Dear Charlie. N.D. Gomes

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      I hadn’t really responded to her question. And even though it unnerved me not knowing who I was or what I liked any more, I still went to bed early that morning with her words burning sweetly into my thoughts. And when I awoke early in the afternoon, I discovered both a broken framed photo of Charlie at the bottom of the stairs, and that my parents hadn’t even noticed that I had gone out the night before.

Chapter 5

       ‘6 Underground’ (Sneaker Pimps, Autumn 1996)

      Peering over the top of my notepad, I saw Dr Albreck’s almond-shaped hazel eyes flitting from my shaking foot to the pen twirling in my fingers. Two swirling masses of greenish-browns burrowing into my thoughts, watching my every move, analysing each moment. Catching her eyes, my attention darted back down to the notebook.

      A low humming seeped out of the monitor on her table, and from somewhere in the waiting room, I heard a phone ringing. A slight breeze flowed through the trees, making some of the branches bend and sway. Peeling my eyes away from the window, I checked back to see if Dr Albreck was still watching me. She was.

      ‘Ready?’

      She’d decided on a new approach for today’s session since I had spent the previous appointment attempting to inquire about her personal life. Although perhaps invasive and rude at times, I thought the questions were reasonable, and warranted. How was I supposed to confess my deepest darkest thoughts to a woman who I knew nothing about? Perhaps she too harboured some dark notions that made her emotionally incapable of helping me with mine.

      Unfortunately, she was less than forthcoming about her marital status, university grades and personal food preferences, which left me still unsure of her capabilities to assist me during the worst time of my life. That day she had ended the appointment early – without offering me a reimbursement of the minutes retracted – and changed the direction of the next session.

      This afternoon I was to write down three emotions I had felt in the past week. Since I had arrived twelve minutes late for our therapy session because of the late night I had had the evening before, the first emotion on my list was remorse. After that, the page was blank.

      ‘Sam?’

      ‘I’m having a difficult time collecting my thoughts.’

      ‘Do you have anything written down?’

      ‘Yes, remorse.’

      ‘Excellent. Let’s start with that. Tell me why you think you felt remorse this week?’

      ‘Because I was twelve minutes late today and I really dislike people who aren’t punctual.’

      She took a long deep breath, and then straightened back up. ‘Do you feel remorse for anything else? The events of the past year, perhaps?’

      I felt my body retreat, my spine pushing into the back of the armchair until it became uncomfortable. A bitter taste in my mouth caused me to swallow, but I couldn’t get rid of it. Was she implying that I should feel remorse for my brother’s actions? I thought I was coming here to let go of feelings of guilt and blame, not to accept them. One emotion suddenly became clear to me – anger. But instead of writing it down or simply saying what I was thinking, I did exactly what I had been doing for the past few sessions. Afraid of the discussions being about me, my family, I turned it back on her. ‘Have you ever felt remorse? Maybe for something that you did in your past?’

      ‘Sam, like I told you last time, these sessions aren’t about me. They’re about you.’

      ‘Right, I remember,’ I said, my response sounding sharper than I’d intended.

      She uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them in another way, her eyebrows pinching together. Taking another deep breath, she dropped her pen on her notepad as if surrendering. ‘Sam, do you think you’d be more comfortable talking with another counsellor? Maybe a male counsellor?’

      ‘Are you… firing me? Am I being fired from therapy? Can that even happen?’

      ‘Not fired, but transferred to a more suitable pairing. And it can happen if the client would feel more comfortable meeting with another psychologist. Of course, I want to keep seeing you but I worry that our sessions aren’t moving forward. I want you to feel that this is a safe space where you can talk about anything. I want these sessions to help you, and I don’t think they are.’

      ‘Sure, if that’s what you want?’

      ‘Again, it’s not about me, it’s about you.’

      What did she want me to say? No? Did she want me to beg? So, I responded in the only way I knew how, ‘Um… OK?’

      She paused, as if she wanted to say something more but instead picked up her pen to make her final notes. Head down, she continued talking to me without meeting my eyes. ‘OK. So I will make a recommendation to one of my colleagues who I feel would be a good communication partner for you and he will contact you to arrange therapy days and times.’ She finally looked up at me, her eggshell-coloured frames sliding down the bridge of her nose slightly. ‘Sam, do you have anything you’d like to say or ask me before we end our last session? And no, I don’t mean ask me a question about my personal life.’

      Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I considered the many questions that pushed against my head causing me pain, but couldn’t find the right one to ask. So, I said nothing and shook my head in silence.

      ‘Right. Well, good luck, Sam. I hope you find more success in your next therapy,’ she said, standing up. She smoothed down the front of her skirt and readjusted her glasses. Even though she tried to hide it with her thick glasses, too-tight bun that pinched at her scalp and beige clothing, she was pretty. And there was something about her that made me feel comfortable in her office. Had she not given up so easily, I may have actually opened up to her someday. But like all the adults in my life, she was too busy to wait. Asking her too many personal questions – strike one. Arriving late to a session – strike two. Failing to immediately spill my thoughts, fears and the crushing weight of grief to her – strike three. Three strikes and I was out.

      Leaving the notepad on my seat, blank except for one word written on it: Remorse, I slumped out of her office feeling like I’d just failed an exam. I considered turning back to wave, but a strange feeling of the very emotion that I had written down washed over me and I didn’t want her to see. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to tell her to just be patient for a little while longer. I wanted to explain to her that this was how everyone in my family handled their emotions, by bottling them up until they explode like a shaken Coke bottle. But like my family, I was too stubborn to apologise, too scared to ask for help, and too selfish to care. So, I walked straight to the exit door and pushed it open, not turning back to see if it closed properly behind me.

      The next morning, I awoke to the usual muffled voices of my parents from the kitchen. Although the conversation was brief and void of emotion, they didn’t seem to be fighting today. Perhaps we’d have a normal Sunday morning, like a normal family who dealt with normal problems, like whose turn it was to do the dishes or whether there were enough whites to do a light-coloured load of laundry.

      ‘Sam?’

      ‘Yeah, Dad?’

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