MUTE part 7

Chapter 4

It had been all of six days since Ames died when I first went to Dr. Martin. That was what I kept thinking about, as I sat in the waiting room with my mom. Wasn't it early? Didn't people usually wait a while before going to therapy? I'm not sure why that was, exactly. Maybe they weren't ready for therapy yet. Maybe they couldn't find a good therapist right away. I'm not sure if I was ready yet, but my mom insisted, and of course finding a trauma therapist who was available, and even spoke sign language, took no time at all for her. As I sat there, my palms sweat, which was something that I had heard of happening to other people but had never really happened to me before. It was bizarre, to me, and annoying, and I kept wiping my hands on my jeans. I looked like a wreck- I hadn't brushed my hair in a week, my eyes were red and puffy, my cheeks were pale and splotchy. But I wasn't really all that considered about my appearance, considering I was in a trauma therapy building. Eventually we were called in, and I asked my mom to let me go alone. She stared at me for a moment but then just nodded. I was uncomfortable enough, I didn't want her with me, watching me. I felt sick, being there, like because I hadn't been actually related to Ames, I had no right to be getting therapy. I kept worrying that Ames's parents would walk through the door and see me. I knew they wouldn't actually be upset at me- who could be upset at someone for being depressed about their child's death?- but the notion still worried me. I was glad when the door closed behind me, making me sure the Tylers couldn't see me here. Dr. Martin welcomed me and asked me to sit down. There was a chair in front of his desk, where I sat- just a chair, not a long, red leather love seat for me to stretch out on, as I had imagined a therapist's office in my mind until that moment. I sat there and stared at Dr. Martin as he straightened a couple piles of I don't know what on his desk before finally also sitting down. The office smelled like sweat, and I could tell why by the way my forehead was already perspiring after only having been in the room twenty seconds- the stuffiness did nothing to help my nervousness. There was a fan in a far corner of the room, next to a couch covered in stacks of papers. It didn't really help, instead just mixing the hot air around the room. Dr. Martin was a man in his mid-fifties, slightly overweight, with very little hair to speak of. He had glasses around a chain on his neck but as he took a moment to read some paper on his desk he made no move to pull them onto his face. His nose was slightly crooked, and I wondered if he had broken it or if he was simply born that way. Then I started wondering, if he had broken it, how he had. Maybe he got in a fist-fight in grade school. Maybe he got hit by a stray baseball. Maybe he tripped when getting on a boat and hit his nose on one of the safety poles. Maybe he was performing as Romeo in a play and Juliet made a violent gesture to animate her despair, smacking his face with force. Or maybe he walked into a wall. Dr. Martin cleared his throat and I looked away from his nose, settling on his eyes. They were icy blue, the kind that might have made girls go crazy when he was younger. Maybe he was kissing a girl and another girl, jealous, aimed a punch at her face but missed, permanently scarring his once-perfect features. "You are...Melissa Blanchard." Don't wear it out, I motioned. Dr. Martin's face remained expressionless, and I looked awkwardly down at my hands. Dr. Martin's breath smelled like salami. His office was filled with posters, bright photographs and cartoons with happy subjects and terrible catchphrases. The only one I liked at all was a photograph of a kid sitting on a bench, staring at the camera with a relatively blank face, a speech bubble above him bluntly declaring, "At least you're alive." It seemed sort of out of place with the rest of the cheesy posters. "So," Dr. Martin said, clasping his hands together, "I know that today is our first day together, and that it will feel hard for you to open up to me at first. But over time, I want to let you know that it will get easier, and eventually you'll feel comfortable telling me anything." I stared at him and wondered how he could sound so sure of that. Maybe I would never feel comfortable telling him things. "So let's jump right into it," he said, sitting up and clapping his hands together. That phrase seemed ironic to me, as if he was a tutor and now we were going to start my math homework, when really he was talking about trying to get over my dead boyfriend. "Would you like to tell me who it is that you lost?" I stared at him and then motioned, Not particularly. Dr. Martin smiled, which annoyed me, and said, "Well, that's alright. You don't have to tell me everything right away. Why don't we just get to know each other a little bit, before we start any real work? Kind of like school." I stared at him and fought to not raise an eyebrow. "I'll start," he said, cracking his fingers. "I'm Conrad Martin. I enjoy talking to and helping people and cooking. I graduated from the University of Washington." He smiled at me, "Now why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself." I stared at him a moment longer before slowly motioning, I'm Lissa Blanchard. I enjoy, I paused, thought for a moment, and then motioned, being alone. I didn't graduate from anywhere. I paused another moment and Dr. Martin smiled and opened his mouth to say something before I quickly moved my hands, adding, I'm mute. Dr. Martin seemed surprised by my saying this, and I was satisfied. I told him nothing of any importance the rest of that day, and when I left, I went home and sprayed my mom's perfume on myself like nobody's business.

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