“I guess.” I tried to sound dismissive again, but I knew it wasn’t working. She looked at me for the longest time, and I got the feeling she could see that this was the last thing in the world I wanted to talk about, which in therapist terms meant that this was now the only thing she wanted to talk about.

“How are the panic attacks?” she asked. When I didn’t answer right away, she continued: “You gave Dr. Finkelstein permission to share your details with me. I hope you still feel comfortable with that?”

“Yes. Sure.” I stopped talking. The bubble of panic rose up inside me when I talked about the panic. Just thinking about it seemed to bring it to life. “I almost had one the other day, at school.” I looked away and focused my attention on the flower bed again.

“That’s not surprising. You’re under a lot of stress at the moment. What stopped it?”

“A fake fire alarm.”

“Are you taking your medication?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes and looked down at the ground, fiddling with my hands.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking medication.” She leaned closer to me and her voice took on a firm tone. “If you were a diabetic would you deny yourself insulin?”

“No,” I whispered. I’d heard this before from Dr. Finkelstein so many times. Anxiety is just as real as any other chronic condition. But still . . . sometimes it just felt like a sign of weakness, like I was incapable of “just getting over it.”

As if reading my mind, she said, “Anxiety and depression aren’t things you just get over. And they don’t make you weak, or less than. Some of the most interesting and brilliant people I know have a mental illness. Just look at the greatest artists of our time. Edvard Munch said he suffered from depression and agoraphobia, and look what art came out of that.”

“The Scream. I love that painting.”

“Beethoven is speculated to have had bipolar disorder and then there’s van Gogh.”

“He cut off his ear,” I said flatly.

“And isn’t it great we have medication these days to help prevent things like ear cutting?”

“Point taken.”

“Of course you took my point. My point is good, ne,” she said, dazzling me with one of those big smiles of hers. “Tell me more about this Jake?”

“Not much to tell, really.” Well, that was just not true. “Our siblings had a playdate on the beach the other day and built a sandcastle.”

“It’s good that you’re making friends here.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say we’re friends. If our siblings weren’t at the same school, we would never have spoken.”

“So, you think the only way it’s possible for him to be friends with you is if your siblings are friends?”

“Well, obviously!” I stated emphatically.

“Explain.” Her tone was demanding.

“What do you mean?”