TWO- VIVIAN

The arrangement is that I am required to e-learn for a full academic year before physically joining my friends at school again. The doctors insisted it was necessary that my condition be monitored every now and then- therapies inclusive, so being at school would be inconvenient. So, the final sentence is: I have a year off school to recover, then when I’m back on my feet, I’ll resume my studies. To be frank, I still feel awkward not being at school like this.

I put on my brown moccasins and close the front door. Aunt Cassandra and I are going for my first therapy session today. Well, technically, she will just drop me there and pick me up after an hour.

She honks her car with irritation since I seem to be delaying her. Of which I am. On purpose for that matter. The reason being that, though I have never been to a therapy session before, I have always regarded them as overrated arrangements where rich and Westernized people purposefully dunk their fortune down the drain. I guess I haven’t considered the esteemed reality of emotional healing and letting out your feelings to people. Should I trust someone just because they have a paper? Do they have the right to know what’s in my head, when, at the end of the day, they are doing so just for the money and not empathy?

Then, again, I don’t think we are not capable of dealing with our anxieties on our own. Rather, I think most people who opt for therapies have a victim mindset and they don’t want to save their own neck. They are waiting for a saviour.

Thoughts jam in my head as I slam the car door softly behind me, settling down in the car to the most comfortable position, my knees tucked in. The car smells like lavender. Aunt Cassandra sighs heavily and starts the engine.

“What took you so long?” she asks and glares at me through her pink rimmed fashion sunglasses. I freeze on my seat.

“I was putting on my shoes,” I mutter just loud enough for her to hear, staring down at my bony fingers.

“And how long did it take you to put on your shoes?”

“Pretty long. I’ve grown out of them so I was failing to fit,” I reply and stare at the windshield. I don’t know what I’ll stare at next. Her nose ring? Or her palmleaf-like eyelashes. Those things be batting up and down like some bird wings. How the hell are her eyelids keeping up? Man, they are hard workers for keeping up with the weight.

“You better not have forgotten anything necessary in there. Cause we ought to get going,” she growls and reaches for her Louis Vuitton handbag and takes out her lipstick. It is purple and it matches with the cardigan that she’s worn over her black and white tank top and blue jeans. Her feet are squished in glossy black pumps, and she steps on the gas and pulls out of the drive way. Her Sedan groans a little, coughs, and starts skirting down the road.

I swear on my delinquent tongue, I’m gonna give that therapist a reason to terminate these absurd sessions.

I can’t help but admit that I miss my two idiotic friends. Not only them, though, because I still miss being at school: being part of a community where you’re a particle inside the larger substance- where you are not really acknowledged but you feel welcomed… a place full of assorted individuals whom I never knew I’d miss till I got away from them. I believe not even my classmates see a difference now that I’m not there anymore. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not worried. I’m just stating the obvious. Everyone has a life to live and things to worry about and my presence is out of the question. Still, I can’t help but wonder how my acquaintances and classmates are doing.

A random country song plays on the local radio station. I try to make sense out of the lyrics, but the words roll past my ears like a gust of passing wind. Meanwhile, my aunt sings along, beautifully this time, and I subconsciously admire how her voice flows between every high and low note. I realise she sings well if the song is slow and touching…?

‘If I could steal one final glance,

one final step, one final dance with him

I’d play a song that would never ever end

Oh, I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again …’

She sings along, her eyes clouded with a faraway look, and suddenly, she seems so tired. The song continues but she just hums along until it finally ends and the Disk Jockey says, “that was a beautiful touching song, by Kacey Musgraves, a song entitled, uh, ‘Dance with My Father’. Alright everybody, hope y’all havin’ a blast. We playing country songs till 11 am this beautiful Thursday…”

She turns the radio off and glues her eyes ahead. I somehow relate with how she is feeling. Memories of my early childhood flood before me like a hologram. Although I did not exactly spend much time with my dad, the little moments we had when I was a kid were pretty special. Us playing knights in the backyard; Dad wearing cardboard horns and pretending to be a monster; I and Juan would pretend to attack him till he’d topple to the ground. Then, Tommaso, a ‘prince’ would start tickling the ‘monster’ till we join in and everyone would be rolling on the floor with laughter, feeling silly, happy, and whatever it is that kids and dads feel. Mom would glance at us from the kitchen, shaking her head, a pleased smile on her face. That was usually on Saturdays, though it was not consecutive.

