One (Sarah Crossan)

Therapy

‘Tell me what’s going on,’

Dr Murphy says,

and as

so often happens

I sit in silence

for ten whole minutes,

worrying at a button in the brown leather sofa.

I’ve known Dr Murphy

all my life, sixteen and a half years,

which is a long time to know anyone

and to have to think of new things to say.

But the doctors insist we come for regular therapy

to support our mental health,

as though that’s the bit of us that’s broken.

Tippi is wearing headphones and listening to loud

music

so she can’t hear what I’m saying,

so I can

spew all my suppressed feelings into

Dr Murphy’s notebook

without hurting any of Tippi’s.

And I used to rant a lot,

when I was seven or eight,

and Tippi had stolen my doll

or pulled my hair

or eaten my half of a cookie.

But now there’s not much to say

Tippi doesn’t already know,

and the talking seems

a waste of money we don’t have

and of fifty perfectly good minutes.

I yawn.

‘So?’

Dr Murphy says,

her forehead furrowed

as though my problems are her own.

Empathy, of course,

is all part of the service.

I shrug.

‘We’re starting school soon,’ I say.

‘Yes, I heard.

And how do you feel about that?’ she asks.

‘Not sure.’

I look up at the light shade,

at an unspoiled web and a spider gorging

on a fly bigger than itself.

I fold my hands in our lap.

‘Well …’ I say,

‘I suppose I’m afraid the other students will pity me.’

Dr Murphy nods.

She doesn’t tell me

they won’t

or

that it’s going to be fantastic

because lies are not her style.

Instead she says, ‘I’ll be really interested

to hear how it goes, Grace,’

and looking at the wall clock

chirps,

‘See you next time!’