Darling Clementine

Seven

“Good afternoon. You must be Clementine. I’m Dr. Scott. Please have a seat and we’ll begin.” The tall middle aged man fell back into a black leather recliner with his long legs clad in trousers crossed, and a wooden clipboard in his lap. His light eyes were kind and his quality seemed legitimate and not at all stiff like I imagined he would be.

Greg Scott, as Vivian put it, was the best at what he did. It was hard to believe though, the “best in the business” was resided in a small town that most of America didn’t even know existed. It wasn’t really like it matter a whole lot to me anyway. I didn’t want to be here.

I sank down in a similar looking black leather couch, shoved my hand between my thighs and hunched my shoulders. My eyes trailed around the room, observing how the room was probably designed to influence feelings of tranquility and leisure. The walls were painted creamy beige with paintings of vibrant flower beds and rippling rivers hanging perfectly straight on the wall. The furniture was all leather and dark wood, expensive and comfortable. There were shelves behind Dr. Scott, displaying different porcelain figurines, trinkets, and unlit candles. The small room had a wall of open blind windows that allowed sunlight to spill in freely. The comfortable air of the room smelt like vanilla, a scent I had grown to love as a child since my mom was always obsessed with anything that smelt even remotely like vanilla. The smell suffocated me.

I looked forward at Dr. Scott with my lips straight and my eyes bored. He looked back through his specks, clearly not fazed by my jaded expression. My guess is he understands his job comes with unwilling clientele. I mean, who in their right minds wanted to go to therapy? “So, Clementine, how are you doing today?”He asked, shifting a pen back and forth between his fingers.

“Fine, I guess.”

“Can you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

“Like…?”

“Let’s just start with the basics, like where you’re from, how old you are, what grade you’re in, subjects of that matter.” He explained gesturing his hand to me.

I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with this. I did not know about Dr. Scott and he was about to ask me to lay everything out in front of him to dissect and diagnose my life.  “Uh, I’m from Montana, and I am seventeen and I’m in the eleventh grade.”

“What part of Montana are you from?”

“Helena.”

“Oh, the capital of Montana; very nice. And why did you move to Rockefeller?”

I bit down on my lip. I was done answering his questions. “I prefer not to answer.”

“Clementine,” Dr. Scott started, un-crossing his legs and leaning forward in his chair. “anything that you say will not leave this room. I am here for your disposal, so please don’t be afraid to tell me anything you need to get off your chest.” He said softly, sliding his pen into the clasp of the clipboard.

I dropped my eyes to the flat blue carpet and nodded. Still, I wasn’t convinced I could trust that Dr. Scott wouldn’t tell Vivian anything I say the first chance he got. So I kept my mouth closed.

“Ok, then maybe we should start with a lighter topic.” He suggested, rubbing the dark stubble growing down his square chin. “How is your home life?”

Terrible, miserable, torture, tedious. Any of those would describe life with Vivian.  “Fine.”

He taps his chin with his index finger, a look of skeptic on his young face.  “Your grandmother tells me a complete different story. She says you two don’t seem to get along.  Is this true?”