Page 76 of Keeping Guard
“It appears we have a lot to talk about,” she finally said as she set the pages down on her desk. “The good news, you don’t have to write about it again, but we’re not done, you and me.”
“Bummer,” he muttered.
She laughed. “I know you don’t mean that, so I won’t take it personally. What’s that you’re playing with?”
“Just an old pair of dice.” He opened his hand to show her.
“What do they mean to you?”
He shoved them back into his pocket. “Who says they mean anything?”
“Hmm,” she murmured, letting him know she knew better. She tapped the pages with her index finger. “What do you want to talk about first? Your guilt, which is misplaced, by the way, but we’ll address that at some point. Or how important playing your guitar is to you, yet you can’t bring yourself to touch it now? The ants that bite you? Or your mother? Or we could talk about the dice that don’t mean anything.”
“I’m not talking about my mother.” Had he put something in there about her? Too hyped up on his damn feelings and coffee, he didn’t remember. He was stupid for not reading what he’d written before giving it to her. And he wasn’t talking about the damn dice because that would lead to talking about his father.
“I’m guessing you want to, even if it’s subconsciously, but we’ll move talking about your mother down the list. That leaves your misplaced guilt, ants, a pair of dice, and your guitar. You choose.”
He didn’t want to talk about any of those choices. His guiltwas notmisplaced, and if she decided his assignment was to open the case and take out his guitar, then she might as well tell his commander that he was a lost cause. As for the biting ants, he didn’t see how she could do anything about them.
“Which one of those, Noah?”
There was nothing she could say to take away his guilt or control the ants, so he said, “My guitar.” And then he cursed himself. He couldn’t talk about that, either, couldn’t verbalize the storm raging inside him at losing the one thing that made the ants go away.
“Yes!” She gave him a fist pump. “I was hoping that would be your choice.”
“Are you sure you’re a licensed doc? Like, is fist pumping a thing you learned in head doc school?”
That made her laugh. “You’re funny. I really like you. To answer your question, absolutely it’s a thing when I think you’re making progress. And you are making progress, even if you don’t feel like you are.”
Didn’t feel like it at all.
“How old were you when you learned to play?”
“Eleven.”
“And playing a guitar makes...” She picked up his assignment and scanned the pages. “What you call biting ants, it makes them go away.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Asim would be happy to learn that you don’t play anymore because you associate the guitar with him?” After a moment, she said, “Not going to answer?”
“What I think is that Asim is dead and he’ll never learn to play the damn thing.”
“So your self-imposed punishment is to never touch it again? What does that accomplish? It’s not going to bring Asim back.”
Damn ants. He scratched his arm, then put his hand on his knee to stop his bouncing leg. He needed out of this room.
“Think about that. Remember in our first session we talked about how important it is that you not avoid? Ask yourself what you’re achieving by avoiding something that not only you love but seems to calm you. You have to forgive yourself. No one else can do it for you.”
She glanced at her watch. “Our time is up for today. Your assignment this week is to play one song on your guitar. Also, bring it with you to your next appointment. I need to know if you can really play it or if you’re blowing smoke.”
“I hate you,” he said.
She grinned. “No, you don’t. Think about my questions. We’ll talk about your answers next Monday. And you better show up with your guitar.”
If he showed up at all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
