Free Contact by Laurisa Reyes

silence in Dr. Walsh’s office is thick between us, like a swirling unseen mist that acts as a barrier, giving us time to collect our thoughts. I missed the last couple of weeks and would have preferred to skip today, too, only Jordan insisted I come.
    Walsh has that clipboard again, and she’s reading over her notes from last time. After a minute or two she makes eye contact. “I’m so sorry about your mother.” Her voice sounds considerate, as if she truly cares. “Has there been any improvement in her condition?”
    Sponge Bob smirks up at me. I want to tear his eyes out.
    “No,” I say. “It’s been almost two weeks now with no change.”
    “How are you coping?”
    “I’m—I’m not.”
    She jots a few words down on her clipboard. “How’s your father holding up?”
    Something inside of me cracks, something fragile and vulnerable. I fight the urge to scream. Instead I keep it all packed down deep inside me. “He’s doing fine,” I reply in a voice that sounds cold and judgmental to my own ears.
    Dr. Walsh must sense the turmoil because she nods as if in agreement. “He’s not hurting as much as you think he should be.”
    “He’s not hurting at all.”
    She contemplates this for a moment before responding. “He’s in the public eye, Mira. He may feel he’s got to keep up appearances.”
    “Oh, he’s perfectly tormented when he’s in public, Dr. Walsh,” I reply. “But in private it’s a whole different story. He doesn’t care that Mama’s in a coma.”
    “Now, Mira, think about what you’re saying. This is your father. He’s got a huge burden to carry. Couldn’t it be possible you’re misreading him?”
    My father. Burden. Yes, it makes sense. Of course he’s as torn up about Mama as I am. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s never been outwardly emotional, so he’s probably keeping it in. Hurting in his own private way. What was I thinking?
    Even the tone of my thoughts is cynical. I can’t help it. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re right. I can’t even sleep at night. I’m all messed up.”
    “Of course you are,” Dr. Walsh replies. “You need someone to turn to, but your father is so wrapped up in everything he just can’t be there for you the way you need him to be right now.”
    She opens a drawer beneath the table and rifles through it, extracting a small pad of white forms. “Hang on while I have my colleague sign this,” she says, scribbling something on the paper. She leaves the office for a couple of minutes. When she returns, she tears off the prescription and hands it to me.
    “What is it?”
    “Just some Trazodone to help you sleep.”
    Trazodone. The same medication Mama took— takes . I accept the prescription from Dr. Walsh and slip it into my back pocket. I don’t want it, but I don’t feel like explaining why right now.
    “There’s something else I want to discuss,” Dr. Walsh continues, returning to her chair. “I’ve spent some time researching your case.”
    “My case?”
    “The symptoms you described to me in our first session. It seems that what you’re experiencing—the flashes of insight, seeing into other people’s minds—may not be completely unique. Have you ever heard of Edgar Cayce?”
    The name sounds vaguely familiar.
    Dr. Walsh goes on, “Mr. Cayce was a clairvoyant who lived in the early twentieth century. He performed thousands of readings over the course of forty years. He would put himself into a trance and answer all sorts of questions, including questions about complete strangers living in other parts of the world.”
    “Sounds like a bunch of bull to me,” I remark.
    “Maybe so. Some people claim Edgar Cayce was a prophet. Others think he was a con artist. The truth may lie somewhere in between.”
    This is unreal. I look at Dr. Walsh, searching for some glimmer of humor in her eyes, something that proves she’s joking. But her expression remains serious.
    “I’m not a clairvoyant or a prophet,” I tell her. “And