or forgetting what he was talking about mid-sentence and Mom and I laughing about it. The days Mom and I would work in her garden, coming back inside sunburned. Entire days we’d spend alone, Mom shopping for something and me following her around, cracking jokes. “Sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes.
“It’s fine.” Dr. Taylor pushes over the box of tissues, but I don’t take one. I can’t be crying, not about this. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
“No.”
“It’s natural to miss them, Ben. They are your parents, after all.”
“Just … after what they did.” When I thought I could trust them. “I thought … I thought being their child would be enough for them.”
“I know, I know. But you lived with them for eighteen years, they raised you, and it seemed like they loved you.” Then Dr. Taylor leans forward. “Did you love them, Ben?”
I want to tell Dr. Taylor no, and I want to be able to say it with confidence. I don’t love them, I didn’t. Not after what they did. But they are my parents. I’m supposed to love them, no matter what, right?
“Do you think they miss you?”
I have no idea. “Can they? I mean, they kicked me out.”
“Doesn’t mean they won’t miss you. If that really was them outside Hannah’s house that night …” Dr. Taylor doesn’t finish her statement, but it’s the first time she’s brought up that night since I told her about it. “Are you feeling well, Ben? Physically?”
“I haven’t really been sleeping.” This morning I woke up around two thirty, and the night before that it was around three. It’s getting harder to keep my eyes open during the day now. I’ve even thought about faking being sick one day just so I could try to catch up.
“It’s getting closer to the end of the school year. Things can get pretty busy.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you tried any over-the-counter medication?”
“I’ve taken some NyQuil, but it only works for a few hours.” That was the only thing Hannah and Thomas had in their medicine cabinet. Besides, the stuff tastes like ass, and I don’t want to make that an everyday thing.
“Not much of an acquired taste?” She chuckles. “Is this the first time you’ve experienced something like this?”
“Sort of. Last year, when I had the PSATs and final exams right after each other.” I rub the back of my head. My hair’s gotten longer, longer than Dad would’ve ever let me grow it. “I usually just watch TV or draw until it’s time to wake up.”
“Would you like to try medication?” she asks.
“You can do that?”
Dr. Taylor nods.
“I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about it a lot. I don’t love the idea personally; it just doesn’t feel right for me.
“Well, if it’s this bad, then maybe we should consider it.”
“Do you know what’s causing it?” I ask.
“I have an idea, yes.”
“And?” God, why do I even ask?
She exhales slowly and almost seems reluctant to tell me. “I think you’re dealing with depression, but to me, anxiety seems to be the biggest issue.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s perfectly fine. Everyone deals with anxiety, Ben, it’s just—”
I finish for her. “Some people don’t know how to cope with it?”
“Sometimes it’s too much to handle. You’re still growing up, still figuring things out, and this is an extra layer of issues. It’s common for someone your age to be dealing with this sort of thing. And your situation certainly hasn’t helped that.”
I don’t know what to say next, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. “It’s scary, Dr. Taylor.”
“I know, Ben. I know.” She sighs. “But the medication might be an outlet worth exploring, don’t you think?”
“Do you believe it’ll help?” I ask.
“I truly do. With patients dealing with depression and anxiety, medication can be a godsend. We could do a trial run, see how it works for you?”
I nod along to her words. “Okay, we can try it.”
I crumple up the paper, tearing it right out of my sketchbook and throwing it into the bin halfway across the room. It misses.
Of course.
“You need to work on your free throws.” Mrs. Liu eyes the balls of paper sitting around the trash can.
“I’ll get those in a second,” I say.
“Stuck?” She walks over to the little workstation I’ve built myself in the corner of the back room.
“I’ve got nothing,” I say. The ideas are there, floating around, but I can’t get them onto the paper, let alone a fucking canvas. And the medication Dr.