12.

That evening, Freya had to go to her first appointment with the psychiatrist. She'd spent the rest of the day reading, she was glad to get out of the house, even if it meant going to something she would hate.

Dr. Garbuglio’s practice was at the edge of town in a discordant cube of black glass on Emerson Street. They’d planned to build a whole shopping complex across the road, but it never happened. Behind the building was an aborted subdivision, four empty houses in various stages of construction and forty vacant lots. Years of red-faced council meetings and screaming headlines in the Sillas River Sentinel had opposed the development. When they finally triumphed, they were rewarded with this corpse of a neighborhood. Acres of cleared forest where the proposed supermarket was scuttled, and now trees were beginning to encroach on the farthest lots. Soon the forest would reclaim what it had lost. This building was all they managed to complete, it jutted from the wasteland like a nail.

Lynn dropped her Freya in the parking lot and told her to take a cab home, she'd be out late. Freya wondered if it was Lynn Harris or someone else. That glance at the bedroom hadn't even been a whole second long, but she would never forget it.

The office had a vaguely singed smell, beneath an orange musk of aromatherapy oil. Just like home, it was one of those rooms where every single thing had been carefully selected and exactly arranged. No dust or clutter was allowed to accumulate. The walls were a stark gallery white, and the paintings and pottery were done in purple hues. It was a cold place, and it put Freya on edge.

The receptionist called Freya into the doctor's office. Inside the office at least, the lights were more muted. To her right a large painting took up the entire wall, fourteen feet wide and eight feet tall. A layer of smooth plaster was broken into a thousand rivers of glossy multicolored paint. It looked like a bed of mud that had dried out, then the cracks flooded with iridescent oil. Freya spent a while staring, wondering if they’d needed a crane to get it in here. The doctor was not in the office.

There were two armchairs that directly faced each other. Beside them was a small half-circle table with tissues, bottles of water, and a vase of irises. There was no chaise longue like on TV.

Behind the armchairs was a floor-to-ceiling window that loomed over the empty lots and looked out at the hazy mountains behind them. The left wall was a tall row of bookshelves, at Freya’s immediate left was a door with a red EXIT sign that led to the hallway. She guessed it was so people could leave without going through the reception and seeing the other patients. She browsed through the bookshelves, finding one shelf that was all copies of the same book.

The Fragile Phoenix by Dr. Vincente Garbuglio

<<image of book spine>>

The book was bound in midnight blue faux leather, the letters on the spine were debossed in silver. Freya reached for one but stopped herself. She didn't want the doctor to barge in and find her messing with his bookshelves. She glanced around the room and noticed the camera over the door she'd come in, then tilted her head at it.

Was she being observed, right now? Was this part of the whole thing? The room felt like a trap, and if she stayed here she was sure to spring it. Freya wondered if she could just leave and ask Lassa to find some other psychiatrist. But Lassa had talked to several psychiatrists and specifically picked Dr. Garbuglio. She stared up at the sign again. It was a lie, there was no exit. Freya sat down in the armchair facing the camera and stared directly at it.

After several minutes, Dr. Garbuglio entered the office through the hallway door. She'd expected him to be much older. He wore a slate gray blazer with a black dress shirt and a black tie. His hair was black and fine with a high widow’s peak. He might not even be forty yet.

No wonder Lassa picked him.

He stood over her and extended a hand, and she had to get up to shake it. She noticed his hand was damp and his fly was slightly undone, he’d just come from the bathroom. Ugh. His handshake was too hard, but just below the point where she would say something about it.

"You must be Freya. I'm Doctor Garbuglio. Do you mind if I sit in that chair?"

The two chairs were identical, round, black leather armchairs. She looked at the two, and for an instant she wanted to tell him no, but that was childish. She moved to the other chair, feeling uncomfortable. It was like every part of this was designed to put her on edge.

Maybe it was.

She waited for him to talk, and he was silent for a long moment. She made up her mind that she wasn't coming back here.

"It's so I can see the clock behind you," Dr. Garbuglio explained, pointing up at the clock, and she resisted the urge to turn her head and look at it. "I don't want to keep you late. Though if you ever need to, we can talk for as long as you want.”

Freya nodded. She'd already talked as long as she wanted to.

"So this first session, I'm just going to be asking you some easy questions. I just want to find out what's going on."

"Ok."

“Have you ever spoken with a psychiatrist before?”

“No I haven’t,” she said. He had to already know this.

"The things we say here are private. I'm not going to tell your mother what you say. Nothing will ever leave this room, unless I feel like you're in danger or someone else is. Ok with you?”

Her eyes narrowed, as she glanced at him. She wondered if he was lying.

"But you're recording everything right?" She nodded her head back towards the camera.

"Yes. For a lot of reasons. The other cameras are there, and there, and there's a microphone on the side table." Dr. Garbuglio indicated the two cameras she hadn't noticed, and the microphone on the table, which was just a black wedge next to the vase of irises.

"Is it normal to record everything?"

"Some psychiatrists do, some don't. I'm a believer in recording sessions. I review everything in case I miss something important. Also I deal with a lot of people going through some very difficult times, and having a record is just a good precaution for both of us. I won't show your recordings to anyone else, unless as I said, I feel like you're in danger or someone else is."

Freya must have looked unconvinced.

"Here's an important thing about those recordings and your psychiatric records: I can't give them to anyone unless I have a court order to do so. Not your mother, not even the police."

