[Recovery] ft. "Video Games" by Lana Del Rey

You loved her. Even when she hurt you. Mr. Berkmen's office. Checkup visit. This is dedicated to you, if you know I'm writing about you. And I guess this is dedicated to her too. ~♥︎

Mr. Berkman's office is large and well-lit. The walls are clean and white, hung carefully with ribboned degrees and certificates framed in gold. The floor is white too, with a pattern in the linoleum that makes it look like tile. There isn't a desk in the office, but an open area with several cushioned chairs and a low coffee table inside the door. Large potted plants squat in each corner, and more greenery lines the sills of a row of windows against one wall.

 

In spite of the drizzling outside, clean pale light gushes through the blinds, washing the walls a brighter shade of white. Fluorescent lighting fixtures dot the ceiling, and an old fan rotates slowly near the windows. There are metal filing cabinets and bookcases set back against the walls, a clear plastic bin full of books and toys for little kids underneath the coffee table. The light reflects itself off multiple framed photographs hung near the certificates on the walls, the first things I notice when we enter the room.

 

The largest one is framed in silver, and shows a man and woman kneeling on a grassy lawn, their arms around two girls and a boy who look in their early twenties and a large German shepherd. All of them are laughing, their skin glowing in bright gold sunlight. The woman is slim and wiry, with long blonde hair swept over her shoulders, amd she’s squinting slightly against the sun.

 

Besides the silver frame photograph, there are more photos of Mr. Berkman’s kids in long blue gowns, posing against silk backgrounds and holding up diplomas. There’s a photo of his family sitting stretched out on colorful beach towels, white sand all around them, the boy holding up an oversized orange starfish. There are smaller baby photos, and photos of the kids growing up, Mr. Berkman kneeling beside one of his daughters on a pink bicycle in a driveway, her five or six, with gaps in her front teeth. There are birthday parties and camping trips, and a shot of his family in front of the pale plumelike towers of the Disneyland castle.

 

In every photograph, they look happy. They’re always smiling, sometimes laughing. It seems like I stand looking at them for a long time before the sound of your voice pulls me away.

 

I turn around and see you kneeling on the floor with Brayden and Eli. They’ve found the bin of toys beneath the coffee table, and are starting to take them out, squealing over the plastic monster trucks and colorful bricks of Legos like they’re Christmas presents for them to keep.

 

You grab a yellow paddle board from the pile and start playing with it. I pull my phone from my pocket, holding it up and centering it on you.

 

It takes you a couple of seconds to realize I’m recording you, and then you glance up. Your look of intense concentration disappears immediately, your face dissolving into a smile.

 

“Mom.”

 

It’s been a few months since you got your hair dyed, so the blonde roots are gone and it’s dark again. Your eyes are the same hazel green mine are, and they’re shining when you look at me.

 

You’re wearing a black-and-red plaid jacket beneath an expensive red vest trimmed with fur on the hood, heeled black boots, and designer black jeans with buckles on the pockets. You bought everything on one of the shopping sprees in the Fifth Avenue Mall you took us on, one of the trips where Brayden and Eli are allowed to have anything they put in the cart. Those are the times when they get the most excited, running down the shiny toy aisles in the Target and grabbing whatever they want off the shelves.

 

I get a couple of things, like a new pair of Nikes and a basketball, before I look at the lists you make and the lists I’ve made of things we actually need. I make sure to put things like paper towel rolls and cans of soup and cough medicine in the cart. And sometimes you help me, and other times you spend the whole time in the makeup aisles lit up with white strips of neon, or the women’s clothing section, or curtained changing rooms.

 

Our last trip to Anchorage, I remember we were in Costco where we do most of the bulk shopping, although you don’t like Costco because you call it a boring store, and you got the idea we needed a new mixer. I’m not sure why you thought we needed it; you almost never used our old one. And you didn’t want one of the regular mixers that cost fifty dollars; you wanted the deluxe version that was almost three hundred dollars.

 

You had already spent so much on clothes and purses and jewelry, and a new bed set you didn’t need, and I was still thinking of how expensive it was going to be eating out every day we were still in Anchorage, and then the ferry tickets back, and the car’s radiator still had to be fixed. I tried to convince you not to buy it, but you didn’t listen. You got the mixer, which you never ended up using.

 

I’m still recording you, sitting and looking up at me with a slight grin on your face. Then you make an unsuccessful attempt to bounce the ball on the paddle again, laughing.

 

A second later, you throw the paddle at me, and I duck away, slipping my phone back into my pocket. I’m laughing too as you throw your hands up in your lap and exclaim, “Damn it! You made me miss my record.”

 

“What was your record?” I ask.

 

You don’t answer, because Eli is crawling into your lap and showing you one of the plastic trucks.

 

“Mommy, look!”

 

“Let me see that,” you croon, still smiling as you draw him into your arms. “What do you have?”

 

You drop a kiss into his wispy black hair and cuddle him closer while he turns the truck over in his hands.

I sit on the floor beside the coffee table and watch you two. I can’t quit smiling. You hardly ever hold one of the boys like this.

 

Afer a minute, I take my phone from my pocket again, turn it on, and bring up the camera app. I start scrolling through the other photos and videos I took of you over the last few days. I have videos of you singing along to the car radio on the drive from the ferry terminal, and squealing with the boys while we go through the railroad tunnel to Whittier, and trying on necklaces in the Kay Jewelers in Fred Meyer’s.