Or those times when he would tell us stories after dinner. He liked telling us about how God brings rain to earth. He’d say, “when you hear thunder, it’s actually angels rolling barrels of water. Then they turn the barrels upside down and BOOM! You have rain.” No matter how many times he repeated it, it still sounded real and funny that time. I’d imagine angels rolling barrels hosting water enough to make the plants grow and all that. Looking back, that story is fake, like something out of a kid’s bedtime book, yet it's funny how I believed it for a good while.

Perhaps I would love to go back to those memories, wish them true in this present time, but not all fathers dance with you when you need them to.

So, as the car screeches to a stop, the robots flashing red and impatient pedestrians rushing across the zebra, I begin to wonder what my aunt’s childhood was like, considering how my mom never liked the mention of her own father.

I step out of the car and wait for aunt to get out. We are packed in a tight lot that faces a large three storey building looming in front of us. Of course, this street is packed with extravagant business buildings, and this one is not exceptionally outstanding, yet its simplicity captivates me. We walk towards the entrance and I carefully jot my feet on the white marbled floor, the glass doors welcoming us. The exterior is mostly grey and black, and the words ‘M & C THERAPY CLINIC’ sneer at me in their neon blue majesty. I let out a deep nervous sigh and step inside, cowering behind Aunt Cassandra.

Here goes nothing, good people.

“Good morning, ma’am, how can I help you?” a lady behind a DELL™ monitor says in a robotic voice, her face still glued to her screen. She’s the only lady at the reception, and she seems so unfriendly. Not that I care. She seems to be in her early thirties, and her voluminous afro has white streaks. She raises her sunken eyes towards Aunt Cassandra’s face and smiles inhumanly, y’know, those default smiles you wear when you don’t like your job.

“Good morning, uh, I have an appointment today. Actually, it’s not my appointment- it’s for this girl I’m with-” Aunt Cassandra says, looking at me as a gesture for me to say hi to the lady on the counter. I feel like I’m being handed to a bored vulture.

I give a tiny wave.

“Ah you’re that lady who gave me a hell of a brain workout last week huh? What was your name again? Caroline? Coretta?” the lady asks, sweeping her eyes over my aunt.

“It’s Cassandra Mayor, Ma’am,” my aunt replies, slightly irritated. In fact, it is a good thing that she is ‘slightly’ irritated. This woman has anger issues. Perhaps today is her payday. What’s the date again?

“Oh yes, I remember now. Cassandra. I hate you, Cassandra. Had to squeeze your little freaking appointment up the calendar instead of meeting with my girls. You know how irritating that is? You know, don’t you?” the lady says through her teeth and types something on her computer.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, ma’am,” aunt says and I freeze in place. I had no idea she could be so polite. Ah, I spoke too soon. The way she’s gripping her bag right now, she could actually rip that lady’s head of with her two pretty hands.

We get ushered to a waiting area on the first floor, and I find myself seated on a dark blue couch. Its position lets you face outside a little, which is an incredible view, at the same time you have a full view of the inside. The walls are painted beige, giving the room some soft brightness than the sharp light which white paints emanate. There’s potted cacti at the far corners in brown vases, and the room smells of roses. Air cons whirl in the background, and a huge screen looms on one of the sides, showing happy people growing gardens, having family picknicks and all the fuss electronics try to capture as definitions of happiness and health. I wonder if this facility has only one therapist, seeing how huge it is.

