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anxiety plus this other stuff my mom keeps track of. She keeps the bottles in her bedroom, and she has her phone all set up to ding when she needs a reminder to give me my pills.
    But that was in the beginning. I’m still on the pills, but about a month ago Dr. Greenberg said I could start coming to his office twice a week instead of him coming to us so much.
    â€œMom,” I said to my mom when she told me this, “I really don’t think I need to go. I’m fine.” Part of this was because of the drive I didn’t want to do. And part of it was because the idea of having to talk about any of this made me want to disappear or melt or vaporize or something. I mean, if I’d spent all the time with Dr. Greenberg in my house not talking, I didn’t see how that was going to change by sitting in his office.
    â€œSweetheart, this is an important part of your recovery. Your dad and I are still seeing Dr. Sugar.” Yeah, their therapist is called Dr. Sugar. Which is weird because my dad is a dentist, but I guess they like him a lot.
    â€œI know you’re still seeing Dr. Sugar,” I said. “That’s good. But…”
    Then I looked at my mom’s face and her teary eyes. I can’t say no to my mom. I can’t say no to my dad either. Not after everything I’ve put them through. Those first few days back my mom kept following me from room to room. She hugged me every five seconds and she still kind of does, which was okay at first, but lately her hugs make me push my shoulders up to my ears and hold my breath for a second, and then I feel bad again. When I first got back and I went to the bathroom, she would wait outside the door. And when I went to sleep, she slept on the floor next to my bed until my dad talked her out of it. Those first few nights I would wake up a million times and blink and try to figure out where I was, and then I would see her on the air mattress on the floor and I would be happy and then sad because I was such a messed up person.
    The bottom line is, I can’t do anything else to hurt her. I can’t put my parents through anything else. So I didn’t really fight going to Dr. Greenberg’s when my mom said I had to keep going. I just said, “Okay, I’ll go. It’s fine.”
    And that’s how I’m here, zipping along the freeway, trying to distract myself by reading the exit signs and people’s bumper stickers and running my thumbs up and down over my knuckles and trying not to throw up.
    â€œGet on the floor. This is a gun on your neck.”
    Just read the signs. Just focus on your hands.
    â€œSorry, buddy. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    No, no, no, it’s not him. He’s gone now, Ethan.
    â€œDon’t cry. I don’t like crying.”
    I cough because sometimes that helps stop the feeling that I’m going to hurl.
    â€œAre you okay, Ethan?” my mother asks, glancing at me.
    â€œYeah, I’m okay.” I cough again.
    Finally we get to Dr. Greenberg’s, and once the car stops I start to feel a little better. Dr. Greenberg has an office in his house on the north side of Houston. It’s a big, old-fashioned two-story house with a porch that goes all the way around. Sometimes his dog, Groovy, is on the porch taking a nap. Yeah, as if it wasn’t weird enough that my therapist looks like a skinny Santa, he has a dog named Groovy. I wonder if my dad’s college roommate really knew what he was talking about when he said this guy is some world-famous expert in severe trauma.
    â€œHello there!” Dr. Greenberg says as he comes out the front door to meet us on the porch. Like we’re coming over for Thanksgiving dinner or something.
    â€œHello, Dr. Greenberg,” my mother says, smiling. When she smiles she looks younger. One of the first things I noticed when I came back was how much older my mom looked. Like way more than just four years had