My mind wheels like a carousel gone rogue. “Then how do you know if she’s taking her medicine? I mean, I could check if you tell me which ones she’s on. There are so many bottles in there. I don’t know—”

“I have to stop you right there,” she explains calmly. With that very sympathetic therapist voice. “I’m not at liberty to speak about her prescriptions with you, even if you are her daughter.”

I huff, searching my mind for what I can ask her and get a response to. “What am I supposed to do?” My voice is small, shrinking with my hope.

“I suggest you call the police and report her as missing.”

I thank her brusquely and am about to hang up when another question seizes me. “Wait, Dr. Angela! Can I ask you something else?”

“Certainly, though I can’t promise I can answer.” I detect the layer of patience she spreads thickly over her words.

“How do you know if…I mean, what are the signs if, like, you’re someone like my mom?” It is clumsy of me. And desperate. It surprises me even as I ask it.

If I am bipolar, I tell myself I can make peace with that. But I don’t want to live in denial. I don’t want to hurt others by refusing to medicate.

I hear her breathing stop. Hear the long exhale that emanates. She is caving beneath the weight of her conscience, her responsibility, to Mary, to me. “Cat…your mother’s diagnosis is complicated. There is no one contributing factor and no one emergent feature. And patients are not always aware of their own symptoms. I’m sorry, but there is no short answer to your question.”

I inhale a quick sip of air. “Okay.”

Then, as if on second thought, she adds, “Listen, if you’re experiencing any confusing emotions or disorientation, anything that would give you cause for concern, I urge you to make an appointment. If not with me, then with another qualified mental health specialist.”

It’s very “good doctor” of her, but I’m regretting this conversation already. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And…” Her voice lowers an octave. “For what it’s worth, if you’re asking—if you’re showing concern—it’s a good sign.”

“Thank you,” I answer.

“That doesn’t mean you should forego seeing someone though. You understand?”

“Yes,” I assure her. “I understand.” My focus may be on my mother right now, but I can’t help considering the sense of her words. Daniel does keep reminding me that I’ve been through a trauma. Maybe once my mom is back, I will look for my own therapist.

Dr. Angela clears her throat. “How old are you, Cat? Are you a minor?”