December 5

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Mom takes the day off work and I don't go to school. Instead of parting ways again and heading off to our own destinations, we instead get in one car and head on the same path after over a year. Mom drives and Dad sits in the passenger seat, having finally shaved and put on one of his good suits. I sit in the back, knotting my hands together and hoping this will end well.

The therapist Mom got an appointment with seems nice enough, his eyes kind and smile genuine. His posture is professional as he sits before us in his cushioned arm-chair. He asks us to sit, nodding courteously at each of us. I look at Mom and Dad who sit side by side and I follow them, taking the last seat of the couch.

As the man introduces himself and talks about some ethical obligations that I don't care much for, I take in his small but cozy room. It isn't how I imagined a shrink's office to be. I'd expected a vacant-looking, sparkly-clean office in achromatic shades. What I see, though, is woody furniture and shelves lined with books. On one of the racks, I see several toys and children's books. It's clear family therapy is the man's specialty.

"Taylor, would you like to tell me your goal for coming to therapy?"

I blink when the man's voice reaches me. Turning to look at him, I'm vaguely aware of my parents watching me. I clear my throat and shift in my seat.

"Well, I ..." I glance at Mom and Dad. "I want to reach a point where we can communicate easily."

"Would you like to explain what you mean by that?" the man asks, writing something on his notepad. "What does easy communication look like to you?"

I swallow. "Well, I just ... every time I try to talk to them, I feel like something holds me back. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the feeling that they won't hear me or they won't understand. Or maybe it's just me and my desire that they would reach out first."

The man who introduced himself as Dr. Brink asks me a few more questions before summarizing the entire discussion back to me.

"Okay, what I understand then, and correct me if I'm wrong --" He smiles at me. "Is that you want to be able to convey your concerns to your parents without experiencing any negative feelings, and you want them to return those sentiments. We will discuss the reasons for these feelings and behaviors in a while, but this is what you hope you achieve from our weekly sessions here. Is that correct?"

"Yeah." I nod, clearing my throat.

He smiles. "Anything you would like to add before I move on to your parents?"

I shake my head. The man smiles once more and turns to my Dad. Even though I hadn't expected it, I feel my insides slowly unraveling. My stomach had been twisted into a knot at the prospect of seeing a family counselor. Being here with my parents, though, sitting in front of this man whose brown eyes are kind and smile understanding, I feel more at ease than I had anticipated.

What makes me feel better is that even my dad seems to respond to his style. When he asks a question, dad answers, giving as much detail as the man pulls out of him. It's like he's got the knack of even getting people like my dad to open up.

By the end of the one-hour-forty-minute session, we're all more relaxed and hopeful that this idea will probably yield positive outcomes.

As for me, I learn that my dad lost his job three months ago and has been working odd jobs so we won't find out. As Dr. Brink helps us discover, dad didn't want us to feel disappointed when we heard about him being laid off. Even his staying out late was caused by him driving a rented cab some nights and working at a carwash the others. Turns out he wasn't asked by his father to return to his home country but decided to do that before we're completely bankrupt and homeless.

He talks, refusing to look at either Mom and I as words come rolling off his tongue as if desperate to get out. I stare at the wooden paneling of the floor, guilt clawing at my insides with every passing minute. I can't help but wonder how long dad has kept everything inside, afraid of sharing it because he didn't want to worry Mom and I. All this time I was hating him for staying out too long and not caring about me. And there he was, doing everything so we wouldn't be homeless and I could go to college.

Mom talks too, admitting that she's been drinking more than usual because of Dad giving her the cold shoulder.

"I can't really blame him entirely, though," she adds quickly, not looking at Dad. "I haven't been there for him. But I'm getting personal therapy and I hope it will help. I want everything to be okay again."

Dr. Brink nods, turning to me and asking me if I would like to say anything.

"I'm sorry," is all I say.

When the man asks me if I'd like to elaborate, I shake my head.

There is too much that I'm sorry for. Too much I feel like I could have handled better but didn't.

By the time we have to leave the man's office, I can barely meet my parents' eye. He either expected this or notices it, speaking up.

"I would just like to say that it's natural to feel overwhelmed after the first session," Dr Brink explains. "A lot of things come out and some feelings are expressed that the other may not have expected. I hope we'll be able to focus on more of these in our next session. In the meantime, is there anything you feel might help ease you all?"

Mom suggests spending some time together and Dad says he'll try taking some time out. I tell them that I have my SAT on Saturday but will be free Sunday onward. We finally settle on spending Sunday evening together and discussing how it was in the next session.

