Silhouettes

“So, how are you?”

It was the same question asked at the beginning of every one of our sessions. It always seemed like the most ridiculous question to ask someone, especially if they’re in therapy. I wouldn’t be here if I was good and my mood never changed week from week. I was always stuck in the same cloud of depression. Sometimes, she’d ask me why I was here. That always seemed even more ridiculous than the latter question. I was here as a punishment; the only choice in an impossible ultimatum. I’m here for a reason and clarity isn’t one of them. I was here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 1:30pm on the dot. Even though I never missed an appointment, I also never spoke when I was here. My lips stayed sealed shut and I instead concentrated on the dull room that only added to the even more dull feeling inside me.

The walls were bare, minus the few awards and certificates that hung above the old, wooden desk. There were three windows, one being a bay window, that were the only source of light allowed to illuminate the dingy room. Sheer, gray curtains hung on every window, blowing up off the floor with each cross breeze that flitted through the room. Dr. Jill Sullivan, my therapist for the last year and some odd months, always sat at her desk in the big, brown cushioned chair that squeaked loudly with every move she made. Two tan leather chairs were placed in front of her desk with a matching couch across the room under the bay window. The smooth colors were supposed to be calming and permit honesty, but they just made me feel like I was in a jail cell.

I might as well be.

“Gracie.”

I looked up from my hands into the small, brown eyes of Dr. Sullivan. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun that made the skin on her forehead look stretched. She sat back in her chair, her gray bell-bottom clad legs crossed before her, a pen held steady above a yellow legal pad. She watched me with careful, expectant eyes, the glasses on the bridge of her nose slipping down ever so slightly. She looked like she was trying to read me; read my body language and the blank expression on my face. She was always trying to find deeper meanings in the things people said – as though life was all about reading in between the lines. She just didn’t understand that her trying to read me as though I was an open book only made me want to become more secretive and share a hell of a lot less. I didn’t like feeling like there was someone prying into my life. I wasn’t some psych case that needed to be analyzed with a magnifying glass. I just needed someone that asked all the right questions without sounding like they were writing a file.

She called my name again and when she didn’t receive a response from me, she sighed, annoyed. She uncrossed her legs and pulled her glasses off her face, placing them atop of her head. She shuffled her chair forward and rubbed her forehead, the wrinkles disappearing for a second as her fingers smoothed over them. She sat up straight and cleared her throat, clasping her hands together on the blank lined legal pad. Her eyes met mine with a fierce look, the gray orbs dissecting my every move. Her expression turned serious and annoyed and when she spoke her voice was laced with the same aggravation.

“Grace, your parents pay good money to have these sessions as often as we do. Sitting here and not saying a single word is not only a waste of their money, but a waste of my time. If therapy with you is going to continuously be like pulling teeth, then I don’t have to be here. You’re not the only person that needs help and I could be using this time to help someone who’s willing to accept it.” Dr. Sullivan said, continuing on with a sigh as her expression softened just a bit, “That being said, I want to help you. I want to you to understand and come to terms with the past. But for you to be able to do that, I need you to talk to me.”

I bit my lip and looked down at the chipped white nail polish on my nails. No one understood that talking was not going to help. Therapy was my parent’s last resort to having their perfect daughter back. They themselves don’t even care anymore. I can’t even remember the last time I talked to them. Weeks, months, it all just blurred together these days. Reliving the past is not going to help me. I want to keep every daunting memory in the back of my mind, under lock and key forever. There’s no point in talking about something that’s already happened and therefore unchangeable. I didn’t want to be here as much as Dr. Sullivan suspected I didn’t. But this was the final agreement made by my parents without my consent and therefore the decision was out of my hands. As long as my parents were signing the checks, I would have to keep coming here and sitting in this same sticky seat for two hours, three times a week.

The timer placed next to a picture of Dr. Sullivan’s family went off, the chime cutting through the thick air like a blade. I looked at the device and then over to my therapist, who had the same look of disappoint I’d been receiving for the last few years from everyone I encountered. She sighed, drawing out a stressed breath of air, her shoulders squaring. She unclasped her hands and closed my file.

“That’ll be all for today, Gracie. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

I stood up from the chair and left the room without hesitating and without looking back. Her office door closed shut behind me as I walked down the dreary hallway, my eyes trained on the gray carpet below me. Nothing would ever get me to retell the events so strongly embedded into my mind. Some things are meant to be left unsaid.

Albeit, some things are never meant to happen in the first place.



Lonely.

