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Authors: Lauren McKellar
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all lit up.
“Is that where you’re going to write your notes about me?” I nodded toward the screen.
“Yes,” Leslie said simply.
“Can I see my notes?”
“If you want to.”
“What are you thinking of writing so far?”
“That it might be time to rethink my interior decorating.” Leslie gave a wry smile, and I couldn’t help but to dip my head with respect in return. Score one, Leslie.
“So, do all the counsellors in here deal with people like me?” I studied the little skull model on her desk. I wonder if it’s so she can point out where the broken hides in people’s brains.
“Not exactly,” Leslie said. “We deal with youth and diseases, so a lot of cancer patients, or those who have family members suffering from a life-altering illness.”
“Bet you drew the short straw then, getting me.”
“Not at all.” Leslie raised the corners of her lips. “Firstly, you’re in a unique situation and I’d love to help you. Secondly, I happen to specialise in Huntington’s, unlike some of the other counsellors here. And thirdly, while you’ll see me face-to-face, we work as a team. My colleagues and I discuss all our clients—under the strictest confidentiality, of course—and brainstorm ways we can help you best.”
Fantastic. I would be part of a group science experiment. I so didn’t want to be here.
This morning I’d woken up in my car, driven to a public toilet block, and changed into the gym clothes I’d had stashed in the backseat from some previous occasion. They weren’t any cleaner than the outfit I’d worn last night, but somehow they felt less dirty.
Then, I’d driven the twenty minutes across to the other side of Sydney to make it to this counselling session—the one I really didn’t think I needed right now.
“Mum booked this appointment for me.” I folded my arms and tilted back in the chair.
“And how did that make you feel?”
“Oh!” I slammed my feet to the floor. “I knew you were going to say that. It’s like, straight out of the movies or something.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Leslie gave a wicked grin, and this time I graced her with a fully-fledged smile. Maybe she wasn’t the enemy after all.
I continued to smile and looked out the window. You could see the garden of the hospital, acres of neatly manicured green grass with flowerbeds lining the cream brick buildings that surrounded it, purple and pink hydrangeas bordering the edges.
“So tell me about your experience with Huntington’s so far,” Leslie suggested gently. Her voice was calm and relaxing. It was no wonder she worked at the state’s top facility. I could tell she would be irritatingly good at her job.
“Well, my father came home after a mysterious one-year absence and embarrassed me by showing up drunk at my graduation,” I started. “Then, I found out he’d run away when he found out he had Huntington’s. Then I learned it was hereditary, my boyfriend dumped me ‘cause he thinks my dad is an embarrassment, and that I’m going to go—you know, cuckoo—and it left me with nothing to do with my life, since I’d wanted to plan his tours and be a band manager, or event organiser, or something. But I guess having nothing to do is probably a good thing. You know, since I might die soon, and all.”
Leslie nodded and pursed her lips. She wasn’t even writing any of this down. I furrowed my brow.
“Shouldn’t you be taking notes as I go? It might be awkward if I bring this up again and you ask me if I’m in college, or something, when I just said I wasn’t.”
“Let’s go back to the part about you having nothing to do.” Leslie spaced out her words evenly, a light inflection on each one. She was definitely good at this. Every time I fired up, tried to get a rise, she’d make me feel all relaxed. Irritating. “What do you mean you have nothing to do? Sounds like you have a lot on your plate.”
“Nope.” I shook my head and folded my arms across my
“Is that where you’re going to write your notes about me?” I nodded toward the screen.
“Yes,” Leslie said simply.
“Can I see my notes?”
“If you want to.”
“What are you thinking of writing so far?”
“That it might be time to rethink my interior decorating.” Leslie gave a wry smile, and I couldn’t help but to dip my head with respect in return. Score one, Leslie.
“So, do all the counsellors in here deal with people like me?” I studied the little skull model on her desk. I wonder if it’s so she can point out where the broken hides in people’s brains.
“Not exactly,” Leslie said. “We deal with youth and diseases, so a lot of cancer patients, or those who have family members suffering from a life-altering illness.”
“Bet you drew the short straw then, getting me.”
“Not at all.” Leslie raised the corners of her lips. “Firstly, you’re in a unique situation and I’d love to help you. Secondly, I happen to specialise in Huntington’s, unlike some of the other counsellors here. And thirdly, while you’ll see me face-to-face, we work as a team. My colleagues and I discuss all our clients—under the strictest confidentiality, of course—and brainstorm ways we can help you best.”
Fantastic. I would be part of a group science experiment. I so didn’t want to be here.
This morning I’d woken up in my car, driven to a public toilet block, and changed into the gym clothes I’d had stashed in the backseat from some previous occasion. They weren’t any cleaner than the outfit I’d worn last night, but somehow they felt less dirty.
Then, I’d driven the twenty minutes across to the other side of Sydney to make it to this counselling session—the one I really didn’t think I needed right now.
“Mum booked this appointment for me.” I folded my arms and tilted back in the chair.
“And how did that make you feel?”
“Oh!” I slammed my feet to the floor. “I knew you were going to say that. It’s like, straight out of the movies or something.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Leslie gave a wicked grin, and this time I graced her with a fully-fledged smile. Maybe she wasn’t the enemy after all.
I continued to smile and looked out the window. You could see the garden of the hospital, acres of neatly manicured green grass with flowerbeds lining the cream brick buildings that surrounded it, purple and pink hydrangeas bordering the edges.
“So tell me about your experience with Huntington’s so far,” Leslie suggested gently. Her voice was calm and relaxing. It was no wonder she worked at the state’s top facility. I could tell she would be irritatingly good at her job.
“Well, my father came home after a mysterious one-year absence and embarrassed me by showing up drunk at my graduation,” I started. “Then, I found out he’d run away when he found out he had Huntington’s. Then I learned it was hereditary, my boyfriend dumped me ‘cause he thinks my dad is an embarrassment, and that I’m going to go—you know, cuckoo—and it left me with nothing to do with my life, since I’d wanted to plan his tours and be a band manager, or event organiser, or something. But I guess having nothing to do is probably a good thing. You know, since I might die soon, and all.”
Leslie nodded and pursed her lips. She wasn’t even writing any of this down. I furrowed my brow.
“Shouldn’t you be taking notes as I go? It might be awkward if I bring this up again and you ask me if I’m in college, or something, when I just said I wasn’t.”
“Let’s go back to the part about you having nothing to do.” Leslie spaced out her words evenly, a light inflection on each one. She was definitely good at this. Every time I fired up, tried to get a rise, she’d make me feel all relaxed. Irritating. “What do you mean you have nothing to do? Sounds like you have a lot on your plate.”
“Nope.” I shook my head and folded my arms across my
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