Some Kind of Happiness (22 page)

“Not for me. I'm having tons of fun.”

Then I hang up.

T
HE DAY OF MY FIRST
appointment arrives. I will have one every Tuesday afternoon at three o'clock.

Last night, instead of sleeping, I looked up Dr. Bristow's patient reviews online.

I had to sneak down to the computer in Grandpa's office, because Grandma took my phone from me. I am not allowed to use it except for my nightly calls with Mom and Dad.

Grandma says the Internet is toxic.

Instead I should help her clean these pans.

Let's bake. We have run out of cookies.

(We must be normal now.)

Dr. Bristow's ratings are high.

I do not think my grandparents would associate with a doctor who had bad reviews.

Before we leave, Grandma presents me with a sundress to wear to my appointment. Her fingernails are a pale, polished pink.

“You always wear those baggy T-shirts,” she says to me. “I thought this would be a nice change.”

The dress is pretty—white with pale blue stripes—but it is inappropriate for the Everwood.

The only queens who wear gowns are queens who live in palaces and hold court in shining halls.

Queens who live in forests and run wild with pirates must choose more practical attire—for combat, for exploration.

But what do queens do when everything has been taken from them, when their world is changing?

Queens hold their heads high.

When I am dressed, Grandma stands behind me and sweeps my hair up into a knot. Together we look in the mirror.

“You look lovely, Finley,” she says. “You even look a little bit like me, when I was your age.”

(When she was my age—in a house with not very much love, not very much money.)

(Now
there
is a reason to be sad.)

I stare at our reflection. I wonder if Grandma is erasing the old image of Finley Hart in her mind and replacing it with this Finley, in the sundress, who is trying her best to achieve a magazine smile, who is seeing a psychologist because she is a spot who must be cleaned.

Who looks like her grandmother once did.

The dress feels stiff around me, like I'm wearing folded cardboard, but I sit quietly in the car while Grandma drives me.
Grandma
, driving me. She is skipping her afternoon nap to take me to this place. She looks very thin in the driver's seat.

I suppose it is tiring, to be sick, to be hiding your sick.

It is certainly tiring to hide what's happening from my cousins.

They know nothing about my appointments, and I would prefer to keep it that way. They think the adults have decided we need more structure to our summer, and that's why we have basically been grounded from playing outside.

That's why my cousins haven't been coming over to Hart House as much over the past few days, only showing up for a dinner or lunch here and there.

So we don't run off and do things like befriend pirates and explore dangerous old houses.

So we can be Harts. Harts, who follow rules. Harts, who do not associate with people like the Baileys.

(If my cousins find out what's really going on, what will they think of me?)

(I am not a liar, and yet here I am, lying.)

(I will lie forever if I have to. My cousins and the Baileys can never, ever know the truth.)

How do I feel about all of this?

I feel . . . nothing.

I feel like I have been in a very hard sleep, and now I am stumbling around trying to wake up.

(WAKE UP, FINLEY!)

(Be normal now.)

We pass the road that leads to the farm stand where Grandpa and I buy our strawberries. My heart tears open.

“I'm so proud of you, Finley,” Grandma tells me. “I think this will be good for you.”

I am not sure how to respond. “It will?”

“Absolutely. This will get everything back to normal, you see? A normal summer.”

(Because we mustn't be anything but normal, we Harts.)

She cleans a crumb off my cheek.

How do I feel?

Angry.

Alone.

Small.

Stiff.

Have either of my grandparents talked to me about what I witnessed in their bedroom?

They have not, and I have been too afraid to ask.

WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A HART

• If something terrible is going on, you must try to not ever talk about it.

•  •  •

Grandma and I step into the waiting room. Pale green walls, stacks of magazines, soft piano music playing in the background. The room is full of kids—some older than me, some younger; some with parents, some without.

Some look happy, some don't.

But then, I know very well about the lies you can find on people's faces.

Grandma fills out forms, and we sit and wait. I hook my
feet around the legs of my chair. Beside me Grandma is motionless except for one finger, tapping on her knee. Her dress is covered in tiny flowers.

She clears her throat. “I hope you have a good time today.”

“A . . . good time?”

“I only mean, I hope it's helpful.”

I stare at the floor. The carpet is made up of a million different shades of blue. “Thanks.”

(I don't need help.)

“I hope so too.”

(I don't need help.)

(There is nothing here to help.)

(I have fixed it.)

(I will fix it.)

“We're lucky,” Grandma says, “that we can afford to bring you here.” She rearranges the folds of her dress. “Have you thought about that?”

“Yes,” I say quietly, which is true. When I looked up Dr. Bristow on the Internet, I saw how much it costs to come here. I hear the news; I see things in the newspaper that aren't crossword puzzles. I don't understand everything, but I understand some things. Not everyone could come to this place. A lot of people could not.

(What a lucky girl you are, Finley Hart.)

(How lucky we are, to be able to afford this place, this food, these clothes.)

(So get it together, Finley.)

Grandma folds my hand into both of hers, and we wait together. The air-conditioning is on so high, my skin is covered in goose bumps. I feel a little sick. The
Pastoral
Symphony cycles through my head. I almost beg her to return to the car. Can't we listen to Beethoven instead?

(Beeth-oven. It's funnier that way.)

