Read Online Going in Circles by Pamela Ribon - Free Book Online Page A

follow through on this therapist thing. I told myself I could at least go and see what it’s like. One session. Today’s plan also includes going to my house where Matthew lives and making it through Petra’s party, so honestly, this is the easiest part of the plan. I might as well get it over with.
    As I stand in the lobby of this nondescript corporate building, searching the directory for the correct office, it dawns on me that I’m not nearly famous enough to have all the same problems as the celebrities in this town. At least let me have the fun part of their lives too, like the rooftop parties and the drugs and random sex scandals. Or the clothes and limos and photo shoots. I get the doctor’s appointments and the divorces? Lame.
    This building houses chiropractors, accountants, and the occasional questionable pseudobusiness, like life-coaching. Dr. Hemphill’s office is on the third floor, but when I first enter the elevator, for a second I debate pushing a different button, taking my chances telling my problems to some random tax assessor rather than face the specialist. I’m a bit nervous as to what’s going to happen once I start talking to someone who deals professionally with the things I’m dealing with personally.
    I hope he tells me exactly what I need to do. You know, like a doctor would. “Apologize three times a day with meals. Stay away from alcohol for a few weeks. Get lots of rest and take these pills to kill the voices inside your head.” I could do that; I could follow a doctor’s orders.
    In the waiting room, there’s a little red button I’m supposed to push to let Dr. Hemphill know I’ve arrived. There’s also a chart with my first name scrawled across the top. I push the button and get to filling out my paperwork. This takes much longer than it used to. Grief has made me stupid, or perhaps the constant debate going through my head has left me permanently distracted. All I know for sure is that my brain has decided it no longer cares to remember my driver’s license number or Social Security number. Instead it prefers to let a single lyric from a song I hate play over and over again in my head. That’s what it spends its time doing. Not remembering what medications I’m allergic to, not remembering a series of directions when I’m driving somewhere new. It would rather just hang out wailing,
“I got a little change in my pocket, going jing-a-ling-a-ling!”
    â€œCharlotte?”
    â€œThat’s me!” I don’t know why I just cheered like that. Like I’ve won at bingo or something. Do I want him to think I’mthis happy, chipper girl? Well, maybe it would help me land the part.
“This girl should be terribly depressed about her life, but she’s got this scary-crazy smile on her face, so . . . medication time.”
    I follow him through a tan, heavily carpeted hallway into his office. It’s stuffy in the room, which is smaller than I would have expected, with a glass coffee table in front of a purple velour couch. He gestures for me to have a seat as he eases into a small, black seat that looks like an ottoman with armrests. Does he sit on that all day? It looks so uncomfortable. I suppose I’d do the same thing to myself if I had to stay awake while people droned on about their problems for hours on end.
    I drop my purse by my feet, then wonder what that says about me and how I treat my belongings and opt to place it beside me on the couch instead. I am aware that the audition has already started as I watch Dr. Hemphill look over the paperwork I filled out, perhaps assessing my penmanship. Do I write crazy enough? Maybe I should have done it in crayon. Maybe I’m supposed to bark, or perhaps eat the orchid he’s got on the coffee table between us.
    Dr. Hemphill is taller than I would have thought, and younger, with this wild patch of blond curls on top of his head that