“You two don’t get on, then?” she said. “It’s... complicated.”
I noticed myself physically as well as metaphorically squirming in my seat.
“Can you tell me why?” Maria asked, bold as brass, nosy, intrusive. Shameless.
“No,” I said. There was a very long pause. “I know that it’s difficult, really difficult, to talk about painful things,
but, as I said, that’s the best route to helping us move forward. Let’s start very slowly.
Can you tell me why you don’t feel comfortable talking about your mother?
“I... she wouldn’t want me to,” I said. That was true. I remembered the last—and only—time I’d done it, with a teacher.
It wasn’t a mistake you made twice. My left leg had begun to tremble; just a little quiver,
but once it started, I couldn’t get it to stop. I threw my head back and made a noise,
a sort of sigh mixed with a cough, to try to distract her eye from it.
“OK,” she said patiently. “If it’s all right with you, to finish up, I’d like to suggest that we try something a bit different.
It’s called the empty-chair exercise,” she said. I folded my arms and stared at her.
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