37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) (9 page)

I close my eyes. The nurses have dimmed the fluorescent lights for me, and I feel myself drifting. Drifting to a place where I can see him, hear him, know him again.

“Don’t tell your mother,” Dad says, helping me into the driver’s side of the golf cart.

I laugh. I’m nearly thirteen, and already I don’t tell Mom any more than I have to. “I won’t. This is so cool.”

Dad points. “Okay, that’s the gas. That’s the brake. Make friends with the brake.”

I plant both feet on it.

“Good.” Dad walks around and hops in the passenger side, where I was sitting a moment ago. My hands grip the thin steering wheel. Yes! I’ve wanted all my life to drive something, but I’ve never done it before. Mom won’t even take me to the go-carts.

Dad shifts the gear stick from P to D and says, “Now release it slowly.”

I move my feet. The cart lurches forward an inch. I slam my feet back down. Dad chuckles. “It’s okay. Let go and give it a little gas.”

I gun it. We fly several yards before I panic and brake again. Stop, start. Stop, start. Dad talks me through it, and I learn to guide the wheel. He has one hand on my shoulder, the other on the dash. The green lawn stretches wide in front of us, and I drive in big slow circles. I get the hang of it, and soon we’re swooping, soaring round and round at top speed, which isn’t really very fast, but feels it.

Dad grins. “See? You’re a natural.”

I’m concentrating hard on my hands and feet, but I manage to quip, “Hello, I’ve been telling you that for years.” The world is at my fingertips, Dad is at my side, and it feels like nothing could ever go wrong.

*   *   *

“ELLIS.”

Mom’s hand on my shoulder shakes me awake. She’s sitting on the edge of Dad’s bed, feet close to mine, face leaning in.

My head is fuzzed from awkward sleep. It’s strange, seeing Mom here. In my special place, my alone-with-Dad place.

“What are you doing here?” I shrug out from under her touch, and she pulls away like I’ve stung her. Her other hand is resting on Dad’s wrist, almost like she’s feeling his pulse. I know it’s beating strong.

“We have an appointment to keep,” Mom says.

“I told you I’m not going.”

“This is important to me.”

I raise my voice. “Not. Going.”

Mom takes a deep breath. “I hear you saying that you would prefer not to go to the doctor today.”

“Yeah, I’ve only said it a hundred times.”

“Will you listen to me explain why I want you to go?”

“I already know why.” I drag myself out of the chair, circling around the bed, away from her. “So shrink number a hundred can try to convince me that you’re right about Dad.”

“That’s not why.”

“Yeah? Then why?” I surge forward; my thighs bump the bed frame. On the other side, Mom shifts to keep her balance. We’re not that far apart, really, but it feels like what’s between us is huge and pushing us outward.

She doesn’t stand up to face me. She sits there, hip to hip with Dad, holding his hand, mostly gazing at him, sometimes glancing at me over her angled shoulder. I don’t understand why she looks so much smaller than usual.

“I want us to be able to talk about things.”

“What?”

“I want you to be able to tell me how you’re feeling. And I want to tell you—to tell you how I’m feeling. We don’t do that very well, do we?”

I don’t know what to say.

“I want to understand why things like last night happen, and what’s going on with you.”

I choke on a laugh. “You have no idea what happened last night. You didn’t even ask me. You don’t understand anything.”

“But I want to.”

I’m not sure that’s true. “Well, you can’t.”

Mom looks at me. “Maybe you won’t get anything out of it. I know that’s a possibility, Ellis, but it would mean a lot to me if you would just try. Please.”

She kisses Dad’s forehead, touches him along the edge of his hair. I don’t like it buzzed so short, like sandpaper. He used to wear it longer, a little poufy. One of many things that have changed.

Mom stands up, moving toward the door. Despite what she’s just said, I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t know what she’s feeling. But I know that I want to.

I want to tell her … I want her to understand … what? I cross my arms tight over my chest. For a moment, I wait, searching for the right words, any words at all.

“It won’t help,” I say.

“Okay.”

“I’m not changing my mind.”

“I know.”

Mom slides her sunglasses on. The keys dangle from her fingers, stretched out to me. “Let’s go. You can drive.”

