Page 7 of Fixing Emilee

Satisfied, he leans back, picking up the notepad and pen again. “So, we have about thirty minutes left. I’ll let you pick the topic of discussion.”

“I don’t know where to start,” I say honestly, because there’s plenty to work through.

“Let’s start with why you live with your grandparents instead of your mother and father.”

I try to hold in the laugh that bubbles up from my chest, but it’s impossible to. “Father, yeah, right. I’ve never had one of those.” I roll my eyes at the thought of calling the man who had a hand in making me anything but a sperm donor. “I’ve never met the man who didn’t know how to put a condom on before sleeping with my mom. From the stories I’ve been told, he knows I’m alive and was around long enough to knock my mom up for a third time, but he’s been a ghost for sixteen years now. I know he obviously doesn’t know what causes children because he has eight of them by four different women.”

“By the way you talk about him, you have some strong emotions when it comes to him. How would you classify your feelings toward him?” Mr. Gold asks, setting his notebook on his leg and clasping his hands together on top of it.

“Feelings? Like love, hate, things like that?” He nods his head. That was the easiest question I’ve been asked in days. “I don’t hate him, that’s for sure because hating someone means you had to have cared for them at one point. I’ve never cared for him, just like his actions have shown that he has never cared for me. I don’t feel like I’m missing anything because he was never around to miss. I’m sure there is some technical term for just not caring, but I don’t have the slightest clue what that would be.”

“Apathy is what you are describing. You say that you don’t care for him but does his lack of caring for you upset you?” he asks while making notes.

Did it hurt me? Yeah, I guess it does a little. “Yeah, truthfully, it does a little. I wonder why I’m not good enough for him to love. Every little girl’s dream is to have a caring dad in their life. Someone who will love them unconditionally and protect them from harm, and I’m no different. While I have wanted that my whole life, I don’t find myself awake late into the night wondering about him. Not like I do with my mom.” The last part of that sentence brings tears to my eyes and makes a lump form in my throat.

“The abandonment from your mother causes you pain. Let’s switch to her. Why do you no longer live with her?”

There is a reason I started with my sperm donor and not my mom. One of my biggest secrets is the truth about what really happened between us that made her leave me. It’s the only secret I have kept over the past weeks. I have only told one soul the truth, Christian. Even though Mr. Gold said this is a safe place and nothing I say will go beyond the door, I will never feel comfortable enough telling him that. Mr. Gold’s eyes bore into mine as I squirm in the chair. I have to leave the hospital, so I stick to the lie that has become so easy to tell.

Wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, I say, “I mostly lived with her until I was twelve. It was never perfect. We struggled with money because she struggled with drugs and her addiction to guys.” All that information was safe, but that was the only truth he was getting. “When I was twelve, she came home from working a double shift and told me to pack my stuff. When I asked her where we were going, she said I was going to Grandma and Grandpa. Twelve-year-old me thought I would spend the night, hang out with my brothers, and come back, but that wasn’t true. When we got there, she knocked on the door, told them she couldn’t handle me anymore, and left me. I screamed, cried, and tried to run after her, begging her to tell me what I did wrong, but she just ignored me.” The lie slips off my tongue easily as my heart rate picks up and sweat rolls down my back. I’m confident he will see through my lie, but he never says anything.

Even though he never says anything, he never breaks eye contact with me. Finally, he looks down and writes something down. I can breathe a little easier without him staring at me. My anxiety is starting to climb higher and higher. I need this session to end and end now. “How does…” he starts but is interrupted by the timer on his desk.

I sigh with relief because that means we are done, and hopefully, I’ve made enough progress to go home. “You made great progress today, Emilee. I’m proud of you. Before I let you go, I have some homework for you.” Pulling out a small gift bag, he hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I ask, confused. Reaching in, I pull out a black journal and a pack of pens.

“This is for you to use. Instead of writing your pain on your arms, I want you to use that pen and write it in the book. Write anything you want, just like this safe place. Your words will never be shared with anyone. I won’t read it unless you want me to. We will start meeting every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Before our next session, I want you to journal for thirty minutes about how the abandonment by your mother is not your fault and how you can use the pain to further your life.”

A knock on the door scares me, and I jump. “Thank you,” I say, standing up and dreading returning to the hospital. Opening the door, I see my papa standing there with a smile.

He pulls me into a hug like he does every time he sees me now. He asks the same question he has had the past two days. “How was your session, sweetheart?”

“Good, I think.” Turning to Mr. Gold, “Did I take a big enough step for you to recommend I be set free?” I hold my breath begging him to say the one word I’m dying to hear.

Smiling, he picks up his phone. “Yes, Emilee, you did. I’m clearing you to go home. I will see you on Monday. Enjoy your weekend.”

I can’t contain the squeal that leaves my mouth and start jumping around like a crazy person. I’m free. Finally, I can... I stop freezing in place. Oh no, I’m free to go, but I’m going home. How can I handle walking back in there knowing what took place? Will I seehimeverywhere?

Before I have long enough to go into a spiral, I feel hands on my face. “Emilee, are you okay? What’s wrong?” My papa’s voice pulls me back.

“Whatever is going through your mind, Emilee, journal about it. Also, know that if we weren’t one hundred percent certain that you can handle everything, you would not be going home,” Mr. Gold says from across the room. Looking up, he’s covering the phone and giving me a look that says I can do this.

“I’m fine, I promise.” Looking at my papa, I see his eyes are full of worry. So, I tell him what upset me. “I just freaked out about walking into the house again after everything that happened there.” Holding up my new journal. “But I have a new method of dealing with everything.”

“It will all be okay, sweetheart. I promise. Come on, let’s get your stuff and get you home where you belong,” he reassures me, leading me to his truck and back to the hospital for the last time.

As we head back to the hospital, I can’t keep the smile off my face. I did it. I’m finally going to leave this place. Even though I lied in therapy, I still feel good after talking about my parents and how I feel toward them. When we get back to my room, I start packing my bags, but I’m disappointed when we can’t leave immediately. Papa, Mr. Gold, and the doctor have to have a meeting to make sure that the decision to do outpatient treatment is the correct option for me. I’m not allowed in the meeting even though it’s about me. I sit in my room, staring out the window, hoping and praying that this will be the last time I sit in this chair.

“Emilee, we need to talk to you about the new rules you will have when we get home,” Papa’s voice comes from behind me once again. I will never know how I manage to get so lost in my thoughts that I tune everything around me out, but I do.

“Yes, sir,” I say. Standing behind him is Mr. Gold. I don’t care who hears what my rules are as long as I get to go home.

“First off, as you know, we went through your stuff and found your cutting kit in your school bag. We also found the one under your mattress. You need to tell me if there are any more stashed around the house or school?” He sits on my bed, and I move the chair around to face him.

“Yes, sir. There is one under the sink in my bathroom. It’s in the box that I keep my pads in. That’s all of them, though.” I tell him the truth because I’m done needing them.

“I’ll call your brothers and have them dispose of that one just like we did with the others. The door to your bedroom has been removed, and we have put two sheer curtains in its place. You are only allowed to pull one while you are in there. That way, anyone walking by can see what is going on. When you need to change clothes, you have to tell someone, and then you may pull both of them, giving you privacy.” He pauses, waiting to see if I complain, but all I do is nod my head.

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