LITMIR.BIZ

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      Red cast an analytical eye at the couch against the window where twelve-year-old Cassadee Berg slouched with one cleated sneaker tucked under her, nervously fingering the hem of her soccer shirt.

      Red insisted that all her patients deposit their cell phones in a basket by the door during session. Out of sight, out of mind. Deprived of their devices, kids were lost as to what to do with their hands.

      “Tell me about your mom.”

      “She’s great,” said Cassadee in the resigned tone that said she’d rather be anywhere but a therapist’s office on a sunny, summer afternoon. Yesterday’s showers had tapered off, and the playing fields at Clarkston Middle School were finally drying out. “A saint, almost.”

      Red smiled sympathetically. “It can’t be easy, living with a saint.”

      Fiery brown eyes looked up from her lap. “It’s not like that.”

      Defensive, Red jotted on her pad.

      “Okay. How ’bout your dad?”

      “He’s great too.”

      Red summoned patience and tried to ignore her rumbling stomach. At Pat Berg’s frantic phone call, she had agreed to fit her daughter in after her full day of clients and a half-eaten apple for lunch. She was going to be late for supper—again. Grandma was going to be fit to be tied.

      Note to self: Start setting boundaries. But she already had made that note, more times than she cared to recall.

      They’d already gone over Cassadee’s school life, siblings, and friends. Something must be awry at home, or the girl wouldn’t be plagued with nightmares. She’d have to dig a little deeper.

      “Anything make your dad mad?” she asked conspiratorially.

      But Cassadee wasn’t taking the bait. “No.”

      “Never?”

      “Not really,” she replied sullenly.

      “Nothing makes him mad. He’s always in a good mood,” opined Red, challenging her young client to refute her.

      Cassadee sighed, sat on her hands, and gave Red a stony look.

      Red had been well versed in the theory and techniques of cognitive behavioral therapy at Oregon State. But since opening her own practice, she’d found that sometimes, to speed up the process, it helped to put your personal spin on things. Share something of your own experience in exchange for getting the client to talk.

      She turned her head to the side, parting her hair over her right temple. “See this? Scar from the time my stepdad threw a beer bottle at my head for talking back. Four stitches. Well, technically, he was my second stepdad.”

      For the first time, Cassadee looked interested. “What happened to the first one?”

      To tell her that her first stepfather had left after her mother slashed his truck tires for coming home drunk one too many times would be overkill. Save the big guns for later, if needed.

      Instead, she just shrugged. “One day he was there; the next, he wasn’t.”

      Cassadee’s head jerked up, remembering. “Well. There is something.”

      Finally.

      “Something that makes Dad, really, really mad. So mad, he rants and raves and gets in a bad mood for like a whole week.”

      Now they were getting somewhere. Red pictured James Berg, down at the gas station and convenience store he owned on 99. James had been pumping Red’s gas since she got her first car. He appeared to be well adjusted, but you never knew what went on behind closed doors. Did he have hidden anger issues that he took out on his daughter? Was that what was causing Cassadee’s night terrors?

      “What’s that?” Red cocked her pen above her notepad and leaned in, preparing to write fast.

      “Taxes. He hates taxes more than anything.”

      Red sighed back into her seat again and clicked off her pen. If James’s taxes were anywhere near as complicated as hers, no wonder he got mad when April came around.

      To a yawning noise from her belly, she clicked her pen back on and scribbled a note as to where they’d left off.

      “We’ll pick up from here next week.”

      Cassadee sprang toward the phone basket as if shot from a sling and immediately began trolling for missed messages, while behind her, Red stood and stretched out her lower back muscles, stiff from sitting all day with barely a bathroom break. She took no offense. When it came to adolescents, self-absorption was the norm, not an aberration.

      * * * *

      Red breezed into the trailer she shared with her grandmother. “Sorry I’m late for dinner, but I got a call about a girl who’s been having trouble sleeping and I didn’t want to make her wait until next week.”

      “The baked potatoes have been done an hour. They’re all shriveled up by now, but I suppose they’ll taste the same.”

      “Sorry,” said Red again, hurriedly washing her hands at the kitchen sink. “But this couple is worn out from lack of sleep. The girl keeps crawling into their bed in the middle of the night.”

      “I suppose you know what you’re doing,” said Grandma, setting down two filled plates on the tiny table. “Sit down, why don’t you, and I’ll say grace.”

      After the ritual, Red sliced into her soft potato. “The meatloaf smells heavenly. I’m starved.”

      “Probably didn’t take time out for lunch.”

      How did she know?

      “So. Tell me what’s going on with this wedding you’re helping plan for Junie. You’re always running, like a chicken with its head cut off.”

      “There’s not much to plan, actually.” After Red’s mother disappointed her, Grandma had raised Red with a stricter hand. Now that she was an adult, Red preferred to keep some aspects of her personal life to herself, to avoid Grandma’s scrutiny. Most of the time when Grandma thought Red was wedding planning, she was actually with Sam.

      “Junie’s an only daughter, and her mom is taking charge.”

      “A blessing in disguise, what with all the hours you put in down at your practice. And I thought I was a hard worker, back when I was working two jobs to make ends meet.”

      “Actually,” said Red, dotting her potato with butter, “I’m a little disappointed. I was kind of looking forward to having more of a hand in it. Not that I begrudge Junie’s mom. It’s her daughter’s wedding. She’s entitled to do things her way.”

      “You always were the first to want to lend a hand.”

      “That’s why I became a therapist in the first place—to help people.”

      “That’s you, a bit of a Pollyanna. Giving people more credit than they deserve.”

      Red recognized that for what it was—a dig at Red’s mom, now residing in one of Portland’s less savory neighborhoods with her latest in an endless string of broken men.

      “I’ve told you before, Grandma, it would be healthier for you to let go of your resentment where my upbringing is concerned. I have.”

      “You’re just like your mother. You got too big a heart. That’s going to get you into trouble one day.”

      “I like people, that’s all,” said Red, scooping up a forkful of meatloaf.

      Grandma pointed at Red, her knuckle gnarly from the menial jobs she’d worked over the years to feed and clothe her only grandchild. “Your mama likes people too. Likes fixing them. Likes it so much she put them before her own flesh and blood, before giving you a stable home life. Why do you think you’re so stuck on finding the perfect house?”

      Red

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