Don't Make Me Smile (6 page)

I went back to my room and cried a little more.

That night I must have even cried in my sleep. Because the next morning my pillowcase felt soggy.

It was Sunday, and there wasn't much to do. I got up for a while and wandered around the house. But I kept ending up back in my room, thinking about my mom and dad.

By late that afternoon, my mother was getting worried about me. The only time I had come out of my room was to get more Kleenex. She made me some homemade soup and brought it to my room. It was real nice of her and all. But I couldn't eat it.

I went to bed early. I thought maybe if I got a good night's sleep, I would feel better in the morning. But when the morning came, I still felt lousy. My mother must have sensed it, because she let me stay home from school again.

About nine o'clock, my father dropped by to see how I was doing. At least, I
thought
that's why he came by. Actually, he had another reason. And it turned out to be a very sneaky one.

“Could you get your clothes on, Charlie?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, Dad. Please. I can't go to school today. I don't feel good,” I said.

Anyone could see that I wasn't faking.

“I know you don't, Charlie,” said my father. “But there's somewhere else I'd like to take you
this morning. Just get ready, all right? It'll be good for you.”

As I was getting dressed, I convinced myself that he was taking me out to breakfast. For some reason, even if I don't have an appetite, the thought of blueberry pancakes usually cheers me up a little.

We drove for several miles. Finally, Dad pulled up in front of a small white building.

“Come on,” he said, getting out of the truck. “There's someone in here I'd like you to meet.”

It didn't look much like a restaurant. I was getting suspicious.

My father and I went inside and headed down a long, narrow hall. When we were almost to the end, he stopped in front of one of the offices.

“Well, this is the place,” he said.

I looked at the sign on the door. It said:

A
shrink
? Oh no. Not a shrink! I couldn't believe he'd brought me here.

“Why, Dad? Why did you
do
this? What a sneaky trick!” I said.

I started to back up, but my father grabbed me by the arm.

“Just talk to him one time, Charlie. That's all I'm asking,” he said. “He can help you feel better. I know he can. If you don't want to come back after today, you won't have to.”

Quickly, he pushed open the door. The secretary at the desk looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, Mr. Hickle,” she said cheerfully. “This must be Charles.”

My father nodded. “Is Dr. Girard ready to see him?”

“Yes. He can go right in,” she said. She pointed to a door across the room.

Dad knocked twice, opened the door, and gave me a nudge. “I'll be out here if you need me,” he said.

Dr. Girard was sitting at his desk. He wasn't very old for a doctor. When he stood up to greet me, I could see that he was wearing faded jeans and a sweater. I don't know why, but that really surprised me. I didn't think doctors were allowed to wear jeans to work.

“Hi, Charlie,” he said, smiling. “I'm Henry Girard.”

I didn't smile back. As a matter of fact, I didn't even say hello. I just sort of stood there
feeling like a fool. I still couldn't believe that I was talking to a child psychologist. It made me feel all weird inside. Like I was a nutcase or something.

“Please, sit down,” said Dr. Girard.

I sat.

He sat, too.

“Do you know why your father brought you here today?” he asked.

“Not unless you serve pancakes,” I said. “I thought he was taking me out to breakfast.”

Dr. Girard laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “But I have a hard time just making cereal.”

“Yeah, that's what I was afraid of,” I told him.

“Oh, believe me, Charlie,” he said. “There's nothing here to be afraid of. Your dad just brought you here because he knows that you're really unhappy right now. And he's hoping that maybe I can help.”

I didn't reply. I didn't know what I was supposed to say. I had never been a nutcase before.

Dr. Girard sat down in his chair. “So do you want to tell me what's going on at home?” he asked.

“No, not really,” I said.

I wasn't trying to be rude. It just felt weird
talking to some strange man I didn't even know. I mean, all your life your parents go around telling you not to talk to strangers. Then all of a sudden, they decide to get a divorce, and boom … they dump you in some strange guy's office and they expect you to spill your guts out.

I looked around some more. “Where's the couch?” I said. “Aren't crazy people supposed to lie down on a couch when they talk to you?”

Dr. Girard laughed again. “Well, I don't get many ‘crazy' people in this office,” he said. “But you're not the only one who thinks that you have to be ‘crazy' to come here. At first, almost everyone I see thinks that.”

I had to admit, the guy was trying to be understanding. But even so, he was still a stranger.

“It probably feels funny talking to a stranger about your problems, doesn't it?” he said next.

Great. Now he was reading my mind.

“I promise you, Charlie. You won't have to tell me anything that you don't want to,” he said. “In fact, all I would like for you to do is answer one small question for me. It's a question I ask all my patients. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

“Okay, here's the question,” he said. “How do I look?”

Geez. What a stupid thing to ask.

I didn't answer. If you ask me, answering a stupid question is almost as stupid as asking it.

Dr. Girard stared at me.

“I'm serious, Charlie. How do I look?” he asked again.

I was going to try to outstare him, but I figured he was probably a lot better at staring than I was. After all, he got to stare at people all day long. So finally, I gave in and answered the stupid question.

“You look fine,” I said. “Can I go now?”

Dr. Girard laughed some more. For a guy who worked with nutcases all day, he sure laughed a lot.

“Do you think you could be a little clearer?” he said. “I mean, do I look happy to you? Or depressed? Or mad? How do you think I look?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don't know. I guess you look happy.”

“You're right,” he said. “I am happy.”

Well, goody-goody for you, I thought. Why was he acting like such an idiot all of a sudden?
Personally, I didn't care whether he was happy or not. All I wanted to do was get out of there.

Dr. Girard kept talking. “The thing is, though, I wasn't always as happy as I am right now. As a matter of fact, Charlie, when I was your age, I was just about the most miserable kid that you've ever seen in your life.”

