Emma
When We Needed Help
“Ihatetherapists.”
“You say this everytime.”
“I still hate them.”
“Ouch.” Ellie feigns offense as she pulls into the lot in front of my therapist’s office. “Here we are,” she sings, trying to make it sound more exciting than it is. She knows exactly how I feel.
“And I hate even more that I had to be driven here like some child.”
“Doctor’s orders.” She shrugs and puts the car in park. The sticky July heat is so thick it presses against the windshield, and I have to peel my thighs off the seat. Being twenty-five weeks pregnant in summer should be illegal. I scan the lot—no sign of Steven’s car.
“I think she meant less stress, not less driving,” I grumble.
Ellie shrugs again, unbothered by my grumpiness. My blood pressure has been high, and based on my history, my doctor has been overly cautious. Annoyingly so. She even threatened bed rest when I refused to take off work, but we negotiated. As long as I’d accept more help and stay on top of my numbers, she was satisfied.
Ellie, of course, took this as her personal challenge, appointing herself as my full-time chauffeur—to and from school, appointments, even coffee runs.
I wish I could say it’s for me. But we both know she’s spiraling over wedding plans, and this is her attempt at a workaround, assuming my matron-of-honor services can be done in the car with a full belly and won’t spike my numbers. So far, it’s worked. I ride passenger princess with an iced tea, an eye mask, and listen to herdiscuss floral arrangements.
“Do you want me to stay?” she asks when she realizes Steven’s car is missing. This is our first couple’s session, and the thought alone makes something tighten behind my ribs. Honestly, none of this is great for my blood pressure. But doing nothing hasn’t exactly helped either.
“No, it’s okay. He’s on his way.” A lie. I have no idea where he is.
“Alright,” she says, worrying for a beat too long. “Call me after, okay?”
She hesitates but eventually drives off when I shoo her and waddle my overheated self inside. I meant it before: I hate therapists. My sister is a great one, I have no doubt, but I’ve never had the urge to support her career at the expense of myself. And according to her, it would be a conflict of interest. I’ve just taken her word and the rave reviews at face value: she’s good. And her suggestion to get back into therapy after my hiatus. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen anyone, and my sister does know what she’s talking about. So here I am. I trust her.
I repeat this to myself as I check in.I trust her.
A tall woman with thick-rimmed glasses and a curly bob awaits at the check in desk. In silence, she leads me down a quiet hallway to the last room in the corner.Dr. Belo, Psychiatristgleams from the door. She gestures to the brown leather sofa in the center of the room. Diplomas hang above it like a silent reminder that this is to be taken seriously. To the left of the sofa is a massive photograph of two birds. It must be significant, seeing as it commands an entire third of the wall. Dr. Belo walks in and I instantly zero in on the crisp white notepad she’s carrying.
“How is your day going, Mrs. Jones?” She asks as she sits opposite me.
“Fine.” It sounds like a question, but I don’t trust simple pleasantries in these types of settings. Ellie once told me that when therapists ask about your day, they’re assessing how you receive kindness or share details. Everything is data to them. It’s all a part of the game.
Dr. Belo smiles and writes something down. I sneak a glance. She notices immediately, clicks her pen closed, and crosses her arms to block the page.
“It’s just the date,” she reassures.
“Huh.” I chew on my lip.
“It’sbeen a while—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I wave her off and start fanning myself.
“You don’t want to be here, do you?”
“What gave it away?” I wince. “That was so rude. I’m sorry.”
I rub my bump as the baby kicks, a small reminder to be gentle with myself. Dr. Belo’s eyes flick to my belly, and she smiles.
“How far along are you now?” she asks, already glancing back at her notes.
“Twenty-five weeks, yesterday.” I can’t stop the smile that comes with it. Gratitude warms me from the inside, settling low in my belly, and the baby responds with another kick.
