Page 77 of The Long Game
Ilya twisted his fingers together. “Oh. Thank you.”
“You told me you haven’t tried therapy before, even though you seem to be quite knowledgeable about mental health. What made you decide to book this appointment?”
Okay, so they were just going to...start. Ilya tried not to overthink his reply, and said the first thing that popped into his head. “I think I might be depressed. Sometimes.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He’d never said those words out loud, in any language, so he just let them sit there like an anvil.
“Your mother suffered from depression,” she said.
Ilya nodded. It wasn’t a secret anymore. Not since Ilya had spoken about her illness during the press conference where he and Shane had launched the charity they’d started in her name.
“Would you like to talk about her?” Galina asked gently. “That might be a good place to start.”
Ilya had been expecting this, but he still wasn’t sure if he was ready. He stared at his folded hands, and noticed his knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his fingers together.
“I’ll try,” he said.
He started talking, and he didn’t stop for almost forty minutes. By that point his cheeks were wet with tears that he hadn’t even noticed were falling until Galina had silentlyhanded him a box of tissues. There was now a small pile of used, crumpled tissues beside Ilya on the couch. His ball cap was next to the pile, because he’d started raking his fingers through his own hair as he’d been rambling. He’d never talked so much about his mother. He’d shared his fondest memories of her, and the way she’d tried to hide how bad her depression had gotten, always ready with a reassuring smile for Ilya. He’d noticed, even as a child, that her smile was often sad.
He told Galina about finding his mother’s lifeless body when he’d been twelve years old. How he’d thought she was resting, as she often was, until he’d gotten closer. It was her hand that he’d noticed first. The way it was flopped over the side of the bed, fingers dangling.
He talked about his father sternly telling Ilya that his mother’s death had been an accident. She had taken too many pills for her headache, that was all.
“Did you believe him?” Galina asked.
“No. Not at all. But I didn’t say anything.” He took a slow, shaky breath. “He moved on so quickly. He wanted to forget about her. Wanted me and Andrei to forget her too. It was like...he was disgusted by her.” Ilya’s throat tightened again. “I missed her so much. I still...” He covered his mouth with his hand as the room turned blurry.
“I’m sorry,” Galina said. “That’s a horrific thing for anyone to go through. Especially a child.”
Ilya could only nod miserably. He knew it was. He tried not to think about it too often, because what good would it do, but he knew.
She gave him time to collect himself a bit. Finally, when his eyes were dry and his throat had relaxed, he said, “I might be done for today. That was a lot.”
“It was. How do you feel now?”
Ilya assessed himself before he answered. “Tired. But better, maybe. I would like to do this again.”
They figured out a date and time for Ilya’s next appointment, then Ilya gathered his tissue pile up and found a waste bin in the corner. He paused at the door before leaving and blurted out, “Do you think there is something wrong with me?”
“Wrong?”
“Am I depressed? Mentally ill? Am I...going to get worse?” He closed his eyes, embarrassed that he’d said all of that, but needing to know.
“You’re here,” she said kindly. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any answers this early on, but being here is an important step in the right direction.”
“Slow and steady, right?” Ilya said, in English, with an attempt at a smile.
“Exactly.”
He sighed. “I hate slow things.”
That made her laugh. “I’ve heard you like fast cars. Maybe you can think of this as building a Ferrari, instead of driving one.”
Ilya was hoping he was more like a Ferrari that needed a bit of a tune-up, rather than one that needed to be built from the ground up, but he understood what she was saying. The important thing was to avoid the scrap yard.
Ilya walked around Ottawa for a long time after his appointment. He’d hoped that speaking to a professional would give him some clarity, but instead his brain was a jumbled mess, and his chest felt hollow. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head to block out the cold autumn wind, and to hide his ragged expression.
Was he supposed to feel this way? Was therapy useful at all? He didn’t think he could keep it up if he was going to be this badly shaken after each appointment.
