Chapter Eleven: Therapy Call:

About two in the morning, I climbed out of bed. Today had beaten me down. I just felt like crying again. I reached over for my cell phone and picked it up.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Celeste?” I heard on the other line. “Are you okay? Why are you calling me so early?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. My voice was trembling.

“No, it’s okay,” the lady said on the other line. “Did you have another break down?” I nodded over the phone.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What happened?” the lady asked. I broke down and told her everything that happened today.

“Are you okay now?” she asked.

“No,” I said. I could feel myself starting to cry.

“Take a deep breath,” the lady said. “Take a deep breath.” I took in a deep breath.

“Again.”

I took another breath. We did this about three more times. The tears started to fade away into my eyes.

“Better?” she asked. I closed my eyes.

“A little bit,” I said.

“That’s a good step forward,” she said. “Did you see her yet?”

“No.”

“You know you can’t avoid her.”

“I know. What do I do?”

“Take it one step at a time. Breath when you need to. You can call me if you to.” Dr. Mackle has been there for me over ten years. She’s been helping me overcome my anxiety. It hasn’t been easy. A couple of times I almost quit on her. Dr. Mackle’s been the one to talk me off the ledge so to speak.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I said.

“How long will you be down there?” she asked.

“Three days, maybe.”

“And this is for a funeral, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, listen to me, you do not have to stay there if you feel like you are going to break down. Your mother should not have to force you to stay. Get out if you feel that it’s too much.”

I pressed my lips together. “I think it might be time for me to face this.” My therapist didn’t speak first.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” she asked at last. I opened my eyes and took a slow breath.

“Yes,” I said.

“Remember what I told you,” Dr. Mackle said.

“Baby steps, I know.”

“Call me if you need someone to talk to.”

“Yes.” I placed my hand to my forehead. “Hey, Doc.”

“Hm?” she said.

“Can you stay with me on the phone a little bit longer? I will make me feel better,” I said.

“Sure,” Dr. Mackle said. I leaned against the side of my old bed.

“Thank you,” I said.

“We can talk about anything you like,” she added. I shook my head.

“Nah,” I said. “I don’t feel like talking.”

“Okay, we can just sit here and not talk at all,” she said. “Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” I said. I just sat on the floor with the phone to my ear. Times with my therapist like this was what happened me get through the worst of trauma. But I did mean what I said when I told her I wanted to face it to fix myself.

I just didn’t expect that to be happening as soon as the sun rose. It would start with a chance encounter downtown.