Survivor - By Kaye Draper Page 0,33

Most people probably would have been more comfortable speaking to someone closer to their own age, but not me. For some reason, I always found his age comforting. I soaked in his calming presence like a sponge. He had the ability to make all of my problems seem smaller, less immediate.

We started every session with a sort of checklist. “How are your headaches,” he asked, pen and chart at the ready. I pressed my lips together, trying to remember. “I think they’ve been better, for the most part. I don’t have them as often, but when I do, they’re still pretty bad. Probably an eight out of ten.” He scribbled in his chart and frowned at me, his wild white eyebrows drawing together.

“You didn’t bring your notebook. Have you been using it to write things down?” I was supposed to be tracking these things and brining it with me to sessions so that I was more accurate.

I shifted in my seat. “I forgot it in the car. I try to write in it every day… but sometimes I forget.” Okay, not sometimes, all the time. Especially when I’m distracted- like, say, when my handsome new friend declares himself a vampire, then starts telling people he’s my boyfriend, then treats me to mind blowing sex- that kind of thing.

The doctor’s thick fingers paused in their scratching and he peered at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “How about the fatigue?”

I licked my lips and considered saying it was fine, but in the end, I told the truth. I’m not a very good liar. “Worse. It’s way worse lately.”

He nodded and jotted it down. “How is your mood? Have you been having anymore bouts of depression since we talked last?”

I shook my head. “None,” I said truthfully. “I’ve been… really happy.”

He arched his eyebrows at me, but looked relieved. “That is good news,” he said jovially. Putting the chart aside, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms loosely over his middle, settling in for the real therapy, and looking like nothing so much as a professional version of Santa Claus.

“What has changed?” His voice was even and calm, as he led me to explore my own head. I shrugged and he tried again. “Melody, you are more tired, and when you have headaches, they are worse, but your mood has improved drastically. It seems like maybe you are doing something different?” I was silent. “Maybe something you love, but it’s tiring? Do you have a new hobby?”

He knew, damn him. I glared at him, suddenly feeling betrayed. He knew I wasn’t going to say I’d taken up bingo and found it draining. “Mom called you didn’t she?”

His blueberry eyes crinkled up at the corners and he laughed. “About an hour ago,” he admitted. “She has some concerns about your new relationship, and its effect on your decision making.”

I rolled my eyes. “She has concerns about me ever having a real life,” I grumbled under my breath.

He said nothing, only regarded me with that patient expression. Fine. “I started seeing someone. I met him on the subway one morning on the way to work. We were friends for a while before we started dating. He’s absolutely perfect. Mom and Dad hate his guts.”

Dr. Walton leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, still calm, but interested. “Why are your parents concerned, do you think?”

I sighed. “They love me and they don’t want anyone to take advantage of me,” I parroted. We’d had this discussion before. “But,” I said, pointing a warning finger at him, “they treat me like a kid.”

He wasn’t ruffled. “What kinds of things to you and your boyfriend do together?”

I shrugged and averted my gaze. “We eat lunch together in the park most weekdays. He works near the library. We watch movies together. Sometimes he takes me to the hospital with him when he goes to volunteer.”

He nodded. “It sounds like you’re getting out more because of him.”

I tried to relax. “I am. But he isn’t like me. He’s not human.”

Dr. Walton laughed and sat back. “Some people have the ability to make us feel that way, don’t they? I know it can be hard to keep up when you have obstacles. He understands that though, doesn’t he? Do you feel like he pushes you to do things that are exhausting, or that you don’t want to do?”

I shook my head firmly. “He is very considerate of me. He never pressures me to do