"Looking Up"

"So, Donny," my father says after we've finished breakfast and Charlie is saddled with the dishes. "You want to try Bradford again?"

No, Dad, I really don't. I make a show of looking at my watch. "He's probably in session now."

Dad nods wisely and with a look on his face – one that usually means I'm about to get busted. "Do you think that's why his line was busy earlier?"

"Probably."

"Odd, don't you think, that a therapist wouldn't have voicemail?"

Dad one, stupid Fed son zip. Think, Don, think. "You're right – he does usually have voicemail. Maybe his line is messed up or something."

"You should try it again and see if it's working. If not, surely he has an email address you could use to communicate with him."

"I'll have to check on that."

Dad leans close so that Charlie won't be able to hear him from the kitchen. "Depression is a very treatable condition."

I stare back at Dad, dumbfounded by his assessment. "Huh?"

Dad smiles, a slow sad smile that seems to go with the hint of moisture in his eyes. "I've noticed some changes in your behavior that concerned me, so I did some research online. I found a wonderful article on how family and friends can recognize when a loved one is depressed and how to help them through it."

"I've just been feeling a little blue the past couple of weeks," I say defensively. "Depression is a bit of a stretch."

"No, Donny. Your symptoms have been more severe the past couple of weeks but this started a few months ago."

I shake my head in disbelief. There's no way I've been like this for months. No way at all. I mean, I would have noticed… wouldn't I?

"Sometimes the person affected has a hard time recognizing it in themselves. Let me ask you this, Donny – and be honest with me." He gives me that stern, 'don't-patronize-me' look and I find myself nodding. "I've noticed you stop by the house less and less and when you do, it's not the same Don who used to clean out my refrigerator." He says the last part with a twinkle in his eye and I reluctantly smile back. "You've even lost some weight over the past few months. Your eyes don't light up like they used to, I haven't seen you really smile in ages, your work always seems to be pressing you down and… well, the last time you were over and there was a baseball game on TV, you didn't look at the screen a single time." He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes tightly. "Does that sound like you?"

I shrug, my stubborn pride not willing to admit defeat.

"It's not," Dad states firmly, letting me know I dare not argue with him. "And you know what? It's treatable, Donny. You just have to take the first step and I know you're strong enough to do that."

"I don't… I'm not…" I let my voice trail off as I have trouble making myself say the words.

"You are strong enough," my father insists. "And even if you don't think you are, that's why I'm here."

"Me too."

I whip my head around, horrified that Charlie might have heard most of this conversation. I was really hoping to remain the dependable big brother in his eyes. "Charlie…"

"What?" he shrugs as he sits next to me. "We all need help sometimes, Don. And God knows I owe you for all the times you've helped me." He grins and drapes an arm around my shoulder. "I love you to death but now is not the time to be the stubborn, mule-headed brother I've known and annoyed over the years."

Damn him but he just made me laugh. And… it felt kind of good. Maybe… "You're sure you don't mind going with me?"

Dad shakes his head in exasperation. "Of course we don't and please stop asking that. We're here no matter what you need or when you need it. Got it?"

I feel a blush creep up my neck and I suddenly feel self-conscious. "Yeah, I got it." I stand up, clasping and squeezing my father's hand as I remove it from my shoulder. "Okay, I really am going to make that phone call now."

I quickly return to my bedroom, snatch the phone off the bed and dial Bradford's number before I can chicken out again. I was expecting voicemail so I am extremely startled when I hear the man himself.

"Doctor Bradford speaking."

I swallow past the dryness in my mouth and clear my throat. "Hey, this is Don Eppes."

"Don," he greets me with a warm tone. "How's it going?"

"Um… not too well, actually. That's why I was calling."

"I see. What can I do to help?"

"I was sort of hoping you might be able to squeeze me in today or tomorrow?" There's a moment of silence that seems to stretch on forever. My heart starts fluttering and my stomach imitates a gymnast, doing somersaults and making me feel ill. God, why isn't he answering?

"I'm sorry Don, but I don't have any open slots."

I think I stop breathing. In fact, my whole body seems to be paralyzed.

"But you know what? I respect the hell out of you and I know you're a strong individual, so if you need me I want to be there for you. Can you meet me at my office tonight, after normal hours?"

I manage to take a breath. "Sure."

"Around eight-thirty? I know it's a little late but I want to make sure we can be uninterrupted."

"That's great, thanks." I lick my lips nervously before informing him "Dad and Charlie will be bringing me."

"That's fine. Tell me, Don, would you like them involved in our session or not?"

Do I? I have no clue and say as much.

"Tell you what, how about we start off and if we need them we can pull them in? And if not, they'll both be there for you when we're through."

"Thanks, Doc." We say our good-byes and I disconnect the call, tossing the now harmless phone onto the mattress. I don't believe it could have happened just from one call but I swear… I think… Is it possible I already feel better? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I do.

The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem and deciding to do something about it.

I'll be. As clichéd as it sounds, it appears to be true. And with that thought ringing through my head, I'm off to share the good news with Dad and Charlie.