“Just a moment,” she said into the phone and pulled it away from her ear again. “Do you have to make so much noise? Are you incapable of being quiet?”
“What?” I barked.
“All that noise clanging the spoon around in the bowl.”
“It’s called eating! You should try it once in a while. Might help curb those bitchy mood swings. Here.” I pulled out a piece of cereal and slid it across the counter. “I’m sure you can eat that. Just log it into your app for what you ate today.”
She put the phone to her ear and turned her back on me and walked away. Enraged that she wouldn’t engage further, and she had walked away from me, I clenched my fist and pounded it against my thigh until I was satisfied with the pain. My breathing was hard as I finished my cereal, and I felt like my chest was being squeezed. As soon as I'd graduate, I was out of here. I made sure to be extra loud while I put my spoon and bowl in the dishwasher. When I got into my car, my hand and thigh both still hurt from my fit of rage.
The office wasn’t too far away, though it wasn’t in Beverly Hills but in neighboring Brentwood. I parked between another BMW and a Mercedes, and as I walked through the parking lot up to the building, I noticed that all the other cars were of similar status. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself as I walked past four women in the courtyard, each gripping their Starbucks coffee cups as if it were their lifeline. I’d bet money on it that most of the people who came here to talk to a shrink were just bored people looking for sympathy about something. Maybe they wanted the special edition red leather in their car, but had to settle for tan, or their Tiffany ring cleaning wouldn’t be ready for pickup now, and they’d have to wait until tomorrow. Or their wallet and purse didn’t match.
As I approached the four-story office building, the automatic doors slid open, filling my senses with an artificial flower scent. I knew nothing about this trip would be pleasant. To the left was a red-haired woman sitting behind the reception desk, and on the wall beside the writing ledge to her desk was a directory.
“Hello,” she said in a pert voice as I walked to the directory.
I gave her an upward nod and forced a small smile so she’d feel like she contributed to society by talking to a teenager. As I glanced at the directory, I noticed every single name on the directory was followed with an official title such as PhD, PsyD, or M.D. The top of the directory said Brentwood Mental Health Services.
This is not a good place. Way too many shrinks in one building.
I started at the top and scanned the directory while reciting ‘Doctor Elijah Hamilton.’ I finally found him in the middle column. Suite number two-seventeen on the second floor. It was the same office my mom came to, but she saw Dr. Hamilton’s partner, Dr. Keith.
“Do you need help finding a name, sweetheart?” the receptionist asked.
“No, thank you. I just found it. But I do have a question,” I said and walked toward her granite writing ledge. “What’s the difference between a psychologist and a magician?”
She frowned and tilted her head to the side. I knew that she thought I was going to ask what the difference was between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. A smile spread across her face when she realized it was a joke, and she played along.
“I don’t know. What’s the difference?”
“A magician pulls rabbits out of hats, and a psychologist pulls habits out of rats,” I joked and then stepped away from the desk toward the elevators.
Even if she didn’t really think it was funny, she humored me. I was able to find Dr. Hamilton’s office quickly and took a deep breath before turning the silver doorknob to his office suite.
The office had light color planked tile flooring that resembled wood, some sporadically placed potted plants, and a couple of oversized black leather seats in the waiting area. Straight ahead was a smaller desk and what looked like a grandmother sitting behind it. Behind her there were two hallways that led to offices. My guess was that one side was probably Hamilton’s side and the other was for my mom’s doctor.
“Welcome. Come in, come in, dear,” she encouraged. “You must be Brandon Cooper.”
“Yes, hi,” I said and walked toward her desk.
I’d save my doctor jokes for the receptionist downstairs. Somehow it didn’t seem right to joke with the shrink’s grandma lady. She had a glossy blue plastic clipboard ready for me, and I took it from her outstretched hand and the pen.
“Please fill out as much as you can on the form.”
I nodded and started to walk away with it and then turned to ask her if she needed me to sign in.
“No, Brandon. You’re our last appointment for the day. I’ll send your mother the text now to let her know you have arrived.”
Oh yeah. I had forgotten about her being the babysitter.
I breezed through the information sheet within a couple minutes and took it back to her. Perhaps a light joke would be okay.
“Should I go ahead and forge my mom’s name on the parent signature line? I’m pretty good at it.”
“No, that won’t be necessary, Brandon,” the grandma lady held up another info sheet.
It was just like the one I filled out except it had my mom’s signature at the bottom. I saw that my mom only filled out my name at the top and then signed it, leaving all of the insurance info blank.
“Did your mom give you the information for the insurance?” she asked and glanced at the sheet on the clipboard.
