give you an assignment to complete before our next session,” he smiles. “I know you love to draw. I’d like you to create something for me to hang in my office. It’s very drab. It can be anything you like.” He smiles and lets his hand gesture to the small space filled with books stacked in messy piles along the floor. The walls, painted a dull shade of brown, are blank but for a pre-print poster of a monarch butterfly that reads ‘transform.’

I nod my head once and hurry out the door to my mother’s waiting car. Doctor Jay is nice, and I appreciate that he’s trying to help me. I suppose if I must go to therapy, there would be worse options. But I’m never going to give him the information he wants. The whole thing is a massive waste of time and my mom’s money. But she remains undeterred, no matter how hard I try to convince her I don’t need therapy.

“How was it, honey?” Mom asks the moment I open the passenger-side car door. I grunt an inaudible noise of affirmation. Doctor Jay has met with my mother several times following our sessions. Sometimes, they meet in private, and sometimes, I’m allowed to listen in. He’s asked her not to question me about our treatment sessions so I can learn to trust him, but he doesn’t know my mother. Everything is her business, and she does not relent. Ever. This is one of several reasons I will never discuss anything with him.

“Did he refill your medication?” she inquires, to which I reluctantly hand her the small piece of paper containing the prescription.

“I don’t want to take the medicine, Mom. I’m okay without it. I haven’t had a panic attack in almost three weeks.

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