46

“Happy birthday, Frida!” Kate called over the video chat, waving hello.

The newly fourteen-year-old shied from the camera but managed a Thanks. She followed that up with, “Your office looks cool. Are those skulls?”

“Look at this cake Esben has made,” Ben’s mother said in slow, careful English. Birgitte tilted the short, round dessert to the laptop camera: chocolate frosting covered by raspberries.

“It’s buttercream,” Ben’s father, Frank, said in a near-perfect western American accent.

Birgitte wore her silver hair in a single braid draped over her shoulder. Frank, whom Ben clearly got his physique from, was grey and balding and the happiest person ever.

“The girls will be here shortly,” Birgitte said, referring to Ben’s sisters.

“Not Else,” Frank said.

“No, not Else,” Birgitte confirmed. “‘Too far.’ Always ‘too far.’”

“When are you coming to Stavanger?” Frank asked Kate.

“We’re looking at spring,” she said.

“Oh, perfekt, perfekt.” Birgitte clapped with each perfekt. “You come in spring before Esben leaves for Canada in summer.”

Kate smiled. “Something like that.”

There was a distant, loud knocking, and the voices of young children took over. In the background, a young boy and girl body-slammed Ben. The children then gave Frida a similar treatment, squealing something in Norwegian.

Next to enter the frame was Solveig, who looked like Birgitte only taller and blond, and wore her hair in the same way. The woman made a double-take at the camera.

“Oh! Kate!” She scurried to the laptop. “Hello!”

“Hi, Solveig. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, this is not meeting. When you and I sit on my patio and drink coffee and gossip, that will be meeting.”

Kate laughed. “Okay, deal.”

The children sounded like they were skirmishing, and Solveig excused herself. Ben took the laptop to a quieter area of his parent’s home.

“You survived,” he said, smiling.

“Parents love me—what can I say? Sorry that I have to duck out early. Eat some cake for me.”

Isak found Ben and grappled his leg, then spurted some triumphant declaration in Norwegian.

Ben answered defiantly, then grinned at the camera. “I should go, or Isak the Destroyer will conquer me.”

Kate chuckled. “Okay. Love you.”

“Eg—” Before Ben could finish, he laughed, and the laptop shook from another tickle attack from Isak.

Kate grinned and signed off. When she looked up from her laptop, she spotted Sam peeking into her office through the ajar door. “Hey, Sam,” she called as she gathered her things.

Sam opened the door further. “Hi, Professor Roth.”

“Walk with me,” Kate said as she headed for her class. “Enjoying your classes this semester?”

“Yeah, they’re good. Actually, I wanted to ask you…” Sam was fidgeting, pressing their lips together, jittery. “Can you write me letters of recommendation for grad school?”

Kate stopped and turned to Sam. “Of course I will. Where are you applying?”

“U. Montreal. And McGill.”

Montreal. Zoe. Kate grinned and kept those thoughts to herself. “Awesome,” she said instead.

“And, also,” Sam said, “I was wondering if you would give a talk at my Students with Disabilities group. It’s not just about physical disabilities, but, you know, mental health, too. We, like, talk with each other, others who understand the crap we have to deal with. It’d be nice to hear from faculty who are in the same boat.”

Kate stood there gawking at Sam, unsure what to say. “I… Why ask me?”

“Beeecause you have anxiety, right?” Their brow furrowed. “Shit, am I wrong? Sorry, I thought—”

“No, no, you’re right.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I thought I hid it well.”

Sam relaxed, letting out a small sigh. “I don’t go around guessing people’s diagnoses, but sometimes you can just tell. Like with Ben. Depression, maybe social anxiety. That’s me, socially anxious. And ADHD, but I’m on meds for that. Are you on meds?”

“I am, yeah. For sleeping, mostly, and panic attacks. Been on them since I was in grad school.” She continued toward her class. “Email me about that group, okay? I’d love to meet everyone.”

Sam beamed, then hustled in the opposite direction.

Kate lay back against the cloudlike brown recliner in her therapist’s office.

Dr. Steinmann, or Deb as she asked to be called, sipped her tea then flinched. “Beheyme!” she spat. Yiddish for fool. Her grey waves were even more frazzled than usual today.

“You alright over there?” Kate asked.

“Nope. Hot.” Deb ran the tip of her tongue along her top front teeth. “I’ll be suffering that for a couple days.” She sat back with a sigh, tablet on her lap, stylus in hand. “So, how’s your week been?”

Kate tapped her chin. “Normal. Interesting. Good, too. I’m excited about this concert I’m going to in just five days down in Denver.”

“The charity event?”

“Yup. I’m also a little scared. I hope I still like huge concerts,” she said with a laugh. “Oh! Today one of my students asked me to talk to their student group. For students with disabilities and mental illness.”

“That sounds great.”

“Yeah. It does, actually. I was shocked at first, realizing my student knew I had anxiety. Apparently, it was obvious. To them, at least. But they have anxiety, too. Is it really that easy to notice it in others?”

“Those who are aware of mental illnesses and hidden disabilities can often recognize them in others, yes.”

Kate hummed and looked out the window, at the big, fat snowflakes sinking straight down from a bright white sky.

“I’m not sure what I’ll talk about with the students,” she said. “Just me, I guess. Navigating academia with anxiety and—what did you call it? Impostor syndrome. I think that’s what the group is for, other than a general camaraderie thing.”

“How do you feel about talking to others about your mental health, your experiences?”

Kate’s mouth quirked up. “Good, actually.” She sat up and caught Deb’s gaze. “I wouldn’t have thought that way before this”—she gestured at nothing in particular—“whole year. I’d never been to therapy before. Bereavement counseling doesn’t count. I’d just gone to my doctor in grad school, told them I was anxious and not sleeping, and bam! Trazodone. I’m glad I stopped taking it for a while. It was like hitting a reset button.”

“You should follow up with a psychiatrist about this, not just your primary physician, but it’s possible you built up a tolerance to trazodone. I’m glad you were open about your misuse of the medication over the summer and that this medication doesn’t typically cause addiction. I still have concerns that you will be triggered again in the future. Overdoses of pills, even without alcohol, even with your low dosage, can be lethal.”

Kate reclined in the chair. “Yeah. I know. I didn’t want to hurt myself. I just wanted to sleep, shut my brain up.”

“And I trust your self-assessment. I don’t think you wanted to hurt yourself, either. But I need you to be less reckless about your medication and more proactive about healthier ways to cope with insomnia.”

“Yeah. I have the list.”

Deb’s posture relaxed. “You’re strong-willed,” she said. “With stubbornness comes a bit of rebellion that you need to watch out for.”

Kate nodded, kept nodding. “I probably should’ve been in therapy all this time. I thought I was coping okay. Managing it.”

“You’re good at compartmentalizing. Though keeping things boxed up forever doesn’t typically end well—case in point, your anxiety medication. But I’m glad you’re here, that you’re continuing to talk with me. It will be good for you to talk to students, some who might be where you were, emotionally, in school. Who knows? You might learn a thing or two from them.”

“Kids these days, am I right? Friggin’ geniuses.”

“It’s pleasantly surprising. Their emotional intelligence is through the roof.”

Kate dug her fingertips into the arms of the recliner. “Can we talk about something else today, actually?”

“Whatever you like.”

The chair was so squishy it was like poking a burnt marshmallow.

“Nikki,” Kate said. “I want to talk about Nikki…and why I push people away.”