Dylan Krieger | 11
another row of rocky scabs instead. Then, retreating down the hall in a flurry of weakening smiles: Yes, I’ll go get you the name of a child psychologist at Madison Center. That’s closest to you, I think. I’ll be right back!
My introductory out-patient therapy session with Mr. Jeremiah Greene was like most, I assume: part questionnaire, part crying jag. But all the while I could picture my mother itching out in the building’s drab, concrete foyer, swarmed by thick stacks of devotionals and Bible-study handouts, trying to pull prophecies out of her mouth.
His office was all dark red and plush like a womb, with pilling velvety curtains and a child-sized chaise longue gathering eddies of dust at its dimples. Once we’d both sat down, he took my small soft hand into his large rough one: I’m going to try to help you, Ellie, if you’ll let me.
A songbird was answering a car alarm outside, a dark spray of my overgrown bangs dropped between our eyes, and I told him that I didn’t like the sounds of summer.
What seasons do you like? His leathery frame leaned back into wine-colored cloth.
Spring.
Oh? Why spring?
I remembered the aerial siege footage circling, the wispy yellow hazes of the children’s heads like halos from above, the second white-gold wedding band my mother wears to honor her marriage to Christ.
You know . . . rebirth and all that.
Is that part of why you hurt yourself, you think? To watch your body repair?
I looked down at my forearm and muffled a guffaw. It doesn’t do that great a job.
The lines in Mr. Greene’s face stayed straight. Yes, I understand you’ve done some permanent scarring. But nothing too disfiguring, right? Let me see. He hunched forward again as I lifted up my skirt a little. Yes, you’ll be fine. My calf muscles twitched against his fingertips. But Ellie—
An inch away from my largest, yellow-green clot, his thumb dug in and dragged,