Page 118 of Play Nice

“Good for them,” I say as he opens the door to the garage for me.

The drive over is uncomfortable. There’s no glam rock sing-along. No conversation. At some point, he says, “Tom and Amy are there for support. They won’t be joining this initial session. It’ll be me. Your sisters. Us.”

“Okay. Whatever you say. You’re in charge.” I yawn and check my phone. I have a message from Roy saying he arrived at the house. I respond, telling him I’ll be there in a few hours. “I have to go back to the city tonight. After therapy. I have an early job tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll drive you in early.”

“I’ll catch the train tonight. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

His knuckles go white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel.

We pull into a labyrinth of an office plaza. Every building looks the same. Brown. Two stories. I know exactly what it’s going to smell like before we even step foot inside.

“Have you been here before?” I ask Dad.

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are tense. He’s nervous.

He leads me inside and up the stairs, confident in his direction, which tells me that he has in fact been here before. If he’s already met with this doctor, there’s a chance that he’s already convinced them I’m crazy.

This could be bad.

Leda, Tommy, Daphne, and Amy sit in the waiting room. Everything is taupe and there are too many ferns.

“Did you fill out the paperwork I sent you?” Dad asks me.

“No,” I say. “What paperwork?”

The door to the waiting room opens, and a woman pokes her head out. She might be in her fifties; she has streaks of gray in her dark hair. She wears a single-breasted pinstripe blazer—I think Stella McCartney—over a long black satin skirt and mahogany leather boots. Swap out her chunky sterling earrings for a pair of diamond studs, add some layered chain necklaces for texture, and it’d be a perfect look. I trust her more because of her fashion sense. If she can put herself together, maybe she can put us back together.

“The Barnes family,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m ready for you. Come on back.”

“Clio didn’t fill out her paperwork,” Dad says.

“That’s quite all right. She can get to it later.”

Leda huffs behind me—incensed by my free pass—as we file through the door to another taupe room. This one has couches instead of chairs, dried flowers instead of ferns. There are Rothko-esque prints on the walls, all cool tones. Dad and I sit on one couch, Leda and Daphne on another, and the woman sits on the chaise in the corner, directly facing us. She kicks up her feet, grabs a pen and legal pad from an end table. She seems unpretentious for a therapist.

“Welcome. I’m Maya. I’m a licensed psychotherapist and have my master’s in family therapy from the University of Maryland. I’ve been working as a family therapist for twenty years and have owned this practice for about twelve. During this initial session, I would like to get to know you all and hear about why you’re here, from each of your perspectives. Everything that is shared in this room is confidential. My approach is to be a facilitator of discussion, to listen, and to ask questions. My goal is to make this a comfortable environment to have uncomfortable conversations.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Do I have your consent to proceed with the session? I would appreciate a verbal yes. Let’s start with James.”

“Yes,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. He’s trying to sound more masculine to offset how he feels.

“Great,” Maya says. She turns to me.

“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Yes.”

Both Daphne and Leda give their verbal confirmations.

“Thank you. And it’s Clio, Daphne, Leda?” she asks, pointing to each of us as she says our names.

We all nod.

“Perfect,” she says, leaning back. “Usually this would be the point where I say I’ve heard it all before, but I know your situation is unique.”

I laugh.