"That wasn't too bad," Mom says when we're back in the car. "Don't you think so, Taylor?"

I glance at Dad who is sitting as stiff as a board.

"Yeah, I liked it," I answer truthfully. "I think it'll really help."

Mom nods, keeping her gaze on the road ahead as she winds through the traffic.

"We should've talked about Carter," I say, resting my head against the cool window.

"Dr. Brink said we will eventually," Mom says.

I don't answer, waiting for a reaction from my Dad. I hate that he's so quiet, almost invisible. Robotic.

"What about you, Dad?" I force myself to ask, something clogging my throat.

Dad's brow furrows when he glances over his shoulder. I have a vague idea he's surprised that I'm talking to him after the strain that has been present between us for the past year. Nonetheless, I wasn't kidding yesterday when I told him I wanted to fix things. I hate how everything has become, so sad and gloomy and with barely any positivity. We don't even feel like family. 

But we are, and the sooner we accept that and start working toward it, the better.

"What?" Dad asks.

Mom turns to look at him, her lips pressed in a thin line. "Did you find today helpful?"

Instead of answering, though, dad hums and turns to look out of the window again. I'm afraid this is how the rest of the ride will pass, and my heart sinks at the thought. Mom, however, doesn't seem to be too keen on the idea.

Tires screech when she turns the car sideways and parks the car along the sidewalk. I watch her as Dad turns to give her a questioning look.

"Park," she begins, her voice low but firm. "Can you at least try to seem interested? Taylor's really trying here and so am I. The least we can do is be good parents to Taylor even if we couldn't be to Carter."

Dad stares at her and so do I, as all the air inside the car suddenly seems to vanish, leaving us gasping for breath in a vacuum. She hasn't spoken about Carter at all and, with me as an exception, both Mom and Dad have been perfectly happy pretending they never had a son who killed himself. I don't know whether to admire Mom for her courage or applaud her for taking her first step toward healing. Maybe Dr. Brink's repeated reminder that 'acceptance is key' has really touched Mom.

Dad exhales a low breath through his nose, his eyes fixed on Mom. "Yes," he says at last. "It was helpful."

Suddenly, Mom smiles and turns the key in the ignition again. "See? Was that so hard?" She pulls the car onto the road again.

I smile the rest of the way home.

As soon as we get home, dad heads off to his room. Mom stalls beside me, leading me into the kitchen and turning to face me.

"You need to eat, Taylor," she says. "And take your insulin shot. I haven't seen you take them in days."

"I took it two days ago," I confess.

"That's not right." Mom's eyes are concerned. "You need to take care of your health. You heard what the doctor said. We don't want anything getting out of hand."

I nod, not having the energy or the patience to argue.

Mom starts heading out of the kitchen. "And Taylor? Thank you."

She leaves, smiling sadly. I watch her walk to her room and feel so much better than I have in a long time.

Maybe this will be the best decision we took as a family.

Making myself a sandwich and pouring a glass of milk from the carton, I carry the plate of food and glass up to my room. My knees wobble when I walk and I assume it's not only from the lack of nutrition and neglect of my injections but also the fever I'd developed from walking in the rain yesterday. Maybe taking another day off from school will allow me to rest and feel better. I can't take my SAT while running a fever.

Unless I want to pass out in the examination hall.

Sitting in bed and nibbling on my ham sandwich, I reach for my phone which I had left on the charger overnight and when I went out today. I remove the charging cord and switch it on, waiting for the screen to light up. When it does at last, I'm greeted by over dozens of voice and text messages.

Being, well, me, I read the texts first and note that most of them are from Marla or Riley or Racheal. Their concern regarding my absence from school and threats to visit me at home if I don't respond are cute. 

At least there are people who will miss me if I die.

Putting the dark thought out of my head, I scroll through the entire list and see that aside from my friends, there isn't any other message.

My heart aches.

I don't know why I was expecting Shane to text me, to check up on me, or simply ask me why I didn't come to school. A part of me had even been expecting an apology for how rude he was.

Clearly, though, Shane couldn't care less about me.

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A/N: I liked writing this chapter because things are getting better. Did you expect Shane to call or text, though? I know we all did. I actually planned for him to text too but, you know, Shane is unpredictable. Maybe he'll make an appearance next chapter. Maybe the story will end without Shane and Taylor getting together. I don't know. Hold on and we'll all see <3