I try to avoid eye contact with her. I feel like I might cry, and I don't want to break down anymore. Or at least I want to hold out for as long as I can. When I don't say anything more, she continues with her questioning.
"Where is your mum now?"
"Well, after the car incident, it became clear that she needed more help than I could give her. I kept fearing that one day I would come home, and she..." I can't finish the statement. I shrug my shoulders and shake my head. She knows what I mean. I used to have nightmares about it all the time. When I'm stressed, I dream I'm driving down a never-ending highway, and my mum is frantically clawing at the door handle and the window, screaming obscenities about how much she hates me.
I've trailed off. Dr. Lawrence doesn't seem to mind, so I just continue to talk after I collect my thoughts.
"So her doctor helped me get her admitted into a facility. She's there now, and we think she finally has a nice balance of medication and therapy." I manage a smile. My mum is alive, and for the most part, she is well again. Not a lot of other people can say the same.
"Do you see her often?"
"Well, I try to. It's quite a ways outside of London, and with school and work, it's hard to find the time. I call her on the phone too." Even I'm not totally convinced by my answer. This is where my guilt comes rushing up to the surface.
"Is that the only reason?" she asks, as though she is in my head and reading my thoughts.