Free 100 Days of Cake by Shari Goldhagen Page B

says.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œActually, do you have my cell number?” He takes out a business card and writes something on the front. “I know I gave it to your mom, but you should have it too, in case you ever have an emergency and need to talk.”
    â€œThanks.” The card feels valuable.
    â€œJust try not to have any emergencies after midnight on the weekends. My fiancée’s kind of a light sleeper,” he says, and chuckles.
    â€œOh, okay.”
    â€œI’m kidding. Obviously call me whenever you need to.” Smiling, he points to the crabitat next to me on the couch. “So what’s with your little friend?”
    â€œThis is Pickles.” I hold up the container for Dr. B. to get a better look. “We are totally on the same wavelength; he’s my spirit animal.”
    I kind of hoped Dr. B. would laugh, but instead he shakes his head and lets out this sigh from his nose. “Because he can duck into his shell and hide at a moment’s notice?”
    Heat floods my cheeks. “I guess that is a painfully obvious metaphor. No wonder I got a C in English.”
    That does make Dr. B. chuckle a little, and I instantly feel better.
    When I first started coming to Dr. B.’s, I figured he would be all about the Prozac. Half the kids in school are on Ritalin or Adderall or some other pharmaceutical (to be fair, a lot of those aren’t doctor-prescribed meds but stuff bought from Sketchy Mike, this stoner senior who deals from the storage closet behind the gym), but Dr. Brooks explained that he’s a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, and that just any prescriptions would have to come from a doctor. He lookedover the stuff Dr. Calvin had me on and said that we should stick with that for a while.
    But with what happened the night of Alex’s show and missing my appointment last week, I keep wondering about the attractive lady with her attractive family and attractive dog in the antidepressant commercial. Like, maybe it’s time for something new? At the very least it’s got to be more medically viable than Mom’s cake cure-all.
    It feels kind of weird to bring it up though—like I’m not loving Dr. B.’s treatment or something—but all the commercials do say, Talk to your doctor .
    â€œSo, um, the other day I saw a commercial for some new wonder drug antidepressant . . . ,” I start cautiously.
    â€œWhich one? The little sad-faced yellow blob, or the blue robe of sadness that the woman can’t take off?” Dr. B. asks.
    I laugh and tell him about the Attractives. “I don’t know. Do you think maybe it’s time to switch it up?”
    â€œWell, there are a lot of things they don’t recommend for people under twenty-five,” he says. “Therapy is generally considered the best treatment for people your age.”
    â€œOh, okay.” All of a sudden I feel tears tickling my nose. I guess I didn’t realize how much I just want some quick fix back to the original Molly Byrne, before the recast.
    â€œMolly?” Dr. B. asks gently, but I don’t want to look at him, because it’s so stupid that I’m upset. Seriously, how hard is it to not cry in front of people?
    â€œI get it. I just thought, well . . . There’s been a few bad days lately.”
    Nodding, he says this is something I should definitely bring up with my doctor and offers to give me the name of a psychiatrist. “We can also try adding an extra session each week for a while. That might help too.”
    I start to tell him that would be great, but stop.
    â€œDo you think my insurance will cover it?” Already our co-pay for the sessions is pretty hefty. Even with Mom’s Coral Cove salon domination, the weekly cost has got to be eating up a chunk of her checks.
    â€œLet’s not make money the deciding factor in your treatment. I have a sliding scale for these things, so we can just