“It's okay,” Grandma says quietly. “Everything is fine, now.”

Is she talking to herself or to me?

“The Baileys are our friends, that's all,” I whisper.

Grandma doesn't answer. She says, “Maybe we'll go shopping tomorrow. What do you think?”

“Finley Hart?”

A smiling woman enters the room. She is dressed sensibly and has dark, curly hair. I recognize her from the pictures I found online: Dr. Bristow.

She waves at me. “You ready to come on in?”

“I guess.”

We stand. Grandma says, “Avery will pick you up in an hour.”

“Oh, please join us, Mrs. Hart,” suggests Dr. Bristow. “We recommend—”

“If it's all right, we'd like to let Finley speak with you alone today. Just to get things started.” Grandma places her soft hands on my shoulders, warming me up. “If that's all right.”

This does not surprise me. I heard what Grandma said the other night, in the kitchen, once she thought I had gone to sleep:

Finley has made such a mess of things.

I suppose I am responsible for cleaning it up.

•  •  •

The couch frightens me.

I know what it means. I have seen enough television shows.

I am supposed to sit on this couch and tell Dr. Bristow about what's troubling me.

But if I do that—

If I do that—

Besides, there are too many things troubling me.

Where would I even begin?

I can't begin.

No one can know about the blue days. They are mine. They are my secret—mine and my notebook's.

(No one can know. No one can ever know.)

If anyone found out . . . what would they say?

I know:

Oh, but you should feel lucky to live in that beautiful house with those beautiful people!

Did you know your grandparents gave lots of money to the town of Billington? The library wouldn't even be here without their contribution.

Such wonderful people.

You don't seem to be at all like them.

(Just breathe, Finley. Don't let them see.)

“Finley?”

I blink.

Dr. Bristow is sitting on the edge of her desk, sipping at a cup of coffee. “Do you want to sit down? You don't have to, of course. But I promise you this—it's a freakishly comfortable couch. A patient actually fell asleep on it once.”

All right. I can handle sitting down.

But every step I take fills my body with crashing waves of fear, building

building

building
—

(A hundred Finleys screaming through a hundred different megaphones.)

I perch on the edge of the couch, ready to run, if necessary.

Dr. Bristow smiles. “I'm so glad you've decided to sit. Because if you didn't, I'd stay standing too, and my feet are
killing
me.” She slides into her chair and then pops right back up. “Oh! Do you want something to drink? I've got water in my fridge over here.”

The idea of drinking water right now nauseates me.

I shake my head. I cannot possibly open my mouth, not even to say a simple “No.”

I must keep myself held tightly together, straight up and down, like someone has stuffed me into a too-small bag and zipped me up.

If I move too much, or say even one word, the zipper will burst open and I will fall out.

No one wants to see that.

“It won't bother you if I drink my coffee, will it?”

I shake my head again. Dr. Bristow takes another long sip of coffee, and I examine her: Perhaps Mom's age. Eyes as dark as her hair.

“Do you like it here in Billington?” Dr. Bristow says.

(I didn't think I would, but I did. For a while.)

I say nothing and shrug.

Dr. Bristow sorts through files on the table beside her. She does not seem to be in a hurry.

“I like it all right, but I've got to confess something: If it weren't for my husband, no way would I live in a small town like this. I'm a city girl. I've lived in Billington ten years now, and the quiet still freaks me out.”

(I'm from the city too. I live in an apartment with my parents.)

(For now.)

I stare at the floor.

“But that's what happens when you fall in love, I guess. You end up doing stupid things like spending too much on wedding cake and moving out to the middle of nowhere.”

(Please don't talk about love.)

(My parents . . .)

I stare at my shoes. They are freckled with Everwood mud. Then I cannot see the mud anymore and realize my tears are blurring everything out.

Dr. Bristow sets down her coffee mug. “Hey. Finley?”

I am not afraid. (I am afraid.) I am not sad. (I am full of sadness.)

(But I do not understand why.)

I will push and push on these thoughts until they are nothing.

Dr. Bristow never has to know.

I think of Grandma—Grandma, her wig sliding. Hiding in the bedroom. Sleeping for hours. Getting injections.

WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A HART

• You are excellent at keeping secrets.

“You know, I've got lots of work to do,” says Dr. Bristow, from a great distance. “If you want to sit there and relax for a while, we can try to talk again in a few minutes. You're in the driver's seat here.”

How unexpected. I'm sure that is not how this is supposed to work. Right?

Dr. Bristow smiles at me. “Promise. Okay?”

But this is not how you clean up a mess. It cannot be.

I should be saying something to her.

Grandma and Grandpa and Mom and Dad are paying Dr. Bristow to fix me.

But it can't be so bad to sit here, just for today. Can it?

Dr. Bristow winks at me. “Comfiest couch in the world.”

I do not smile; I am still afraid of moving too much.

But I can sit, and breathe. Fine.

Dr. Bristow moves to her desk and begins to type on her computer.

Five minutes pass before I feel comfortable enough to relax my shoulders, and when I do, they ache as though someone has been driving hot needles into my bones.

I find the clock on the wall, watch the second hand, and wait.

Tick, tick.

Tick, tick.

HE QUEEN EXPLORED THE WHITE
halls of the Great Castle, gliding from gallery to ballroom to terrace.