Remember to Forget

Chapter 4

Luke's POV

I step into an all too familiar atmosphere at ten in the morning, half asleep. A few other people are waiting in chairs, not making a sound. A lady at the front desk types quickly, which is the only sound in the quiet room. I roll my eyes and walk up to the front desk.

I've only been in Maine for four days, and I'm already at the therapist.

“Hi, how can I help you?” the lady says cheerily.

My dad answers all the questions while I lean against the counter. I yawn slowly, having only woken up a few minutes ago.

The lady, her name is June, hands me a clipboard with some papers attached. The usual questions that I'm sick of answering.

Do you feel as if you are different from other individuals?

Are you constantly tired?

Have you lost interest in every day activities?

I scribble down my answers just in time when I hear my name called.

“Luke Hemmings?” a woman with curly red hair asks, smiling widely.

I stand up and cringe, I already hate her.

“Good luck, bud. Come get me if you need anything,” my dad tells me.

Bud? What am I, five years old?

My dad's been trying. Maybe a little too much. The past four days I've been ignoring him most of the time. I don't really want to be around him. I think he realizes that, but he still tries.

I look at him as if he's crazy, which he is. He smiles meekly, his eyebrows arched upwards. I turn away and follow the doctor.

“Hello, Luke. Nice to meet you. I'm Candace, I'll be your therapist, okay?” She reaches out her hand for me to shake, but instead of shaking it, I put the clipboard in her hand. I don't want to carry it anyways.

She nods her head as if saying yes and closes her lips into a straight line. She brings me into a room, which is like every other therapy room. There's some games in the corner, a notepad on the table, a couch against one wall. A picture that looks like it was done by a seven year old is on one of the plain tan walls. Maybe it's a panda. Or possibly a whale? Maybe it's half and half. Would that be a whanda or a pandle?

“Hello? Luke?” Candace says, looking at me.

I must have zoned out while looking at the painting, that happens a lot. I think so much that I forget about my surroundings. I look over at Candace to see her smiling widely again. Her teeth are way too white. I bet she's bleached them more than the directions recommend.

“There you are. I thought I lostcha for a second,” Candace says. She says “lost you” with a weird accent, making it sound like one word. “So, I'm going to start off by asking you a few questions, okay?”

Okay okay okay. Stop saying okay, okay?

“Here's a white board. You can write down all of your answers and thoughts on the board. Are you ready?”

I shrug and prop my feet up on the small table. Candace looks down at my feet and tries not to look disgusted, but I see right through her. The corner of her mouth twitches as she picks up her notepad.

“Alright, question one. When did you stop talking?”

I don't answer. I stare at the milky whiteness of the board. There's some black smudges on it from previous markers.

This question is the first thing every therapist asks me. Clearly I stopped talking six months ago, it's written in my information. So why does she have to ask?