18

Dr. K-H

Maybe. A little. I’m not completely sure yet.

AT FIRST, I THINK
I’ve walked into the wrong room. The woman is wearing hemp-looking woven sandals. It’s enough to make me want to turn around and leave.

She extends a slim hand. “Margaret Krezinski-Hollingswood. You must be Ellis.”

“Brilliant deduction. I’m already cured,” I say.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” She grins, then pats the sides of her thighs. “Well, let’s have a seat, shall we?”

The office looks straight out of the seventies. Wood paneled, with shag throw rugs and an honest-to-God hammock strung up between the walls at one corner. All the chairs have skinny arms, except for one fat green sofa, where I sit. The AC’s not quite turned up enough.

A black-framed crayon drawing on the wall beside me shows a little green kid labeled “Jeremy” next to a big purple person labeled “Dr. K-H,” which makes sense, because hers is about the longest name I’ve ever heard. That and the plush sofa are the only things that don’t quite fit the old-school décor.

“I’ve never had a hippie shrink,” I say.

“I prefer ‘retro therapist,’” she says primly, easing into a chair across from me.

Whatever. But I try to sound sincere when I say, “Oh. Sorry.”

“That was a joke,” she says.

“Oh. Sorry.” The sudden silence edges me. “Uh, well, I’ve never had a shrink who makes jokes before, either.”

Dr. K-H laughs. “Really? None of them?”

“What are the odds, right? I’ve been to like a hundred.”

“How many really?”

I have to think. “Maybe six.”

“Which one did you like best?”

“None of them.”

“That must have been very frustrating for you.”

Here we go, with the shrinkiness. “I guess.”

“A lot of people have to try on a few therapists before they find one that fits,” she says. “Nothing wrong with that.”

I shrug, but look at her face a little harder. So far, this is not so bad. At least she didn’t start off by listing what all needs to be fixed about me.

“What made you decide to seek therapy, Ellis?”

I snort. “Uh … I didn’t. My mom…” My voice trails off.

“I see.” Dr. K-H nods.

Pause.

“Well,” the doctor says, “sitting here isn’t going to help anything unless you want to be here.”

Silence.

She gets up and goes to the cabinet behind her desk. “We still have an hour, so what’ll it be? I’ve got checkers, backgammon, deck of cards. Candy Land, for the young at heart.” She grins.

“Um…”

“I’m partial to checkers, myself,” she says, extracting the game box. “If you can be swayed.”

I sit up straighter. “Um … so, that’s it?” I’m relieved, but also vaguely disappointed.

The doctor flips open the checkers box. “That’s it,” she says. “Unless…”

Pause.

The long silence draws me in.

Okay, I’ll bite. “Unless…?”

“If you found a therapist you liked, would you want to work with him or her?”

I shift in place. I should have known it would be a big unless. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it’s not stupid. If it helps with … you know … stuff.”

“So, you don’t mind if we talk a bit more?”

Pause.

“Checkers are okay, I guess.” I like them. Abby doesn’t. Which means I haven’t played in years.

“Red or black?”

I choose black. I rub the ridges around the edge and pretend I’m rubbing Dad’s scritchy-scratchy head.

“Tell me a little about your friends from school,” she says.

I scrape the edge of the checker with my fingernail, press into it until the little ridges appear on my thumb and hold their shape.

Dr. K-H studies me closely. “Would you rather talk about something else?”

The soft cushions on her big green couch threaten to swallow me. I don’t know how it’s possible to be so utterly cozy and agitated at the same time.

“What’s the point of this?”

“I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“Can we just talk about the thing, so I can go?”

“What thing is that?”

“My mom must have told you why she sent me here.”

“What do you think she told me?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. “I know she preps all the shrinks to deal with me.”

Dr. K-H shakes her head. “Right now,” she says, “it’s not about what your mom says or thinks or does. Just you.”

Silence. The pieces are all laid out. It’s my move.

I slide a black checker forward. Game on.

She counters, mirroring me. “I think I can help you,” she says softly. “If you let me.”

“Awesome.” I clap my hands. “Let the healing begin.”

Dr. K-H smiles. “Do you like movies?” she says.