Aunt Cassandra seems to ream my mind, because she suddenly blurts out, “each floor has about three therapists. You get allocated to one by their system.”

“And how do they know the right man for the job?” I ask, my interest peaking.

“Your background. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Ah, I see. Pretty obvious,” I grunt and focus on the shape of my fingernails.

“Charity gave you a card, right?” she suddenly asks, checking her watch anxiously.

“Who’s Charity?” I ask, confusion dripping on my face. Charity? Card?

 “The receptionist. Y’know, the one who said she hates me. Her nametag read ‘Charity Moore’. You can still read, I assume?” she barks a little and I flitch in my seat.

“Oh, yeah, how could I forget. Charity. Yeah, she did. Is it important?” I fumble in my denim jacket’s pocket, looking for the damned little card. After a couple seconds, I fish it out and hand it to my aunt. She reads it and her mouth forms a thin line. Oh no! This is bad.

She flips it and reads the other side. She then lets out a sigh, a deep one, flips it again and reads AGAIN. By now, if she’s playing with my curiosity, it really is working because my heart is beating in my mouth, dying to find out whatever is on the card that’s made her a little pale. Is it a bill? Or have I been rejected the therapy? Actually, that’s good news to me because I definitely want out. I peek at her, and she looks at me, surprisingly back to her normal self. Whatever it is that she felt has been buried just like that.

“Uh, what’s written on the card?” I speak up and she snorts. A lady in a business suit walks past us and heads to the fire escape. I shrug and look questioningly at my gatekeeping aunt. Why won’t she tell me?

“If you’d wanted to know, you could’ve read the moment you received it. How are you this dumb all of a sudden?” she teases and hands me the card. It’s white and has dark blue edges. It has the words ‘M & C THERAPY CLINIC’ engraved in gold. It is like an ID, with my name and date of birth printed in black. The therapist I’ll be seeing is called Mark Edwards, and his credentials have been snuggled next to his name. He reeks of nerdiness.

I flip it, and there’s contact information for both the clinic and Mr Edwards. I wonder why aunt seemed to tense up from this information. Does she know the therapist? Do they go way back? No, these are absurd thoughts.

“This is five minutes before nine. I’ll get going. At nine, you knock on the door that has your therapist’s name. I’ll be back at ten sharp. Understood?” my aunt suddenly says and gets up from the couch. She hastily picks her belongings and smoothens her cardigan.

“Yes ma’am,” I reply, half confused as to why she wants to leave all of a sudden. I glance at the row of doors which seem to stretch to the end of the corridor. Damn, she really wants to bail out huh?

“Uh, what if we finish early?” I ask, taking the thought into consideration.

“You have my number,” she says and turns to leave. One of the doors opens, and a man comes out, splashing his eyes all over the place? Were we being too loud?

An older looking woman gets out, drawing deep breaths, her face somewhat contorted. She must be a patient and taking breaths seems like a technique she’s just learnt today. Who needs to teach you that, for god’s sake?

A wave of relief washes over me, seeing that he was prolly just showing her out. It wasn’t us, after all.

“Cass- Miss Mayor? Good morning?!” the man says with a smile brighter than the sun it almost melts my toes. My aunt turns around and faces him. In contrast, her expression is almost like a plague; a raging storm that even Jack Sparrow couldn’t possibly pirate through. I watch in utter silence. Do these two know each other or he knows her through the appointment?

“Good morning, sir, I just came to drop my patient. Have a good day,” she recites, each word carrying an edge of bitterness that I’m surprised the happy man is not gagging. He remains jovial though.

“You have a great one yourself. See you around Miss Mayor,” he replies with a sugary smile.

Aunt turns to me. I crawl in my seat, the hairs on my neck rising.

“I’ll pick you up at ten sharp,” she hisses and storms into the elevator before I even say ‘yes, ma’am’.

Its nine o’clock.

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