Page 33 of The Spider & the Storm

“Happy?” I asked, zipping the fly and buttoning them up.

“Thrilled.”

“Great.” I stuffed my feet into my sneakers and brushed past him on my way out the door. “Now, let's go.”

***

I hated to admit it, but talking to the psychologist—Dr. Sibilia—wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be.

She walked into the room, wearing jeans, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and Adidas sneakers. She didn’t look much older than Luke or Melanie—even though she probably was—and she began the session by fanning herself with the sheets of paper in her hand and mentioning how much she fucking hated the heat.

I barely laughed, barely curled my lips into a half smile, but dammit, it happened, and I knew she had noticed.

“So, you are … Charles Corbin, I see,” she said as she plopped into the chair across from mine, her eyes scanning the paper.

“Charlie,” I muttered, leaning back and widening my knees.

She looked up. “What’s that?”

“Ch-Charlie,” I stammered, speaking a little louder. “N-nobody calls me Charles.”

“Gotcha.” She plucked the pen from behind her ear and scribbled as she enunciated slowly, “Char-lee. All righty, great. So, Charlie, what brings you in here today?”

“My stupid brother and his girlfriend made me.”

Dr. Sibilia nodded as she continued to write. “Note to self: brother and brother’s girlfriend are stupid.” She looked up from the paper and offered a smile. “I see. So, why did they make you come in? There’s gotta be some kinda reason, right? Other than them being stupid.”

I lifted a hand off the arm of the chair and gestured in lieu of a shrug. “I-I don’t know. They think I’m depressed o-or that I n-need to-to do something about my panic attacks or, um … or something.”

“Well, let me ask you this: do you think you’re depressed?”

“Maybe.”

She cocked her head. “And what makes you think that?”

“Both of my parents died in a car crash two years ago, and I was on the phone with them when it happened,” I said easily for some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “So, I dunno. I think that’s a pretty good reason for someone to be depressed.”

Her eyes took on an expression of deep sympathy. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Charlie.”

I dropped my gaze to my fidgeting hands and swallowed at the violent rise of emotion in my throat. I wouldn’t allow myself to speak, afraid that I’d cry in front of her. So, I just lifted one shoulder in a pathetic excuse for a shrug, like my parents being dead didn’t matter—but it did, and she seemed to know it.

“And I’d have to agree,” she continued gently. “That’s actually an excellent reason for someone to be depressed.”

I gave her a little nod as I chewed on my bottom lip, waiting for the lump in my throat to drop back down to wherever it had come from.

“You know, Charlie, I understand that we just met and all, but I do want you to know that you are safe to do or say anything you want in here. I won’t judge you if you wanna cry or scream or beat the living crap out of that really, really ugly chair you’re sitting in.”

The lump slowly began to ease up, and I sniffed a nearly silent laugh, then nodded.

“Cool. Okay. Now, why don’t you tell me a little about these panic attacks? When did they start?”

Just as I’d started to feel comfortable, I began to tense up. Even though it had felt like a lifetime ago, I remembered that one time Mom had taken me to a doctor—that old guy who looked like Grandpa with a mustache.

He’d thought I was crazy.

Even now, I clearly recalled the wordpsychotic, although I couldn’t recall in what context.

Dr. Sibilia cocked her head and eyed me with concern. “What’s wrong? Is there something you’d like to tell me? Orsomething else you’d prefer to talk about instead? We’re getting to know each other right now. You can say or—”

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