Uh-oh. Does she know I was quoting
Good Will Hunting
just then?

“Yeah, I guess.” If loving movies can be considered liking them, then yes, I like them.

“What’s your favorite?”

“Dan in Real Life
.” It slips out before I can help myself. I force a laugh. “Now that you know, are you going to say something shrinky about me?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Wasn’t going to. But I suppose I could.”

In spite of myself, I’m intrigued. “Okay, let’s have it.”

“You can tell a lot about a person from the kind of movies they like. Did you know that?”

“Maybe. I guess.” I like
Dan in Real Life
because of the family. Big. Happy. Together. Even though sad things have happened to them, they figure out how to go on. Can she see all that?

Silence.

“So, now that you know all my deep, dark secrets, can I go?”

Dr. K-H smiles. “No one will ever know them all, Ellis.”

I’m not sure I’m comforted by that.

*   *   *

MOM’S WAITING
in the parking lot. She leans against the side of the car, arms crossed, keys dangling from one fist. She’s staring into the near distance. No, she’s gazing up at a larger-than-life billboard ad of her own face, angled toward the expressway. “Get through the night with WKTZ’s own Laura Baldwin,” it reads.

I slow my steps; it’s something about the way she’s standing. I think maybe she’s in a mood where she doesn’t want to be bothered, or else her thoughts have sent her tumbling far from here and she may not want to come back.

But then she stirs toward me.

“Thank you,” she says, clicking the car doors unlocked.

“Yeah, okay,” I say, stealing the keys from her hand.

19

Hospital Shows on TV

But not actual hospitals. They don’t remind me of each other at all. Is that weird?

IT’S SUNDAY,
and there’s an
ER
marathon on all day. I stay in my pajamas, pump the AC, and curl up on the couch beneath tons of blankets. They’re rerunning episodes from the first couple seasons, so it’s stuff I’ve never seen, which is awesome. I couldn’t ask for anything better.

Today, I just want to lose myself in someone else’s life and problems. Forget about me.

Six hours in, I’ve become a hopeless Noah Wyle–George Clooney junkie. I’m feeling a little peckish, but not enough to consider actually getting up for food again. Mom’s door is still closed. Perfect.

The doorbell rings. I seriously contemplate ignoring it, because I’ll lose my freaking mind if I leave my cocoon and it’s just Girl Scouts or Mormons.

But it rings again.

I tug the door open. Colin’s standing there, looking strangely formal in pressed khakis and a sleek sport coat.

I snort. “What are you wearing?”

He tugs at his shirt collar. “My grandparents are in town. We just came from brunch.” He rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought we might hang out.” Pause. “I’m worried about you.”

“You and the rest of the world.” The doorknob clicks as I release it. I leave the door open for him, heading for the kitchen.

“Hungry?” I offer, rooting around in the cabinets and fridge.

Colin settles at the kitchen table. He pats his belly. “Brunch, remember?”

“Right.” I’m fine with that. It means he won’t stay as long, and there’ll be all the more for me.

Colin watches with dismay as I slam cinnamon bread into the toaster, popcorn into the microwave, leftover wonton soup into a pot, and a box’s worth of pizza bagels into the oven. Pizza bagels are my bad-mood food. The rest is just for the hell of it.

“Can we talk?”

“I’m not sure.” At least I’m not forsaking honesty.

“My phone is ringing like mad. Everyone’s buzzing about Grover’s.”

I slam the oven and turn. “I don’t want to talk about Friday night. If that’s why you came, you should just go.”

Colin holds up his hands. “Sorry. I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t.” I lean against the counter. My fingers shake. I tuck them under my arms. I duck my head and close my eyes, to ward off the feeling of being overwhelmed.

Instantly, Colin’s in front of me, touching me, trying to put his arms around me. I shake and shrug away.

He takes me by the shoulders. “Dude. You are seriously freaking out. Do you know this? Please tell me you know this.”

“I know.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess.”

I can’t look him in the eye, so I study the numbers counting down on the microwave. The little
pop, pop, pop
s have begun. Buttery deliciousness is a mere minute and forty-two seconds away. Forty-one. Forty.