Free 100 Days of April-May by Edyth Bulbring Page A

now obsessing over the failing-the-Maths-test dream.
    It is Thursday morning, the second lesson after break (my second crazy class for the week), and Dr Gainsborough is lying on the floor in the Nutbox with his eyes closed. He raises his head from the carpet and I pause in my note-taking to make eye contact.
    â€˜But what do you think it means, April-May?’
    I maintain eye contact – which inspires trust – and tell Dr Gainsborough that his dream of failing a Maths test indicates that he is afraid of forming close bonds with other members of the Homo sapiens species.
    â€˜Really? Do you think that could be it?’
    I tell him that he either has intimacy issues or he’s scared of being trapped in a fridge or losing his teeth. Freud and me are in three minds about Dr Gainsborough’s mental malady. The failing-a-Maths-test dream is a challenging one for a bursary kid like me to interpret because failing tests is not something I’m very good at.
    Dr Gainsborough slumps back onto the floor and sighs. He says that this might explain why the closest relationships he’s had in fifty-seven years have been with animals. And he pats Emily, who is dreaming (blindly) next to him on the carpet.
    I look at my watch and tell Dr Gainsborough that our session is nearly over, but that next week we will explore the nature of his relationships with Emily and Emily’s predecessors – there may be a pattern that will deliver critical insights. ‘And healing,’ I add, softly.
    Dr Gainsborough’s eyes glow behind his thick lenses. ‘The dog I had before Emily had three legs. Her name was Tripod.’ He is flushed with tender memories and sinks back onto the floor. ‘The one before Tripod was deaf – from birth. And a cat I had around the same time couldn’t purr.’
    I tell Dr Gainsborough that we can explore this emerging pattern (that he only has relationships with damaged and sensorily challenged pets) next week. I say this in an even softer voice. A voice filled with empathy.
    Dr Gainsborough gets up from the floor and says, ‘Actually, April-May, we have another session in five minutes. You have a double today.’
    I tell Dr Gainsborough that then in that case he can lie down again and we can continue exploring his deepest terrors. But he gives me a sort of gentle-but-firm smile and says, ‘It’s your turn, April-May. It’s time you explored some healing.’ Then he says that we’re going to try something different. It’s called group therapy.
    I’ve done my research so Dr Gainsborough doesn’t need to tell me that group therapy is exactly what the two words suggest – it’s when two or more patients get psychoanalysed at the same time (in a group). It’s not classic Freud – it was developed by some Americans in the early twentieth century (probably to save money).
    I tell Dr Gainsborough that we already did group therapy with Mom when I first started his sessions. And neither of us was very chatty. In fact, I maintained operational silence throughout and Mom cried (throughout).
    Dr Gainsborough replies that Mom wasn’t a patient. He had invited her to my sessions to try and get a few things straightened out (something that didn’t work – unfortunately). And that group therapy involves two or more actual patients (crazy people).
    I settle down to enjoy the next hour with the girl from Grade Ten who is scared of swallowing her tongue – or maybe the Grade Eleven boy who can’t stop himself from eating his hair. They both present an exciting opportunity for me to exercise my growing knowledge of psychoanalysis.
    There is a knock at the office door, a pause and then Fatty walks (lumbers) in. I give Dr Gainsborough a slitty-eyed look. Then Fatty sees me and gives Dr Gainsborough a slitty-eyed look. But Dr Gainsborough does not meet our slitty eyes – he is too busy giving a grubby stain on the