My parents weren’t thrilled about my decision to sign up for the Marines. I was a mostly A and B student in high school, quarterback of the football team, bright, social, and could have had my pick of top-notch colleges in the area. I’d never really discussed my plans with them until I was halfway through the physical and mental examination process to enroll in basic training.
I remember the day I told them I was going to fight overseas. Mom burst into hysterics, clinging to my shirt like I’d just signed my death sentence. Dad had eyed me cautiously, like I might poof into thin air if he took his eye off of me for one second. In the end, he convinced my mother that they couldn’t stop me, that what I was doing was noble, and hadn’t they wanted to raise a noble man?
And then I’d betrayed my country. I’d done the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do. Soldiers fell in line. I disobeyed that, and ended up in the wrong place, at the wrong time. What happened to me was my own fault, but I’d do it all over again.
“No one can force me to do anything. Not anymore,” I tell her, throwing my trauma in her face.
These days, it’s what I’m best at; obnoxiously pointing out all the shit I’ve endured so that I don’t have to do whatever someone is trying to make me do.
Mom makes a sputtering noise. “Everett, that’s not what I meant—”
I cut her off. “Of course, it wasn’t. You’d never want to imply that someone who was tortured and forced to do things would be put through something like that again.”
I’m a fucking dick, but I can’t stop.
“Please, Everett, just let me take you to therapy. It can help you.” Now there are tears in Mom’s voice, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the way I’m talking to her, or if she just wants her boy back.
Clearly, she’s not going to leave me alone, and the smallest pang of guilt, the only amount I’ve felt in a year, flicks me in the gut. Grumbling, I push up off the mattress and grab the jeans she’s laid out. Without saying anything, I start dressing, and she leaves.
Twenty minutes later, Mom pulls her car into a spot in front of your typical looking doctor’s office. I’m not sure if my parents sold my truck, if they’re hiding it so I can’t leave the house on my own, or what, but I haven’t been granted permission to drive anywhere yet. Nothing that makes you feel trapped more than having your parents drive your twenty-year-old ass around your hometown.
The building is a white-shingled rectangle spanning about half a football field, with red steel doors and a window cutout in the middle of each. The handle is a steel knob, and above each office suite is a number, with a gold plate located on the right side of the door, telling you which doctor is located inside.
Silence envelops us we get out of my mother’s BMW and walk into the office marked “Dr. Janice Liu, Psychiatrist, M.D., D.O.” After we check in with the receptionist, we sit, my mother filling out my paperwork. She doesn’t even hand it to me, probably because she knows I won’t complete it.
The lobby of Dr. Janice Liu’s office is everything I envision a therapist’s office to look like. Neutral, muted tones of decor, no loud TV in the corner but soothing nature sounds set to music playing over the speakers, and comfortable but professional couches and chairs arranged around a wooden coffee table.
The sound of a door being opened has my head snapping toward it, and a slim, decently attractive, Asian woman walks out of it. She’s younger than my mom, but has that professional air about her that is supposed to convince her patients she’s been doing this for a long time. This has to be Dr. Liu, who else would this be? Her long, midnight-black hair runs straight down her back, almost brushing her ass, which is unfortunately encased in wide, flowing khaki pants, so I can’t make out the shape. Therapy wouldn’t be so bad if I had something to ogle.
“Hello, Everett, Marcia.” She smiles warmly, crossing the small lobby and extending a hand for my mother and I to shake, respectively.
“Thank you for seeing my son.” My mom replies.
“Shall we get started? Everett, why don’t you come into my office?” Dr. Liu’s voice has this soothing but direct quality to it, and I find myself following her.
Her office is decorated in the same style as the lobby, though there are three large paintings of herbs hanging over the back of her desk. She takes a seat in the chair behind it, and motions for me to sit in a plush armchair kitty-corner to the glass desk separating us.
“I’m glad you came to see me today. Just walking in here is a good first step.” She starts the conversation, and I can’t read her, which only makes me more weary.
I don’t like therapists. I don’t like doctors who keep their cards close to the vest. Honestly, I don’t like anyone who keeps their cards close. Before I flew into a war zone, I was one of the most honest guys I knew. There should be no tolerance for bullshit, omissions, and lying, in my opinion. But then my world was flipped on its head, and I began to really see the true colors people were hiding.
My silence is answer enough for Dr. Liu, because she gives me a slight smile, and tries again.
“In here, everything you say is confidential. We can talk about your time overseas, your torture, the thoughts you’re experiencing now. Anything you want to disclose, stays between us.”
Quiet chirps back at her, as I sit in the armchair like a sullen teenager. My defiance is pathetic, like I’m a thirteen-year-old stomping her foot over going to the mall.
“If you don’t want to talk, we can just sit here. I’m okay with the silence if you are.” She tries again after a beat.
“You have to say that so you can bill my parents, or the army, or whoever the fuck is paying for this for a full rated hour,” I bite back.
Dr. Liu chuckles. “Hey, nothing wrong with knowing my value and charging for it.”
Hmm, not what I thought she’d say.
“Aren’t you supposed to say that you’re here to help me, no matter the cost? That financial gains mean nothing compared to my mental health, or some flowery shit like that?”
She tips her head, digesting my question. “That wouldn’t be honest of me, would it? And I think you’re a man who values honesty, Everett. Yes, my job puts me in a very well-off position financially. But I do care about the mental health of my patients. I wouldn’t come here to sit in silence with the ones who have been through something very difficult if I didn’t care.”
How the hell did she know I value honesty? Is she a therapist, or a fucking mind reader?
We sit through most of the rest of the session in silence. Though after her comment about caring, I don’t sulk quite as hard.
And when Dr. Liu says she’s looking forward to seeing me next week, I don’t protest or tell her I won’t be there.
If it weren’t for my best friend dragging me out of the house, I wouldn’t leave it at all.
But Graden showed up shortly after my therapy session, ransacked my room, promised to pay for burritos, and basically did everything but give me a wedgie to get me up and out of bed. So here I am, dousing hot sauce on my free steak burrito and begrudgingly tolerating his conversation.
Graden has been my best friend since we were kids. The amount of time we’ve been called to the principal’s office, served detention together, snuck out, partied too hard, won championship trophies … together, we’ve done it all.