Coming Home

Sixteen

I nervously stepped into the room, and my throat suddenly went dry; this wasn't at all what I was anticipating. I had assumed the therapist's office would be like those stereotypical ones I'd seen in those old movies with a balding guy sitting behind a desk and one of those old-fashioned fainting couches for the patient to lay down on. I was quite surprised by the vast differences between that expectation and the reality before me. My eyes wandered over the room, and the welcoming atmosphere had my stomach settling slightly. The pile of toys in the corner of the room led me to believe that the therapist probably saw a lot of children in this office. If a child can deal with her, then I was probably overreacting, right? Everything would be okay... I hoped.

A woman who was likely in her late thirties stood from her seat, a warm smile on her lips. Her long blonde hair was swept over one shoulder, and the softness in her eyes caught me off guard. "You must be Alexis," she said, the smile never leaving her lips.

I cringed slightly at the use of my first name; it was far too soon to hear that name again. I left that girl behind, and she no longer held a place in my life anymore. "Uh..." I answered, my voice shakier than I had expected it to be, "It's Kate."

The therapist's eyes widened in surprise momentarily before she spent a few seconds just studying my face. It was as if she was searching my expression for something. After glancing at the folder in her hand, she looked back at me and said, "I have your name down as Alexis Miller."

An imaginary dagger stabbed me directly in the heart, and I forced myself not to cry out at the incredible pain in my chest by such a simple thing as a name. "I, uh... I don't..." I tried to string together a sentence in response, but my mind was far too preoccupied to cooperate with me, and my voice was cracked and choked as if it didn't want to leave my throat. "Please," I whispered, "call me 'Kate.'"

With a short nod, the woman finally agreed, "Kate. Please, have a seat, and we'll begin."

Slowly, I placed myself in the chair closest to the door, desperately needing to remain close to the exit in case this went horribly wrong, and I needed to make a quick escape. With my legs crossed at the ankles, my hands anxiously fidgeted in my lap. My gaze roamed around the room once again as I tried to avoid making eye contact with the therapist. My level of discomfort was growing rapidly, and I didn't know if I'd be able to survive the entire session--or even the next few minutes, if I was honest.

"My name is Jennifer," the therapist said, sitting back in her armchair. "So, Al--" she began but quickly caught herself. "Kate," she corrected. "Let's begin with a few simple things, shall we? Can you tell me how old you are?"

My voice came out quiet and strained, and if there wasn't absolute silence in the room, Jennifer probably wouldn't have heard me at all. "Eighteen," I answered. "I just turned eighteen."

"And are you from New York?" she questioned, her eyes practically glued to me in a way that made me feel even more uncomfortable. She was probably trying to read me, but I didn't like it at all; it was like she was visually picking me apart, pushing everything aside so she could stare directly into my soul.

I couldn't force myself to answer verbally, hoping I wouldn't have to talk about my hometown at all. I wished I wasn't about to pour my entire heart out to a complete stranger who only cared because she was getting paid to listen to me. Instead, I shook my head, hoping she'd move on to her next question and forget about where I came from.

"So you're new here?" Jennifer asked, seeming unwilling to drop the subject, much to my dismay. "How long have you been in New York?"

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, relief flooding me at the question. It was much less intrusive than the previous one and much less painful. "Just a couple of weeks," I replied.

"Do you have any family here? Where are you living?" she probed, each additional question making my heartbeat increase as panic raged in my belly.

"Grandpa Jones gave me a place to stay," I managed to say, forcing the words out of my mouth with the hope that if I just answered her questions, I could get out of there more quickly.

"Oh, that's nice that you have a family member to take care of you," Jennifer said, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

I shifted in my seat, feeling wholly uncomfortable with the conversation. And the situation in general. "He, um..." I began, not entirely sure that I wanted to share the information with the therapist. However, I knew Grandpa Jones would be disappointed if I didn't at least try to get some help. "This therapy session was a start to a long road to recovery," he had told me. I couldn't let him down now. Telling myself that it was best to just be honest from the beginning, I said, "He's not really my grandpa," I admitted, although the confession didn't sit well with my stomach. I felt like I was going to throw up right there on her floor. "He just kind of... took me in when I first got here and has been looking out for me ever since."

There was concern on Jennifer's face when I finally convinced myself to look at her, and my stomach dropped. I didn't like the way she was looking at me. My mind raced, trying to figure out what she could possibly be thinking about the things I was telling her, and my shoulders sagged when I realized that she probably pitied me. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to get through my entire story if she continued to look at me like that.

The rest of that first session was spent discussing minor details about my life as if Jennifer somehow knew that she wasn't going to get anything more important out of me that day. Knowing that I wasn't being pressured to immediately spill all of my darkest secrets was comforting, and I was grateful for it. After our time was up, I actually felt much more comfortable with Jennifer's presence; she wasn't nearly as bad as I had expected her to be. In fact, I was almost looking forward to seeing her again.