What Happened To Forever?

Chapter 6: Encounter With Evil

I cannot believe I just did that. As Principal Carson opens his mouth to speak, I shoot down the hall to the Nurse H’s office. No one can pronounce nor remember her last name so we just call her Nurse H. When I enter, panting and out of breath, she jumps up from her game of computer solitaire. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Being a nurse must not get a lot of action. Her ash blonde hair is in the traditional bob.

“Brenna… how may I help you?” Nurse H’s eyes wander to her computer solitaire game. I can tell she’d rather be playing.

  “I just threw up in the hallway,” I manage, leaving the throwing up on Principal Carson out. I’d get busted later.

  “Well… let me take your temperature to make sure there’s no fever,” she says as a disposable thermometer is stuck under my tongue. After the metallic beep, Nurse H checks the reading while making noises like “Mmhm… Strange.”

“Looks like there’s no fever here,” Nurse H continues. “Now, can you answer a few questions?” I shrug nonchalantly as she begins.

“Have you been eating enough?”

“Yes…”  I mumble, thinking longingly about the Jamba Juice smoothie that is sitting in my locker.

“Have you been getting enough sleep?”

 I think for a moment. “Not really…” The last few nights have been hell. I’ve barely slept a wink. If I sleep at all, I dream about Caleb and what I could have done to save him. She stares at me, as if asking for an explanation.

 Okay. Deep breath. “I’ve had some pretty bad dreams about Caleb, the boy who recently… passed away.” She lets out a breath.

“Well, I think we found your problem. I can recommend a grief counselor for you, but that’s about it. It’ll get better with time. Everything does,” Nurse H coaxes as she scribbles on her notepad. “Here’s a note excusing your absence.” I nod and begin to make my way out the door, dumbstruck. Therapy?!? Is that really necessary? My mind spins. Only kids who are troubled go to therapy. But then I consider it for a moment. If it makes me feel better, I guess its worth a shot.

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A few hours and many sad thoughts later, I’m sitting in the all white, calming waiting room of Helping Hands Therapy Offices. The couch I’m sitting on feels like rocks. Mom sits beside me, reading a US Weekly magazine, unbothered by the fact her butt has probably gone as numb as mine. The room is nice enough but the people surrounding me seem… well, downright scary. I can tell that a few are regulars here, constantly observing the newcomer. Mainly me. If I never come back here, it will be too soon.

I adjust my giant sunglasses so my face is barely visible. If Ryder saw me here, she’d have a field day with cruel jokes about how I’m “mentally unstable,” as Mom deemed me. It may be completely true, but I’d rather not have everyone know about it.

 A lady with a pinched expression opens the door. “Brenna?” she says. Her voice mirrors her face and I crack a small smile. Oh, the sights you see in the Helping Hands waiting room! She finally spots me and beckons for me to follow. Mom tails behind us but Pinch Face stops her.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but you cannot come with your daughter. For optimal results, it is crucial that you leave her alone with Dr. Axel if you may,” she scolds. Mom looks to me and I nod. I don’t need anyone with me. In fact, it would be better if I was left alone. She turns and proceeds back to the waiting room.

After passing many doors, we finally come to one labeled “Dr. Tim Axel.” on a bronze nameplate. I push open the door way and sit down in a red loveseat across from a giant desk littered with papers, pens, binders and books. Diplomas line the walls. A picture of an adorable gap-toothed girl sits on his desk.

“Dr. Axel will see you in a moment,” Pinch Face calls, slamming the door. My phone starts to blare and I scramble to shut it off. Someone arises from behind the desk and my first reaction is to scream at the top of my lungs. If screaming was a sport, I’d get first place. Surprisingly, the man seems unfazed.

  “Please, silence your cellular phone,” he says. A hint of a grin played across his lips. “Ah. You must be Brenna. I’m Dr. Axel, but you can call me Tim.” Tim extends his hand to shake mine. Our skin tones are drastically different. My hand looks vampire pale in comparison. I’ve always wanted to be tan, but I’ve been afraid of tanning beds as Mm always lectures me that they cause skin cancer.

 “A little bit about me. I enjoy watching football, spending time with my grandchildren and helping people get over traumatic incidents like yours. Now, tell me about yourself.” I hesitate, but he seems friendly enough.

“I’m Brenna, I’m 15 and in the 10th grade. I live in San Francisco and I enjoy being with my friends, eating ice cream, and playing sports,” I rush.

“Now, Brenna from San Francisco, why are you here,” Tim asks innocently. He leans forward in his wheelie chair attentively. I’m sure he’s already been filled in on the situation, but I comply.

  “My boyfriend, Caleb Briarson, was the passenger in a drunk driving accident. The driver lived, but he wasn’t as lucky. I… I feel like it’s my fault. Like I could have saved him! And now he’s dead,” I whisper, ashamed. “Caleb meant the world to me. I can’t believe I’ll never see him again.”

 Tim stares me down, stroking his chin. “I’m glad you realize that the accident wasn’t your fault. This incident is all too common for me, and I actually have someone else here who misses Caleb as well.” He motions toward the door and none other than Joseph Briarson, Caleb’s father, walks in the room. I gasp, my mouth gaping open. Policemen stand by the door, uncertain if they should stay. Tim waves them off and they quietly shut the formerly adjacent door.

 Tim clears his throat, trying to clear the air. “We decided to put you both in therapy together, because each of you are mourning the same person for different reasons.” I try my hardest not to jump out of my chair and start yelling. “Mr. Briarson, how are you coping?”

“Not well,” he says solemnly. His eyes are glazed over, his hair is mussed like he just rolled out of bed, and he looks in desperate need of a shower. “I keep replaying the moment in my mind, over and over. I can barely look in the mirror without feeling guilty.” Tim waggles hi eyebrows at me, as if silently saying “See? He’s just like you!”

 That did it. Mr. Briarson has just pulled the last straw.

 “Well, guess what? It WAS your fault! You have every right to feel guilty! He tried to help you with your drinking problem, but you were too damn stubborn to even listen! And now he’s dead! You killed him, you murderer! I HATE YOU!” I shout, tears pouring down my face. “You could have done something! What’s going to happen to poor James?!? He lost his only brother, the one who practically RAISED him, because you were too busy barhopping to care. What is WRONG WITH YOU?”

The look on Mr. Briarson’s face doesn’t even make me feel bad about what I did. He and I both know that every word of it is 100% true. Tim stands up abruptly, then sits back down again.

“You have no right to say ANY of that, young lady!!! That… It isn’t…” Mr. Briarson trails off, putting his head in his hands. The silence is deafening.

Tim scribbles down something in a large notebook, and without looking up says, “That’s all for you today. Brenna, you may go.”

Something tells me I won't be invited back soon.

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