"It's nothing that interesting," Freya said, and Dr. Garbuglio shifted his head, not quite a nod.

"Do you have any other questions before we begin?"

She shook her head.

"How old are you Freya?"

"I'm 16."

"You go to Grayson High. Do you like it there?"

"It's ok."

"What's your favorite class there?"

"I don't... I don't really have one. Last year I liked drama."

"But not this year?"

"This year has been tough."

"Is it alright if I ask you some questions about your father?"

"Yes."

"I understand he died six months ago. Is it ok if we talk about it?"

"Don't you already know?"

"I only know that he died, not the specifics. It’s important that I hear it from you. We're not going to dig deep, this is only the first meeting. Again you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

Freya glanced over at the door to the hallway and exhaled.

NO EXIT.

"He was killed,” she said, surprised by how difficult it was to get the words out.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's..." Freya trailed off. As much as she had thought about this, she hadn't said anything about it in months. She'd just been carrying it all, like a lead weight in her guts.

“You can take as much time as you want. Whenever you’re ready, could you tell me what happened?"

"He got stabbed. He wasn't on duty, this guy from Toronto was beating someone up at the pool hall. Randall tried to break them up. The attacker pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the neck."

Dr. Garbuglio didn't say anything, he just watched Freya and waited.

"They say he died really quickly. His artery got cut. So he didn't suffer long." She felt like she had to say that part.

"What happened to the murderer?"

"He went out in the parking lot right afterward and shot himself in his car. The man who was getting beaten up lost an eye, but he lived.”

"That's terrible Freya. I’m very sorry to hear that.” Dr. Garbuglio shifted his posture in the seat. He seemed unprepared for this, and she immediately felt like he was incompetent.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"I was asleep, Lassa woke me up and told me. I didn't... I didn't really believe. I didn't believe for a long time, and even at the funeral, I kept expecting it to not be real. Every morning I would wake up and think it had been a dream. It was crushing."

Again, the half nod.

"Do you still have that feeling?"

"No. I know he's gone. I just want to-“ She swallowed what she was about to say. “-to feel better,” she concluded, realizing she’d nearly pitched into the abyss.

Suddenly his eyes were very alert. She'd almost screwed up. If she told Garbuglio anything that even hinted at suicide he was going to put her in Spring Harbor. A part of her thought maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing, but it was only a small part. She didn't trust this guy, with his wet handshake and his cameras. Maybe Lassa just wanted to get rid of her and this was her plan.

"Are you having a difficult time in school?"

"Not with grades, no. Just some girls are picking on me."

"You were in a fight, right?"

"It wasn't a fight. She just hit me, I didn't hit her back."

“Why? Why didn't you hit her back?"

"I didn't want to."

"You told your principal afterward that you didn't want to get up. You were lying on the ground in the rain."

"I think I was just hurt. Maybe half-unconscious, she hit me pretty hard."

"Why did you tell the principal you didn't want to get up?" Dr. Garbuglio asked. He'd lasered in on that tiny evasion, he wouldn't let it go. She leaned away from him in the armchair.

This was already so different from the last therapist. When she couldn’t sleep after Randall died, Lassa brought her to a curly haired woman whose office was in a converted farmhouse north of town. Freya had no difficulty handling her after years of being interrogated by Lassa. She’d gone in knowing the exact medication she wanted and just led the therapist to her predetermined conclusion. There had been a psychiatrist there too, but he was just a rubber stamp on the prescription. Garbuglio reminded her of her mother.

"I was embarrassed that I got beat up,” she lied, staring intently at Dr. Garbuglio, daring him to call her on it.

"So you lied to him?"

"Yes."

"Do you do that a lot?"

"No. Not really."

"Not really?" he needled.

She raised her head abruptly and stared at him, catching him by surprise. "I don't like it when people do that."

"Do what?"

"Repeat the last thing you said as a question. It really bothers me. It's a gimmick."

For a second, Dr. Garbuglio looked a little embarrassed, like he'd been caught out. A tiny victory. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"Can you tell me about your friends?”

"I don't have a lot. My best friend moved to Wisconsin about three months ago."

"What's her name?"

“Betty."

"Do you still keep in touch with her?"

"I try but her mother took her phone away because of her grades. She still keeps in touch, but it's just... not like it was."

"Do you wish things could be like they were a lot?"

"That's a stupid question," Freya said.

"Why's it stupid?"

"Because it's obvious.” Freya was angry, she didn't like Dr. Garbuglio. She took a deep breath through her nose, reminding herself that this man could put her in a mental ward.

"Freya, I'm just trying to help here. You don't have to be combative."

Immediately she wanted to deny that she was being combative. She wanted to yell at Garbuglio and tell him to fuck off. She could see something in the way he was looking at her, that was exactly what he wanted. He was trying to provoke her. Garbuglio was very good at being annoying. No one had gotten under her skin like this since Randall died.

Was that what it took?

She sighed and looked behind her at the clock. Only ten minutes left. She answered his remaining questions with terse replies of one or two words and it felt like an eternity. Dr. Garbuglio went on asking, but without pressing her. He seemed to realize he’d gotten as far as he could.

At the end he thanked her and shook her hand, this time he didn't clamp down too hard. He was rattling on about recovery, but she didn’t hear him. She put her hand in her pocket and felt the Starball’s warmth. She’d started doing that whenever she felt nervous or upset. Finally it was time for her to nod at him and then she left through the door to the hall and took a cab home.

She never wanted to come back.

But Lassa would make her.