“If you don’t want to talk about your childhood, what about later on? Did anything change these past few years?” Dr. Camry asks.
Clearly she is trying her psychoanalysis crap again. What is with this woman?
She is staring at me and I, despite having spent a great deal of time trying to ignore her, am staring back.
She’s got black hair, this doctor, and a face that says every single person she has ever met is still alive. She doesn’t look like someone who could withstand a trauma, much less help anyone else through one. Why did she even choose this profession? Nothing has prepared her for this.
Except for education, I guess. There are probably classes at psychologist school that teach you how to handle a crisis even if you have never been in one. That class would be taught alongside the one that teaches you to ask questions about things that are not your business.
That’s why this bothers me. Mom says it is because I am in pain. The police said I was traumatized. Really, it’s just because this is no one’s damn business.
Dr. Camry is looking at me expectantly, like she has cracked some code to my inner psyche and I will now spill my guts.
There are several degrees hanging behind her, proclaiming that she graduated from somewhere. She has taken all the right courses, passed all the right exams, and she is now eligible to tell me how I feel about my life.
I glare back at the doctor.
If I wasn’t resolved not to answer her before, I am now.
I look at the clock. Twenty six minutes left in this session.
Dr. Camry must have realized this too.
“Brooklyn, did you know your brother was going to die?”
Part of me wants to slap her and part of me applauds her for just whipping that question out. Neither side wins over and I remain silent.
She narrows the frame of the question.
“Brooklyn, did your brother mean to kill himself?”
Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? Or the 200 dollars an hour question, given the circumstances. Did he or didn’t he?