I knew he was setting me up. He wanted me to ask him why he used to be miserable. I tried not to, too. But my curiosity got the best of me.

“Okay. I give up,” I said. “Why were you miserable?”

“For the exact same reason that you are,” he said. “I was miserable because my parents told me they were getting divorced.”

I should have known he was going to say that. He was trying to find a way to get me to talk about my own situation. It was sneaky, I thought. But it wouldn't work.

“As a matter of fact,” continued Dr. Girard, “I was so unhappy about the divorce that I did something pretty strange.”

Once again, my curiosity got to me. What could he have done that was any stranger than the things I had done? What was stranger than going to live in a tree?

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I stopped speaking to my parents,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. That was it? He honestly thought that not speaking to your parents was
strange
?

“No offense, Dr. Girard,” I said. “But what's such a big deal about not speaking to your parents? I stop speaking to my parents all the time.”

“For a whole year, Charlie?” he asked. “I didn't speak to either one of my parents for a year. Not one word.”

Now I felt insulted.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “I'm not some dumb little kid, you know. I understand what you're trying to do here. You're trying to get me to talk by making up a bunch of wild stories. No one can stop speaking to their parents for an entire year.”

Dr. Girard leaned over his desk and looked me straight in the eye.

“One … whole … year,” he said again.

This time, I could tell he wasn't kidding.

“But that's impossible,” I said. “How could anyone stop talking for a whole year?”

“Wait. Hold it. I didn't say that I stopped talking,
completely
,” he said. “I said that I stopped
talking to my
parents.
I talked to everyone else just fine. My friends, teachers … everybody, except Mom and Dad.”

“Wow,” I said. “My mom and dad get mad if I clam up for even a couple of days. What did your parents do?”

“They did exactly what your father did today,” he said. “They took me to a child psychologist. In fact, they took me to a bunch of psychologists. But it didn't do any good. I was a very stubborn kid. I would talk to the psychologists as friendly as could be. Then I'd go home and not say another word.”

This was unbelievable. “So let me get this straight,” I said. “You didn't say one single word to your parents at all? Nothing? Never?”

Dr. Girard shook his head. “Nope. I mean once in a while, when they asked me a question, I would shake my head yes or no, but that's about it. I never opened my mouth. Not even at Christmas.”

“So you didn't ask for any presents?” I asked. This guy was
amazing.

“Not one,” he said. “And believe me, that turned out to be a very big mistake.”

“Why? What happened?” I asked.

“Well, that Christmas I really wanted a
basketball hoop and a stereo,” he said, “but since I wasn't speaking, no one knew it. I thought about writing a Christmas list on a piece of paper, but I decided that would be almost like talking, so I didn't do it.

“Anyway,” he continued, “when I got up on Christmas morning, all I found under the tree was a game of Life, a ton of school clothes, and some handmade mittens.”

I started to laugh.

“Wait. That's not the worst part,” said Dr. Girard. “My mother put
fruit
in my stocking. Two oranges and an apple. She knew I'd hate that. I'm sure that's why she did it.”

I laughed even louder.

“Take it from me, Charlie,” he said. “If you ever decide to stop talking to your parents for any length of time, wait until after the holidays.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I could never last as long as you did. I always think of too many mean things that I want to say to them.”

Dr. Girard nodded. “Well, sometimes, that's okay,” he said. “Sometimes it's better to say what's on your mind—even if it's mean—than to keep everything inside.”

I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said. “I've said plenty of mean things to them already, but it doesn't seem to be helping me that much. I still feel just as rotten as I did when they first told me. Maybe even rottener.”

The doctor thought a minute. “Tell me something, Charlie. When did you first find out about the divorce?” he asked.

“Last Sunday night,” I said.

Dr. Girard looked surprised. “Last Sunday night? But that was only a week ago.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “It's been a whole week, and I feel just as bad now as I did then.”

He leaned forward. “But that's what I'm trying to tell you,” he said. “A week is no time at all, Charlie. If you're thinking that you should feel better in only a week, you're in for a very unpleasant surprise. It takes time to get over something as big as this. Lots of time.”

“I understand that, Dr. Girard,” I said. “But every day I seem to feel even sadder than the day before. I think I'm getting worse instead of better.”

He shook his head. “Let me try to explain something to you,” he said. “What if last Sunday night, instead of finding out about the
divorce, you'd had an accident. Let's say that you fell off your bike and you broke your arm. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Well, if last Sunday night you fell off your bike and broke your arm, would you expect it to be healed by today?”

“No,” I said.

“No, of course you wouldn't,” he said. “Because you know that broken bones take lots of time to heal. But what a lot of people don't know is that there is another part of us that can take even longer to heal than broken bones. And that is our emotional part, Charlie. Our hurt, broken feelings.”

I sighed. “No, you don't get it, Dr. Girard,” I said. “It's not just my
feelings
that are hurt. This is a lot worse than that. Hurt feelings happen when your father puts his chef's hat on his hand instead of his head. I can get over stuff like that. I do it all the time.”

Dr. Girard looked puzzled. But I didn't feel like explaining the chef's hat thing, so I kept on going.

“My parents are ruining my whole
life
,” I said. “It's like they've wrecked every part of it. And nothing will ever be the same again.”

“Like what?” asked Dr. Girard.

“Like
everything
,” I said. “You ought to know. Like the three of us will never take a vacation together again. And on Christmas morning, it will only be Mom and me. And whenever I have something special to tell my dad, I'll have to call him on the phone. Before, when I had something to tell him, I used to just listen for the sound of his truck pulling into the driveway after work. But I can't do that anymore. Because he won't be coming home anymore.”