Secrets, Lies and Dragonflies

Chapter 5

Aunt Amy rummages through the pile of celebrity magazine on the coffee table in the waiting room. She tells me it's her guilty pleasure and swears me to secrecy, pretending she actually enjoys taking me to my appointments.  

"Come on in, Mackenzie." Counselor Cassie flashes her commercial grade smile, the kind in those teeth whitening ads.

Leaving Aunt Amy with her vices, I attempt to mirror Counselor Cassie's enthusiastic greeting, but I'm no match. 

This small, musty conference space full of mismatched, used furniture is both the Pathways Outpatient Service Center's Professional Library and my therapist's office.  Actually, her official office is an old coat closet in the hallway that barely houses her computer. 

I've tried out all the chairs in the room, but this 1970's velvet blue one sandwiched between wall-to-wall books has become my usual spot.  Every hardcover and paperback title lining the shelves is committed to memory so I can practically spot when one's been moved or is missing.  Today, for instance, between the Depression and the Self Esteem sections, there's a book on eating disorders that's been relocated.  Definitely not one of my problems, unless loving all food is considered a disorder. 

"Well. It's good to see you. How are things this week?" she asks from the faded peach wing-back seat positioned next to the Addictions area.  Her entire being radiates sunshine and rainbows, which seems sort of ironic with a backdrop of captions like Drunk to Hunk, a Wife's Journey through Recovery or My Son's Suicide Story or Drugs Don't Die, but Dads Do.  

I shrug like I always do, trying not to act too aloof.  "Fine. Not much going on, which I guess is a good thing."

"Glad to hear that." Looking at her yellow legal pad, she's turning pages, perhaps trying to find something, anything interesting to fill the time.  We're all stuck in this endless loop of Wednesday afternoon meetings until my dependency case worker tells the judge that I'm adjusting well since the "traumatic event."

"Let's see. Your Aunt Amy said you're grades are still strong, honor roll in fact..."

While she rattles off random factoids she gathered this week from Aunt Amy, my mom's best friend, I glance at the clock. 4:02pm. Forty eight minutes left.   Don't get me wrong.  Things could have been worse.  Aunt Amy and I met with at least four different people before settling on Counselor Cassie.  And let me clarify: different might be an understatement. 

In fact, I should be thrilled I didn't get stuck with that old dragon lady therapist with the leather skin layered in the stench of ashtrays.  Or worse, with that weird woman who had entire conversations with her lapdog, Mr. Freud. I spent the whole meet-and-greet session re-positioning myself in her Papasan bowl chair while Japanese restaurant music played and incense burned. I can't say the puppy wasn't adorable, but things took a drastic turn for the gross when she insisted on mouth-to-snout kissing with Mr. Freud. A girl has her limits.

"Are you sure?" The Director of the Center asked after learning of our choice. "She's the newest therapist I have and has hardly any experience with the level of trauma Mackenzie's been through. Less than a year under her belt."

But Aunt Amy had a good feeling about her. "She seems genuinely nice and very thoughtful, don't you think?" she asked me as we drove home that day.

I only nodded. The idea of being forced to talk about my mom and the destruction of my family made me nauseous. How was I going to convince a professional, week after week, to believe all of my lies?

"...and we won't hold it against her that she's just so darn pretty, will we," Aunt Amy said too quickly for her to stop herself. I felt her heart tank as soon as my mom's words left her.  Mom insisted personality would make or break how pretty a woman could be. She also used to say people like us have to survive on sheer personality, grit and Mary Kay, which was strange because I always thought Mom was stunningly beautiful.  Silky, rich chestnut hair and petite features complimented her perfectly proportioned frame. Whereas my pudgy nose and unruly curls the color of dirt perfectly offset my thicker thighs and ample backside. The switched at birth theory was debunked by Aunt Amy, who happened to be in the room the day I arrived on Earth.  

Mom would have agreed that Counselor Cassie was really pretty, too.
She never wears makeup with the exception of a light pink lip gloss. Her hair is always thrown into an unkempt bun and gaudy glasses cover most of her face, but sun-streaked blonds fall loose and complement her flawless skin.  Despite the continual sabotaging of her enviable looks, her likability is on the same wavelength as Dolly Parton. No one dislikes Dolly. And I've never felt Counselor Cassie was fake-caring or pretending to listen.  So far, Aunt Amy's instincts seem to be right on.

"And volleyball is going well?"

This past year right before disaster struck, I tried out at the last minute for JV and was placed in a starting position on Varsity.  Made aware by a select few that never really happens to freshman with no playing experience, I would have quit the team if the alternative at home wasn't worse. Nowadays, I play as much as I can.  "Yep. Volleyball is great. We have a home game tonight." My uplifting tone is rather convincing, if I do say so myself.

"That's good you're sticking with it. And you're still helping at the café, right?" she asks.

"Every Saturday morning. Lately, on Friday nights, too. We try to get most of the bulk baking done. Aunt Amy's really cool about it. We play all kinds of retro music. The other night, she was playing Purple Rain and had us cra-cking up." I giggle slightly at the memory of her using the ladle as a microphone. "Yeah, good ol' Prince."

"That is going back. Love the old school stuff," she says. "What else is on that playlist of yours?"

"Lots of 80's one-hit-wonders. Tainted Love. Oh Mickey. And of course, there's Michael Jackson. Aunt Amy showed my brother a video of the moonwalk and now he's always wanting me to watch him. Mac, watch me now. Am I doing it? How bout now? It's constant."

"Well, it sounds to me like you guys have a lot of fun while you work," she says. "Here's an interesting fact. Did you know Michael Jackson and Prince were both born in the same year?"

"Really? Impressive you know that."

"It's true. 1958.  But don't be impressed.  I only know that because my high school music teacher was born that same year and happened to mentioned it every chance he got. I don't know how you're handing your brother's obsession, but hopefully it'll pass. That man figured out how to bring this little factoid up so much that I'm even mentioning it during our session today." She sheepishly grins.

"That's funny. Aunt Amy's going to appreciate the trivia, I think."

"It's a shame we don't have the musical talents like them around anymore," she says, shaking her head and turning over a page on her pad.

"Yeah. Sad.  They both died pretty young, right?" I say. And just like that, I reopen the proverbial can of worms I've worked so hard to seal shut.