Read Online Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu - Free Book Online

that ordinary.
    I know I said Dr. Greenberg looks like a skinny Santa Claus, but if you dressed him in more worn-out clothes instead of in the khaki slacks and plain button-down shirts he usually wears, he could also pass for one of those guys who stands at freeway off-ramps holding a sign that says HOMELESS VET ANYTHING HELPS . Plus, Groovy usually joins us in sessions. Groovy is this big golden retriever with liquid-brown eyes like a human’s, almost. The first time he came into Dr. Greenberg’s office while I was in there, he leaped up onto the couch that I sit on during appointments like some sort of dog superhero. Then he curled up next to me and did this dog sigh of total contentment.
    I thought it was weird at first, but I got used to it. When I walk into the office for today’s session, Groovy follows me in and sits down right next to me, and I spend the next ten minutes scratching behind his ears and giving Dr. Greenberg the shortest answers I can come up with, wondering how much more time until our session is up.
    â€œGroovy likes you,” says Dr. Greenberg, giving me a soft half smile.
    â€œI like Groovy,” I answer.
    Silence.
    I wonder how much my parents are paying Dr. Greenberg. If he’s so famous, probably a lot. Which sort of makes me feel guilty since in the five months I’ve been seeing him I just answer his questions as simply as I can, and we make basic conversation about the weather or what we ate for breakfast. I mean, I’m not rude or anything. He’s a nice enough guy. I’m just not sure why I keep coming here if we don’t even really talk about everything that happened.
    Not that I’m dying to talk about any of it.
    â€œYou don’t have any pets, do you?” asks Dr. Greenberg.
    â€œNo,” I answer. “My mom doesn’t like animals in the house.” I bet if I asked for a dog now, though, I would get one. I could get five, probably. I feel so guilty over that realization that I’m pretty sure I’ll never ask for a dog ever. Probably not even a goldfish.
    And suddenly a memory comes at me. The image of that stray tabby Marty let me feed sometimes. The one I found hanging out around the apartment complex. The one I found after he finally started letting me go outside and breathe fresh air. The picture shoots through me like a needle through fabric. Quick and sharp and exact.
    No, don’t think about it.
    I squeeze my eyes tight.
    â€œEthan, you with me?”
    I blink a few times, and my left hand moves to pet Groovy’s soft, silky head. It steadies me a little.
    â€œYeah, I’m with you,” I answer.
    My eyes scan the back wall of the office. I’m trying to get my bearings. After all these months of sitting in this room in Dr. Greenberg’s house, the room that he’s turned into his office, I’ve memorized the diplomas with the names Harvard and Columbia on them. Along with the diplomas there’s a framed black-and-white photograph of a younger looking Dr. Greenberg with a darker beard marching in a street, surrounded by other guys with crazy beards and girls with long, messy hair. I’ve always wondered about it.
    â€œWhat’s that picture of?” I ask, motioning at the image. If I can take up time asking questions, the session will go by faster. And I won’t have to talk about myself.
    Dr. Greenberg twists around in his seat and smiles fondly.
    â€œOh, that’s me protesting the war in Vietnam,” he says. “Back when I was a student. I was arrested shortly after that picture was taken.”
    â€œAnd they let you become a therapist?” I ask. There’s a mug shot of my therapist somewhere in a police station. I swear to God, this guy gets weirder every time.
    â€œHa!” Dr. Greenberg says. “That’s terrific. Yes. They let me become a therapist. That’s not the only time I was arrested, just so you know. I used to be very active in the no