3 Chapter Three

Caleb clings to his mother's hand as they step into the building. With wide eyes, he takes in the waiting area: warm-toned walls, chairs lining the edges, a few neutral decorations. Nothing immediately catches his eye. It is all somewhat bland and inoffensive. There is nothing bold, neither modern nor old.

"Is this the therapy place?" he asks, and his eyes flit up at his mother, who nods with a soft smile that does not quite reach her dark, anxious eyes. She gently guides him over and tells him to take a seat in one of the many chairs. Caleb climbs up into the one in the corner. He sits with his legs stiff, a foot wrapped around the other ankle, hands tucked beneath his thighs. He feels a tightness in his gut. His thoughts flashback to his mom's smile earlier; it had not felt right- she was nervous. The realization only makes Caleb shift about, and he wriggles about in his seat as he stares about the room with his brows furrowed. A few people stare back blankly. Others quickly look away. They shift uncomfortably under the boy's gaze. He is the youngest in the room by at least two decades. Caleb bites his lip, his chest tightens up, and his mind hurls through thoughts.

He was such a freak. This place was for grown people. This building is not meant for him. He is so abnormal compared to other kids that they had to go to a grown place where adults went for help, not children. He is such a burden. His mom was nervous. Her smile flashes through his mind. It never reached her eyes. He was the reason. He caused her so many problems. There is a rustle to his side, and he whirls around to see his mom sit down beside him after she had finished checking in. She sucks in a deep breath, but the way her shoulders sag makes it seem as if the air that fills her lungs does more to suck the life out, rather than rejuvenate. Caleb whimpers and wriggles in his seat, trying to take a breath as his heart quickens. Someone rustles a magazine. Another coughs harshly. The abrupt sounds startle him further.

"What's wrong, dear?" his mother asks softly, and the corner of her lips crease down; the lines of her face sharpen with worry. Caleb shifts, and he whimpers again as tears well up. He struggles to breathe. He begins to gasp for air, but his throat closes on itself before the inhale can make its way down. It curdles in his throat, the rush of his mind leaves essential bodily functions out of the equation as Caleb grapples with his thoughts. He gags on the air and begins to sob between his cracked, broken breaths.

"Caleb. Calm down. Deep breaths." his mother urgently directs. She feels the cold grip of panic claw at her heart. She does not know what to do. She did not know her child would be this way. She had not planned for it. She was unprepared for Caleb, but she is doing her best. She knows she cannot help him, so she takes him to a therapist. But the therapist is not here at this moment, and she is clueless. Everyone in the room begins to stare. A woman shifts and looks away. A man covers his mouth and squeezes his eyes closed. Caleb's actions, the feelings, the breaths were all too familiar to them. These people cannot help- as much as they want to.

"Caleb Weaver?" a voice calls as the dark brown door to the side swings open. The man is in a slate grey suit, dark hair combed back, and a purple tie tucked into the jacket. A silver watch glints on his wrist and the product in his hair glint with the light.

"Please, help!" his mother begs as her gaze darts up to the man. She is desperate. Caleb clutches at his throat and gasps for air. Each breath tears through his throat, but it never seems to fill his lungs. They remain empty and dry.

The man's eyes bulge as he hurries over. His shoes rap against the wood, and the boy closes his eyes at the sharp sounds. He crouches down and looks up at Caleb. He rests his hands on the boy's knees; his calm eyes look up and meet the panicked gaze of Caleb's.

"Take a deep breath with me, you're safe, you're perfectly all right- inhale with me," he says before he takes in a deep breath. Caleb chokes out a sob and claws at his throat. He shakes his head to explain that he cannot. "Imagine your lungs, imagine filling your lungs up with air like a balloon. Only you can blow up your lungs, breathe in," the therapist says. He repeats the same word several times to drill it into Caleb's head. Whatever is going on, it is imperative that he shifts the boy's focus from whatever was the cause of the panic.

Caleb whimpers and closes his eyes. He does as the man directed. Two red balloons in his chest and he forces a breath in. The balloons expand a minuscule amount before he has already exhaled, and they shrink. Caleb shakes his head, hands move to his chest, and he claws at his shirt. The boy sucks in a breath, fills the balloons some more, and with the sound of the therapist breathing with him, and the gentle direction from the man, Caleb eventually calms down. The man pats Caleb's knees before he stands and steps back a bit. He lets out a quiet exhale and subtly observes Caleb.

Caleb looks at the man then looks back at his mother. He sees her stand, sees her gather her purse, sees her reach out for his hand, and his gut tightens. He clambers out of the chair and grabs his mother's hand in a tight grip. His small fingers cling to her thin ones with the clutch of someone struggling for balance. After the pair is ready, Caleb looks back to the man.

