“So, hasn’t it been long enough?”
A headache starts at the base of my skull. Sweat breaks out over my skin. My mouth goes dry. “What are you talking about?”
“The… incident.”
Shit. Here come the chest pains. I rub my sternum. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Just breathe,” Dr. Keres offers a soothing voice. “You need to talk about it. It’s time.”
I shake my head. The headache grows more painful.
“You can’t be around people for long periods. You’re getting so many panic and anxiety attacks. You can’t even talk about it in here without a reaction. These irrational fears are affecting your quality of life!”
My blood rushing in my ears is drowning her out. “Stop.”
“You need to face this head-on,” she ignores my pleas. “You need exposure therapy. Go back to theallegedscene of the crime, as it were.”
“Please, stop,” I croak, grabbing my throat.
She stands over me with her hand on my shoulder. “Carolina, you’re not going to get any better until you address what caused this in the first place. You need to take charge. Get control of this. Then, you can control your anxiety without medication.”
“Can’t… breathe,” I pant and realize I’m curled into a ball on the floor.
Dr. Keres’ face appears before mine. “It’s okay, Carolina. This is a safe space. Just breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
I do as she orders. The chest pains subside. The headache eases, but it’s still there, pounding in the back of my skull. She hands me a bottle of water, and I gulp it down.
That may have been a mistake because once the cold water hits my stomach, I’m sure I’ll throw up, right on her fancy-schmancy Persian rug.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Whirrrrrr.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The clock chimes the hour. I look up to see Dr. Keres back on her chaise lounge, smiling at me.
“I increased your dosage,” she hands me a prescription when I get off the floor. “This should help get you through the reunion.”
I shake my head. There’s no way I’m going to that reunion alone.
“You must go,” Dr. Keres insists. “Do you want to be one of those hermit hoarders that dies in her apartment? One whose cats eat their face off before someone finds them dead weeks later?”
I gasp. I knew she was unconventional, but this is a tad dramatic. “I don’t have cats - plural. It’s just one cat.”
She pats me on the back, pushing me toward the door. “This is the tough love part of the therapy that you asked me for, Carolina. You can do this. You’re a smart, strong, capable woman. You need to face down what you think happened and make it your bitch.”
“Can you say that?”
Dr. Keres shrugs. “Guess so. Anything to get you to face your fears. You can’t wait for the Moirai to step in and fix the problems.”
“Moirai?”
“The Fates. They spin the web of our lives, determine how long those lives are going to be, and how our lives come to an end.”
“That’s pretty dark, doc.”
She waves in the air. “It’s destiny. I’ve been fascinated since taking a Mythology class in high school. Now, see my assistant to make an appointment for when you return.”
