Dylan rested his head in his hands and tried to stare through the doctor’s notepad, wondering just exactly what the man was writing down. He knew shrinks weren’t supposed to judge, but he felt queasy asking that last question, and not just for the obvious reason. Ever since he had started coming to Dr. Richards about the dreams, a couple of weeks ago, he had been apprehensive about when the topic of his mother would inevitably arise. And here he was bringing it up himself, like a chump. “No one’s taken Freud seriously for years, Dylan,” the doctor assured him. “So I’m not assuming you want to have sex with your mother. Though this recurring dream woman might have something to do with her. Tell me about your mother.” “Can you say that in a German accent?” The doctor just stared back at him, and Dylan shrugged, resigned to the inevitable. “I don’t remember her at all. Dad only has one picture of her, holding me when I was just born.”
“Just one?”
“He said that she didn’t like having her picture taken. I think he snuck that one in.” Unbidden, the image formed clear in his mind; like an idiot, he had stared at that one photo often as a child. “She looked absolutely terrified. I mean, she’s trying to hide it, but you can tell.”
His voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
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