"Hello Caleb, my name is Josh Mosher," he greets as he kneels to the boy's level. Caleb presses against his mother's side. He stares at the man with wide eyes before he turns and buries his face into his mom's hip.

"He's quite shy," his mother explains softly, and the adults exchange pleasantries before the man guides them to his office. Caleb tries not to cry as he tries to stay behind, but his mother picks him up. She soothes him with soft words as they walk down the hallway and take a turn into a room. The walls are painted a cool grey, softer than the man's suit, with white decor, and a blue orchid flower on the table. Along with that, there are a few toys: a Rubix cube, a slinky, a fidget spinner, and a fidget cube. She sets Caleb down, and the boy whines with anxiety. He immediately tries to crawl up to her lap, but she gently reprimands him to sit next to her properly. The adults talk for a bit before his mother stands. Caleb makes to stand, and she shakes her head.

"No, Caleb. You're staying here to talk with Mr- Sorry, with him," she says to her son. The boy gazes up at her with his big innocent eyes. They glisten with the pain of abandonment and the fear of change- a deep set of emotions far too strong for someone so young. She bites her lip, leans down, presses a kiss to his forehead, and walks out. She had been directed not to describe the therapist to Caleb in any way. Do not call him "Mr. Mosher" or "Mr. Josh." Do not say, "he's a nice man." Do not say, "don't worry." The doctor did not want Caleb to be influenced by anyone. The door clicks shut behind her, and Caleb stares after it. He imagines his mother as she walks back down the hall. Her heels click sharply, and the coat whirls around her as her hair bounces gently on her shoulders. She is the epitome of firm, definite elegance.

"So, Caleb, how are you?" the therapist asks, and the boy's attention shifts back to the room. He shifts a bit, then tucks his hands beneath his thighs.

"Fine," he mumbles as his eyes pick a spot on the ground. A piece of lint lies on the wooden floor, unassuming. He decides it is the best thing to stare at if he wants to avoid the gaze of the adult.

"Tell me about yourself? What do you do for fun? What's school like? What's your favorite movie?" the man's soft voice asks; he leans back in his chair, posture relaxed and nonthreatening. Caleb shifts a bit and bites his botLuke lip.

"I like to play with Luke. Nobody likes me at school. I liked Inside Out," Calebs mumbles after a moment of deliberation.

"Who is Luke?" the therapist asks, jotting down a few quick notes.

"My older brother. He's really cool," Caleb says softly. He visibly relaxes, his shoulders untense, breaths slower, as he talks about Luke.

"Oh? What do you guys do together?"

"We play video games. I don't like the shooting ones though, they're too loud. But Guitar Hero is cool."

"You don't like the shooting ones?"

"Yeah, too crazy," Caleb mumbles as he shifts. His hands curl up into fists beneath his thighs. The conversation continues in this manner. The therapist has to work to get things out of Caleb, but the boy remains mute until the man tries a different tactic.

"Do you like Legos, Caleb?"

"Yeah."

"I've got some. Let's just build some stuff for a bit," the therapist says with a smile. He pulls out a box of legos from a cabinet and sets it on the floor. Caleb shifts to sit on the floor next to the man. He begins to connect the bricks together, and the pair starts to build a house.

"Hey Caleb, I was wondering what happened in the waiting area before I called you back?" he asks.

Caleb rolls a Lego in his hand. He chews on his lip. The energy in the room tenses. He tries to keep his heart rate down and to keep his mind calm, but the question pulls him back to the worry on his mother's lips and the pain in the lines on her face.

"I just felt bad, my mom was feeling bad, and it's my fault," Caleb mumbles.

"Why is it your fault?"

"Cause I always think too fast and I can't breathe, and Mommy and Daddy don't know what to do," the boy whispers. He thinks of all the attacks, the terror on his parent's faces. The fake smiles when they try to act like it is not a big deal- that Caleb does not scare them, that they are not scared for him. But, he sees the fear, and he sees how it grips them. In the way that they question him about each day at kindergarten. How they act calm, but there is a timbre in their voice that wavers with dread.

"What type of stuff do you think?" the therapist asks, his voice soft and earnest, but he keeps his eyes away from Caleb. He continues to work on the Lego house, and he does everything in his power not to scare the boy. The click of two pieces being put together and torn apart over and over sounds out. Caleb thinks and fiddles with them as he looks off to the side. He rubs an eye for a moment and tries not to cry. He keeps his head down and turns it away from his therapist. He wants to hide his face.

