Crossing by Andrew Xia Fukuda

counseling session?”
    “Not really. Not that formal. Just a chance to chat.” He fingered the papers in front of him. “But let’s get back to your past. You’ve had professional counseling before?”
    “Well, yes. Some years back.”
    “And what was that about?”
    I gave an aw-shucks grin. “Just something silly. Just me being a kid.”
    “What was it all about?”
    “What is this all about?” I asked, and he flicked his eyes up to meet mine.
    He tapped his clipboard once, twice. “Back then, your teachers thought you should get some therapy, it says here.”
    “That’s right. I did get some therapy.”
    He crossed his legs. “What kind of therapy?”
    “Not sure. Something to do with my imagination.”
    “Your teachers thought it was overactive?” he asked, his forefinger lining a few words.
    “It’s what they thought. But it was nothing.”
    “No?”
    “No.”
    His eyes studied mine carefully. “Your imagination was overactive. Specifically, how?”
    “I mean, like I said. It was nothing.”
    “Hmm,” he murmured, but his eyes were very alert now. “It says here…” he glanced down at his notes, “that you came to this country seven years ago.”
    “That’s about right.”
    He leaned back in his chair and uncrossed his legs, only to cross them again quickly. “With your family,” he said.
    “With my family.”
    “With your parents, right? You don’t have any siblings?”
    “Right.”
    He shuffled through a few papers again, this time a little slower. “And you went through counseling shortly after your father passed away?”
    I looked down at my hands. “That’s right.”
    “And how did he…?” He leafed through more papers on his clipboard.
    “A traffic accident. Driver hit and killed my father. I couldn’t sleep for a long time after. I was having difficulty at school. They said I was imagining things, weird things. So I went through counseling.”
    “And how did that go?”
    “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m alive, right?”
    A frown crossed his face. “How long did the counseling last?”
    “A couple of months or so.”
    “What was the problem?”
    “There was no problem.”
    “You said there was something about your imaginat—”
    “It was a grief mechanism ,” I cut in, “a kind of wish fulfillment . That’s what they called it. I would imagine that my father was around, even after his death.” I did not elaborate. I did not mention—as I once had to the grief counselor—how vivid those encounters had been, whole afternoons my dead father and I spent together. It was the only way I could cope with the pain.
    “The counseling ended after only a few sessions. That was a long time ago.”
    “But I see here that your grades took a hit. Even put on academic probation for a while.” He looked at me as if he expected some kind of response. “And you started acting out, playing truant from school for a spell as well, I see that here.”
    “Guilty as charged,” I said, smirking now with my arms raised in surrender.
    He stared hard into my eyes. “Right.” Then, looking away, he mumbled perfunctorily, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    “It was years ago.”
    “Yes.” He eyes returned to his notes, his eyebrows furrowing. “I see also that your mother had counseling?”
    “Yes, she did.”
    “For depression,” he said. “And this was for a few months.” Should have been for a few years . “Yes.”
    “And she was prescribed medication, Prozac?”
    “Yes.” Until money ran out .
    “And she’s fine now?”
    “Dandy. Positively perky. Not a cloud over her head. She motivates me every day, she’s a real force.”
    He flipped the clipboard onto the desk, his eyes taking a quick peek at his watch. “Well, OK, I just want to be sure you’re doing fine. In light of recent events.”
    “Just fine.”
    “Any loss of appetite?”
    “Nope.”
    “Sleeping problems?”
    “Nope.”
    “Distracted? Hard to focus on things?”
    “What did you