Page 54 of Guitars and Cages

Ihad my first meeting with Dr. Hozman the morning after Cole came home. Mark came to get me, meeting Cole for the first time and putting me in a rather awkward position. My brother was convinced that I didn’t need to see a “goddamned shrink,” as he put it, and Mark very calmly pointed out that the cuts up and down my arms and the stitches on the back of my head proved that I did. I listened to them bicker for a couple of minutes, feeling like a five-year-old as they argued about me like I wasn’t even there. Finally I stalked out of the bar and went and sat in the Charger to wait.

Mark came out about five minutes later, red in the face and looking pissed as hell. He didn’t say a word as he got in the car and slammed the door behind him, before jamming the key in the ignition and bringing the engine roaring to life. Music blared from the radio, but after several minutes I turned it down a bit.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry about Cole. I prolly should have told him about the appointment last night when we were talkin’, and then he could have yelled at me and gotten over it.”

Mark looked at me and shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize for your brother. I’m just utterly and completely amazed that there is someone in the world more stubborn than you.”

“It’s a family trait.”

“No shit.”

I chuckled at that, and then turned the music back up. One reason Mark and I had always gotten along so well was that neither one of us was real big on conversation. Not that we didn’t talk, but we didn’t need to fill every second with useless words. I tapped my fingers to the beat of the music until he pulled up to the office and stopped. When I got out I was kind of shocked that he got out, too. I’d figured he was gonna drop me off and leave, but instead he walked me in and settled into a chair in the waiting room.

“What are you doing?” I asked, watching him get comfortable with one of those Manga books he was always reading.

“Waiting.”

“Man, you don’t have to do that. I’ve got my cell; I can text you when I get done in there, or if you want, I can catch the bus back. I know you’ve got a ton to do to finish getting ready for the tour.”

“We’re all ready. We’re packed, the instruments are in locked cases, we’ve filled out all the paperwork, gone over the itinerary, and gotten a house sitter to look after the place while we’re gone. No reason not to kick back while I have the chance and catch up on my reading.”

I chuckled. “You know, I wasn’t planning on sneaking away as soon as you drove off.”

“But you thought about it.”

NowthatI couldn’t deny, so I shrugged.

“Look, I’m not here to guilt you into going in there or even to try and force you to; the choice is entirely up to you. If you wanna go back down and get in the car, we can do that, as long as that’s what you want to do, but if you’ve got big brother’s voice in your head telling you all that bullshit he was spewing back at the bar, then you need to shove that aside and think about what you want.”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

He regarded me for a moment, and then gave me a nod. A few minutes later, the receptionist told me I could head on into the office. Funny, but when I opened that door it didn’t look like a shrink’s office to me. I guess in the back of my head I was picturing something with white walls, ink blots on a table, piles of folders toppling over, and a framed picture of Freud on the wall behind the desk. It had none of that. The office looked more like a living room, with plush chairs and a well-organized desk. The guy behind it, Dr. Hozman, stood and introduced himself, and I shook his hand before sitting down. At least he had a firm grip; I hate this new trend of guys shaking hands like they’re afraid their fingers might get hurt or something.

Dr. Hozman glanced toward the window for a moment, and the bright blue sky over the horizon. “Pretty nice day out for this time of year. Not too hot, not too sticky.”

I shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“Rare for this time of year; might be best to enjoy it while it lasts.”

Again I shrugged. “It’s just a day.”

He cleared his throat and scribbled something on the notepad in front of him. “How’s the hand feeling?”

I snorted, narrowed my eyes. “Broken.”

He nodded at that, and I sat there getting annoyed, wishing he’d quit with all the attempts at small talk.

“So, Asher, I’ve had the chance to look over the file the hospital faxed over. You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, so?” I was feeling a bit defensive. Maybe the small talk hadn’t been so bad after all.

“So was that the first time you hurt yourself so badly?”

“Intentionally, yeah, I guess.”

“But unintentionally you’ve hurt yourself worse?”

I looked over at him, wondering if he was toying with me. What the hell was he hoping to get with all his questions? “Yeah.”