I Wish You All the Best(38)

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, a lot of our discussions on them have focused on the negative, with reason, of course. But surely you had to have good moments with them, over the years?”

“I mean … yeah, kind of.” I rub my palms on my knees. Of course we had good moments. There were a lot of them actually. Moments where I could forget just how bad they could be. Where we could laugh at something on TV, or joke around with one another, or spend the day out and about, just enjoying one another’s company.

Times where I actually thought they might love me for me.

“Tell me about a good moment you had,” she says. “Doesn’t have to be anything big or anything. Just a nice thing you remember.” Dr. Taylor smiles.

“Well, it isn’t really just one specific memory,” I say. “But my mom works at a hospital, and during a lot of my summers I’d have to go with her to work. I guess she didn’t trust me to be alone with Hannah.”

“Afraid of Hannah’s influence, I’d imagine.”

I manage a chuckle. “Probably. But Mom would let me help out. She mostly did paperwork, so she taught me where things go and how to make sure they were in the right order.” I feel a smile creep up on me. “She even let me shred stuff. That was my favorite part.”

And then everything sort of stops, and for a split second, I feel numb.

“Ben?” Dr. Taylor looks at me.

“It’s nothing.”

Except the tug I feel on my heart.

The Friday nights we’d go out to dinner, Dad watching his terrible old Western movies way too loud or forgetting what he was talking about mid-sentence and Mom and I laughing about it. The days Mom and I would work in her garden, coming back inside sunburned. Entire days we’d spend alone, Mom shopping for something and me following her around, cracking jokes. “Sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes.

“It’s fine.” Dr. Taylor pushes over the box of tissues, but I don’t take one. I can’t be crying, not about this. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“No.”

“It’s natural to miss them, Ben. They are your parents, after all.”

“Just … after what they did.” When I thought I could trust them. “I thought … I thought being their child would be enough for them.”

“I know, I know. But you lived with them for eighteen years, they raised you, and it seemed like they loved you.” Then Dr. Taylor leans forward. “Did you love them, Ben?”

I want to tell Dr. Taylor no, and I want to be able to say it with confidence. I don’t love them, I didn’t. Not after what they did. But they are my parents. I’m supposed to love them, no matter what, right?

“Do you think they miss you?”

I have no idea. “Can they? I mean, they kicked me out.”

“Doesn’t mean they won’t miss you. If that really was them outside Hannah’s house that night …” Dr. Taylor doesn’t finish her statement, but it’s the first time she’s brought up that night since I told her about it. “Are you feeling well, Ben? Physically?”

“I haven’t really been sleeping.” This morning I woke up around two thirty, and the night before that it was around three. It’s getting harder to keep my eyes open during the day now. I’ve even thought about faking being sick one day just so I could try to catch up.

“It’s getting closer to the end of the school year. Things can get pretty busy.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you tried any over-the-counter medication?”

“I’ve taken some NyQuil, but it only works for a few hours.” That was the only thing Hannah and Thomas had in their medicine cabinet. Besides, the stuff tastes like ass, and I don’t want to make that an everyday thing.

“Not much of an acquired taste?” She chuckles. “Is this the first time you’ve experienced something like this?”

“Sort of. Last year, when I had the PSATs and final exams right after each other.” I rub the back of my head. My hair’s gotten longer, longer than Dad would’ve ever let me grow it. “I usually just watch TV or draw until it’s time to wake up.”

“Would you like to try medication?” she asks.

“You can do that?”

Dr. Taylor nods.

“I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about it a lot. I don’t love the idea personally; it just doesn’t feel right for me.

“Well, if it’s this bad, then maybe we should consider it.”

“Do you know what’s causing it?” I ask.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“And?” God, why do I even ask?

She exhales slowly and almost seems reluctant to tell me. “I think you’re dealing with depression, but to me, anxiety seems to be the biggest issue.”

“Oh.”

“And that’s perfectly fine. Everyone deals with anxiety, Ben, it’s just—”

I finish for her. “Some people don’t know how to cope with it?”

“Sometimes it’s too much to handle. You’re still growing up, still figuring things out, and this is an extra layer of issues. It’s common for someone your age to be dealing with this sort of thing. And your situation certainly hasn’t helped that.”