Dr. Camry

The doctor waits, pretending she is giving me time to answer. I think at this point, she knows I won’t. I lean back, cross my arms, and try to imagine the haughty teenager she sees before her. I wonder what her training has taught her to make of me.

            I don’t like her, but that’s not the problem. She tried to make me laugh earlier. Maybe she just wanted me to smile or maybe she wanted me to feel comfortable with her. Tip: if you want someone to talk about their dead brother, don’t make any jokes. It doesn’t improve the mood.

            But, anyway, my not liking her isn’t the problem.

            “It was a car crash,” Dr. Camry says.

            Yes, I know. I saw the wreckage. I want to ask her if she saw it, but that would conflict with my vow of silence. Her psychologist trick is not lost on me. She was trying to get me to correct her use of the word “crash.” Maybe I would switch it to “accident,” giving her something to go on.

Clever, Dr. Camry. But not clever enough.

            “It was a car crash.”

            She is repeating the statement, hoping for a response.

            I pick at the woven fabric on this couch. In my mind, I am responding, because it wasn’t just a car crash. She is simplifying it. Milo’s car went off the road at 65 miles per hour. It flew for fifteen feet, before dropping 200 feet to the cliffs below. If Dr. Camry had seen the car molded around a rock, she wouldn’t be speaking about it like that. 

            I want to tell her to stop talking. To stop trying. She’s beginning to look like an idiot, sitting in her office, talking to someone who isn’t talking back.

            Of course, she is the one who put four different couches in this room. So maybe I am not the one making her look unintelligent. They are all different types too, these couches. One is leather, one is suede, one is floral printed, and one is deep green and woven. I am on the green, woven one.

            I wonder if she thinks I would be giving different responses if I was sitting on one of the other couches.

            Would I be giving different answers if I sat on one of the other couches?

            “Tell me about your relationship with your brother.”

            As if I would tell her that. Even if I was talking to her.

             I used to just be annoyed by her, but I am beginning to think she just be a bítch.

            I had no relationship with my brother.

            If I told her that, she wouldn’t believe me anyway. She’d psychoanalyze me until I was unrecognizable. She’d insist there was an explanation. There is always an explanation, she would tell me. People don’t just dislike their own twins.

            I could explain the science of it to her, I guess. Fraternal twins are no more alike than any other siblings. We were two different eggs. We just grew at the same time. What difference should that make?

            People used to always ask if we were identical. People are dumb. I was a girl, and he was boy. We couldn’t be identical. Milo had an expression he used to put on when someone asked that question. I had one too. When it was us against the world, we used that to shield us from everybody else.

            I am giving Dr. Camry that look right now.

            And she’s looking back at me with an expression that suggests her relationship with her brother is great.

            Bítch. 

The End

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