Untraceable

Survival Skill #7

Utilize stress management techniques to help you remain calm and focused in the wild.

~

Sitting in Dr. Head’s office, I zone out, staring at the smiley-face clock above him. The eyes look left and right with every tick and tock, like a crazy person. Only thirty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds to go.

I silently celebrate. This is the longest I’ve gone in a session without talking. I sit Indian-style in the fabric chair. Dr. Head sits across from me in a raggedy, brown leather recliner, packing his pipe. He lights the tobacco and settles into his favorite La-Z-Boy, making him look about thirty years older than he really is.

Seriously, who smokes a pipe these days besides authors or grandfathers?

Not to mention, what kind of therapist sets up a business in a small town? A bad one, maybe? One who doesn’t know what he’s talking about? Plus, I happen to know Dr. Head moonlights as a janitor at my school to get extra cash. What real therapist does that?

Dr. Head’s eyes are hidden behind ebony horn-rimmed glasses, and his wavy black hair skims his shoulders. He’s kinda handsome in a hippie-professor sort of way. I stare down at his shoes, wondering why Vans were ever made in the first place. Let alone, remade.

When I glance up again, he smiles and waves at me with his fingers. A smoke ring curls out of his pipe. I turn my head away and fake cough at the sweet fumes as they coil in the air. My legs bounce up and down, pumping out nervous energy fueled with a growing urge to speak. I recount the number of crooked pictures hanging on the walls and reread the battered sign above the door for the umpteenth time.

It’s better to be mad and know it, then to be sane and have one’s doubts.

Probably true.

I shift in my chair, trying to contain myself. Boredom taunts me, begging me to speak. The only sound in the room is the psycho-clock clicking in the background. Eleven minutes and sixteen seconds. Nine minutes, fifty-seven seconds. At eight minutes and ten seconds, I surprise myself by blurting out, “I suppose you want me to talk about my dad.” Where did that come from?

I sigh at the defeat. I hate to lose. Probably from years of Dad always winning at board games when he played against Wyn and me. Though I’d give anything to lose to Dad right now.

Dr. Head answers in a monotone voice. “Is that what you want to talk about? Your dad?”

I huff and throw my head back against the puffy headrest. “Geez, this is so stupid. I told you before, there’s nothing left to say.”

Dr. Head cocks his head to one side, resembling a bird. “Well, then why don’t you tell me about your visit with Captain?”

Great, here it comes. “Doc, it wasn’t a big deal. I asked him a few questions, that’s all.” Rocking back and forth, my chair repeatedly slams into the wall. I laugh on the inside.

Dr. Head seems completely unaffected by the thumping. He’s either really, really balanced or just plain dead inside. “Did you ask him questions about your dad?”

“Maybe.”

Dr. Head takes a drag off his pipe. When he speaks, smoke trails out of the corner of his mouth and dances in circle up toward the ceiling. “I thought we were coming to terms with your situation.”

My volume cranks up a notch. “You mean me. Not we. You don’t have to work through anything.”

“So then, are you letting your investigation go?”

I blow out lightly. “Not until I prove he’s alive.” As soon as I say the words, I slap my hand over my mouth. Busted! I’ve barely spoken in all my sessions. Now, within a matter of seconds, I throw open the door to my brain and invite Dr. Head in.