"No one likes me. I'm weird. No one can help me. No one cares," the boy whispers. His voice is high, and it wavers as he talks. He takes a shuddering breath, clicking and unclicking the lego pieces again. The therapist nods slightly to himself, gently setting the tissue box next to the kid. The conversation continues, and Caleb explains his anxiety attacks from his perspective. They talk about colors, and people, and sound, and sleep. Caleb never lets go of the two lego bricks as they talk. He presses them together and rips them apart a few times between each answer, or in the pauses of his talking. After about an hour, their conversation wraps up, then turns back to the more simple toys in front of them. After it has died down, the therapist stands.

"I'll be back with your mom in a minute, just keep on playing, Caleb," the therapist says with a light smile to the boy.

"Okay, bye Mr. Josh," Caleb says. Over the hour, he has relaxed much more and trusts the man. His eyes stay glued to the intense build he's working on right now as Josh leaves and gets his mother. Caleb plays with the bricks. There is no conversation, only the soft clicks of the toys and his quiet mutters. After about five minutes, the door swings open. His mom and Mr. Josh step in, Caleb looks up, and his mother dabs a tissue to the corner of her eyes. She keeps her head high and turns it away from her son. She wants to hide her face.

"Caleb, I have a present for you," Mr. Josh says with a gentle smile to the young boy. He goes over to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a small object. It is a tiny black box that easily fits the palm of his hand. He walks over, crouches down, and hands it to the boy. Caleb takes it and turns it over in his small hands before pressing down on it. The top half of the box is a button. When he presses down, a small click sounds out. It is louder than the Legos but less mechanical and shrill than a pen. He pulls it close to him, hands in his lap as he clicks it again. His head tilts to the side and he looks up at Mr. Josh in askance.

"So Caleb, whenever you're feeling bad, or you're thinking too fast, this little clicker can help," the therapist says with a gentle smile, "Just press the button, and whenever you hear the click, you need to try and focus on something different. Take a deep breath, think a positive thought, count to five. Anything that's slower than whatever is happening," Mr. Josh explains.

Caleb shifts slightly and nods. His gaze is stuck on the clicker as he rolls it between his hands. Would it actually help?

"So, let's practice. Press the button?" Mr. Josh directs gently. Caleb nods and clicks it. The sound resounds out and he bites his lip.

"So, then you would take a deep breath, inhale for four seconds," he says, and the boy nods. Together, the pair inhale, and Mr. Josh holds up his fingers, counting to four. "Now exhale for four," he says, and the pair does so. Caleb giggles afterward, wiggling a bit.

"Kind of silly," he laughs softly, pressing the clicker a few more times.

"Yes, it's a bit silly, but I think it will really help you. Just remember to actually do it, otherwise, it'll be useless, right?" he says gently to the kid. Caleb nods and gazes down at the small object that already symbolizes so much. He slips it into his pocket and pats it through the denim to reassure himself it is there.

"Why do I have the bad thoughts?"

"Well, you have something called anxiety and depression. All it means is your brain works a bit differently. You think faster, and you have less of the stuff in there that makes people happy. It doesn't mean you're defective. It just means you have to work a bit harder than everyone else to feel good," Mr. Josh explains. The boy gazes at him with an empty stare, brows furrowed. His brain was empty of happy? What? The therapist sees his confusion and smiles lightly. He looks around, leans forward, and picks up a small spaceship Caleb had made with the Legos.

"You like space, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, so imagine people are rockets. Most people start off with a full fuel tank. They use that fuel and can go really far. You just started off with a bit less fuel in your tank. So, you have to work a bit harder. Astronauts like me and your parents can help steer and angle you with methods and assistance so that you can go the same distance as all the other rockets. We just need to teach you, and implement some techniques like the one I showed you to help you get that far," he hands Caleb the ship, a soft smile on his lips as his eyes twinkle with affection for the child.

"So I just have to study piloting more to be as good?" Caleb asks, brows still furrowed. He gets the metaphor, and he appreciates it. The metaphor helps him understand his mind better.

"You are just as good as everyone else, Caleb. Having the wrong fuels in your tank just makes it a bit harder for you to do some things. It doesn't mean you're 'less than' others, it just means you're different," Mr. Josh clarifies. The boy nods and wraps the ship in his hands. He turns it over a few times and shifts a bit, takes a big breath, looks up, and smiles.

"Thanks, Mr. Josh," he says sweetly. Caleb stands and hugs him. Right now, the boy's head only reaches the man's stomach. The therapist gives Caleb a doting smile and hugs back gently.

"Of course, Caleb. I'm here to help you," he reassures, and the boy's mind calms, the whirling currents slow, and the tranquil hope of happiness wells up. He is not broken; he just works differently. He can still fly like everyone else.