 

Brayden says my name, and I turn my head. He pushes a large Ironman action figure into my face, squealing, “Look!”

 

“Oh"” I grab the toy away from my eyes and hold it out to him again.

 

“Mommy, I want"can I have"the iPad?” Eli asks you in his high-pitched voice five-year-old voice.

 

“Hmm? You want the iPad? Get it from my purse, sweetie,” you tell him, pushing him up from your lap.

 

“Me too,” Brayden says quickly, dropping the Ironman and running over to Eli, who’s found your large red purse where you put it one of the chairs. “I want to play the duck game!”

 

You stand while the boys take out the iPad and run with it over to the windows on the other side of the room. You run your fingers through your hair a few times, smoothing down your vest.

 

I get up too, moving to lean against the side of one of the chairs with my phone. You sit in a chair across from me over the coffee table, take your phone out of your purse, and check your makeup on it. I scroll through my inbox, deleting old messages, and listen to the sounds of Brayden and Eli messing with the iPad. There are a bunch of missed messages from Keegan, and then two or three from my dad.

 

“Do you think Mr. Berkman would mind?”

 

Your voice instantly pulls my eyes from the screen; you have a paper pack of cigarettes out and are shaking one onto the armrest of the chair.

 

“Do you know if smoking is allowed in here?” you ask, deftly picking up the cigarette and sliding the pack back into your purse.

 

“Um"I don’t think so,” I say, running my finger over the back of my phone case.

 

“It’s only one, though, right?” You chuckle as you pull a lighter from your purse and bring it to the cigarette between your lips. “I don’t think he would mind it.”

 

I watch you flick the lighter with a nail, draw the flickering bit of flame to the end of the cigarette, then pull it away. You exhale wisps of sweet-smelling smoke and close your eyes, leaning back in the armchair. You look beautiful, but tired.

 

There are lines around your eyes, and bags beneath them that makeup can’t completely hide. Because you’ve lost weight, your face is slightly hollow, your jawline sharper and your cheeks sunken.

 

Inexplicably, the thought comes into my mind that I hope Mr. Berkman won’t think you look bad. I don’t know why I would think that, and it almost makes me mad at myself. You’ve been trying so hard.

 

The only sounds in the room are the soft whir of the fan, the gentle pattering of rain outside, and the boys exclaiming quietly over whatever app they’re playing on the iPad. You hum a little in your throat and tap the fingers with the cigarette against the arm of your chair, your eyes still closed. I reply to Dad’s messages and keep scrolling through the other ones.

 

Gradually, I notice the steady ticking of a clock near a tall metal lamp beside the door. I wonder how much longer Brayden and Eli will stay quiet. They’ve been really good.

 

When the door finally opens and Mr. Berkman walks into the room, you stop tapping your fingers to the song you’re humming and open your eyes. I straighten up against the side of the chair and slide my phone into the pocket of my hoodie.

 

Mr. Berkman is a tall, balding man around my dad’s age. He has a pair of glasses tucked in the breast pocket of his button-down shirt, and carries a leather folder and notepad beneath one arm.

 

He walks with measured steps over to your chair, extending a hand while you quickly stand up and straighten your vest again.

 

“Amy. It’s good to see you,” he says.

 

Mr. Berkman has a warm, deep, soothing voice. I’ve almost forgotten what he looks like since the last time we were here, but his voice has stayed in my memory.

 

You shake his proffered hand, then take the cigarette from your mouth and laugh, a little hoarsely, “I’m sorry. Hope you don’t mind me taking a smoke in here.”

 

“We do normally have a no-smoking policy,” says Mr. Berkman calmly, “but this is a space in which you should feel at home. I’m sure we can relax the rules slightly in order to make you more comfortable.”

 

He turns a little, and his eyes settle on me as you sit down again, taking another pull from your cigarette.

 

“It’s good to see you again, too, Xxxxxx.”

I stand quickly to shake Mr. Berkman’s outstretched hand, forcing a small smile.

 

“You too.”

 

“How old are you now, son?” he continues. “Are you still in eighth grade?”

 

“Yeah.” I nod once and sit back down.

 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” His small talk with me done, Mr. Berkman turns to you. “I was with another client, and we went slightly over our session time.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” you say, waving a hand.

 

“Is there anything I can get you? Coffee, tea?” Mr. Berkman goes on, motioning in the direction of the door.

 

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

 

“All right then.” He sits in one of the chairs around the coffee table, throwing a glance at me as he shifts the notepad in his hands. “Is it"all right with you to have Xxxxxx listening into our session? Would you rather have our conversation more private, or. . .?”

 

“No.” You exhale more smoke and wave a hand again. “It’s fine with me.”

 

“That’s what matters then.” Mr. Berkman starts looking through the leather folder in his lap, riffling papers for several seconds before he brings his eyes to you and speaks again. “It’s been about four months since I saw you last, Amy. In our previous session, we talked about your anxiety and some of the issues you’d been having in your workplace. We also discussed the medication you were taking. This is an open space right now for you to bring up any new issues or changes that have happened over the past months, anything you wish to address or talk about right away. I do have several questions for you, but then the conversation is yours to steer in any direction that’s right for you.”

 

You blink several times, tapping the cigarette against the chair’s armrest.

 

“What. . .questions are you going to ask?”

 

“Well"first,” says Mr. Berkman, sifting through the contents of his folder again, “are there any new medications you have been taking?”

~more to come

Author's Note

Please don't be too harsh—this is my first work on here. One of a series.