It was a feeling that I didn't feel too often, at least not until recently. To tell you the truth, I haven't felt as lonely as I do these days in a long time – maybe even never. I didn’t know how to cope with this emptiness. It wasn’t something I was familiar with nor did I know how to deal with it. And so often times I found myself slipping out of my house late at night and into my mother’s garden, taking a seat on one of the few cement benches and listening to the cicadas and crickets fill the empty night, and right now wasn’t any different. If my mother knew I was here, she’d throw a fit. I was forbidden to go into any of my mother’s gardens the main reason being that I always found myself touching the flowers, their smooth petals offering a strange sense of calm to my otherwise stressful life. She always yelled at me when I did so because the salt from my fingers wasn’t good for them – she said it killed them quicker.

But aside from the flowers, I loved the small pond situated in the middle, filled with a few frogs and some coy fish. For as long as I can remember, I spent hours out here, just watching the fish swim and enjoying the peaceful silence the serine environment offered. Any time my mother knew I was in here, she’d come out, ranting and grumbling about how I was not welcome in her garden. She’d go on for a few minutes until finally, when she realized I wasn’t listening, she would warn me not to touch anything and that if I did, I’d be spending the night out here. Of course, she wasn’t serious but as a young girl, I believed her.

On most nights, the pond seemed to come to life the moment I stepped through the garden gates. The small lights the were littered around the little, closed-off area illuminated the entire garden and it seemed like every critter and plant came to life. But today it seemed that the pond was not offering any form of comfort. Even as I sat at the ground just at the edge of the pond, the cool water barely brushing my toes, I did not find the usual solace that I seeked every time I came out here. Instead, I found myself even lonelier as I sat watching the fish swim around my toes and listened to the unusually quiet crickets. The eerie silence became louder than any noise I could imagine, so much so that I couldn't help but pull my legs towards myself and wrap my arms around them, trying to make myself seem smaller and blend in with all the life around me. I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or if it really was just that quiet, but either way it unnerved me and quickly I jumped to my feet, heading back towards my house.

Once inside, I could hear the TV playing in the living room and my father shouting out answers to the questions being asked on Jeopardy. My mom was probably sitting next to him, reading a book or watching the show while drinking tea. I headed towards their direction and found my mom to be reading the mystery novel she’s had her nose in for the last week. I took a seat next to my dad and smiled up at him as he gave my shoulder a squeeze.

“You didn’t touch any of my flowers did you, Grace?” My mom asked. I shook my head but my father cut in.

“Oh, Rose, leave her be. She’s harmless,” my dad said, sending me a side-ways glance with an eye roll, a smile playing at his lips.

“She may be harmless the sodium on her fingers is like a brush of death,” my mother tufted, looking up from her book, a stern look on her aging face.

“You make it seem like she deliberately kills your flowers. And if I am correct, she has yet to take the life of your precious roses.”

“Yes, because I warn her that if she does, she’ll be sleeping out there with them.”

“We both know that’s not true. Now, shush. I’m trying to watch these nerds.” My dad gestured towards the TV and when my mother looked back down at her book with an eye roll, he nudged me, a playful smile taking over his perfect face.

“Isaac, it’s your question,” Alex Trebek said.

“I’ll take Historic Women for $100, Alex”

“On April 6th, 1614, she married John Rolfe.”

“Powhatan,” my dad said, sounding positive.

I shook my head, “It’s Pocahontas.”

My dad looked over at me, “You wanna bet?”

I nodded my head with a chuckle, “You’re only going to lose old man.”

“Alright, 10 bucks says I’m right.”

“Deal.” We shook hands and turned back to the show, watching as Issac slammed on his buzzer, the red lights on his small stand lighting up.

“Isaac,”Alex said.

“Who is Pocahontas?”

“That is correct.”

“Ha!” I smiled, looking over at my dad as he looked at me skeptically.

“Have you seen this episode before?”

“No, dad. Face the defeat.”

He chuckled, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out two fives and handing them to me. I plucked them from his fingers and stuffed them into my jean pockets, smirking over at him.

“How’d you know the answer was Pocahontas?” He asked, his blue eyes looking at mine, the mirror image of his own.

“That was my favorite Disney movie. Obviously, I know everything there is to know about her. Powhatan was Pocahontas’s mother. In the movie, Pocahontas married John Smith.”

“Next time, I’ll wait for a question that has to do with sports before I make a bet with you.”

“Like that’ll make a difference. I’ll still beat you. You-”

“Gracie, shouldn’t you be getting your things ready for tomorrow? It is going to be your first day back since last year,” my mom interrupted me, sending me a sharp glare.

The smile instantly fell from my face and I nodded my head, standing up and leaving the room, my father sending me a sad smile.