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I look down at my hand, where his finger is tapping, then back up at his eyes. I can see eyelashes. I nod.
“See them?”
“Yeah.” Embarrassment moves through me, followed by a wash of prickly heat. Somewhere distant, I know I should say something to explain my weird behavior, but I can’t think of anything. My brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton.
Sean moves away. “Can you tell me how many blue things you see in this room?”
I frown. Did he say blue things?
“Just look around the room and point if you see something blue?”
“The clock,” I manage. Then it’s just too hard to shake it off. I feel too numb.
I see him reach into his pocket. That makes me flinch.
“Oh, okay. No reaching into the pockets. I think I can handle that.” He hands me something small. “Can you open this?”
I feel a pinch of panic through the cool blanket that’s over me. I hold up my left hand, shake my head.
“That’s right. Let’s see…” He opens it and holds it out to me. “Smell that?”
It smells like peppermints.
My head starts to hurt. I’m startled when I look around, at where I am. At— Who is— Oh. Sean.
“Doc,” I murmur.
“How do ya feel? I think you took a little trip. Dissociated. People do that often here. Must be the décor.”
I give a shaky laugh. Is this guy serious?
“I’m going to guess you didn’t start doing that yesterday,” he says. “Keep that peppermint oil up by your nose. Smells can help. I want to ask you a few questions about your body, how it feels right now. They’re easy ones. Then we can talk about football.”
“Cold and…foggy. Like I’m under a blanket. Or a cloud.” I rub my forehead.
“Hard to talk?”
My chest feels heavy and numb, even now, but I manage, “Yeah.”
Doc’s face is kind without pity, blunt but not exaggerated. “Look,” he blinks and leans forward, “it’s not unusual. It’s a learned response to trauma. Anyone who’s been to war, they’ve got some trauma.” He lifts a shoulder, like we’re talking about sports. “It’s something I see all the time. Something we can work on.”
Fuck, that’s kind of good to hear.
“Hard to move around and think straight when it happens?” he asks.
I nod.
He points to a tall, blue mug on the table out in front of me. “I’ve got some crayons in there,” he says. “Next time we really talk, I’m going to have you color me a picture. That should make it easier to stay. We’ll go
slower. Fast or slow as you want. I’ll know you better after a while. Then we can really work on things.”
We spend the rest of the session discussing the basics, like where I live and how I came to Gatlinburg. I have to be evasive about why I came here. I hope that doesn’t fuck things up, but I don’t feel like I have much of a choice. He asks if I know people here, and I tell him I’ve gotten to know my neighbor. It’s discreet, but not enough. I can’t downplay it that much.
Making an effort not to tap my leg or otherwise fidget, I keep my tone flat and tell him, “We’re seeing each other.”
His brows raise.
“What?” It’s sharper intended.
