Something Right Behind Her (8 page)

It was Dad who
came in and kind of tumbled down onto the bean bag. I was curled up on my
pillow pretending to read. Dad has this really high forehead and very light
brown eyes. He looks really serious most of the time, unless he’s totally
cracking up over some stupid movie. He can laugh at the same joke half a
million times.

Dad looked up at
me and said, “Mom told me things are getting pretty rough with Eve. Seems to us
like you’re venting your anger, not that we blame you. We think maybe you need
someone to talk to other than us.”

“I’ll be
alright, Dad, I said. “It was just a bad week.”

“Sorry kid, it’s
gotta happen,” was all he said. My Dad has a way of talking, which comes from
being a lawyer, I guess, that makes him sound so sure of things it doesn’t
really occur to you to argue. I guess that’s why Mom didn’t come in herself.
She sent in the big guns.

Later that
night, I came back downstairs. Mom was reading a book on the couch. Dad and
Milly must’ve been off watching TV. I curled up next to Mom. I knew she
wouldn’t ask me about the details of my tantrum. She just wanted me near her,
and I could feel that pull from my bedroom. “It’s been a rough few weeks, huh?”
she said.

“I guess so,” I
said.

“You know you
can talk to me anytime,” she said. ‘And your father, too. He wants you to go
meet him for lunch in the city sometime soon. That might be a good idea. I
think you need to get your mind off Eve.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I
said, and I lay there, with my head against her shoulder. I wasn’t sure whether
getting my mind off Eve would make things any better. It seemed, actually, like
when I wasn’t thinking about her that things got out of hand. If I’d had my
mind more on Eve that night with Doug, if I’d stayed with her until he’d gone
off to bed, none of this would ever have happened.

CHAPTER SIX

Since Mom’s a
teacher and knows about a million social workers and therapy-types, it took
about thirty seconds for her to find me a therapist and get me an appointment.
The guy’s name is Randy and his office is in White Plains. I told my parents
I’d go, but they couldn’t make me drive there. I have this thing about roads
with more than two lanes. It really freaks me out to have moving vehicles on
either side of my moving vehicle.

Randy is maybe
about thirty-two or three. I am not very good with guessing people’s ages, but
he’s about your average English teacher’s age. He is so short it’s freaky,
which is not a good thing in a therapist. Personally, I think a therapist
should be tall and serious-looking, good-looking in a way that makes you think
of TV, but not sex.

When we got to
Randy’s office Mom shook his hand and then went to have a seat next to some
potted plants in the waiting room. I couldn’t tell if the plants were real or
not, which sort of bothered me. There was only one small window in the whole
place, so I figured they were just good fakes.

Randy had a nice
painting behind his desk, a kind of abstract thing with lots of blues and
purples in it. He also wore a wedding band. Both the painting and the ring made
me a bit more comfortable. At least the hairy little guy didn’t seem like a
complete loser.

At first I just
sat there, not saying anything and Randy was quiet too. He kept his eyes down,
like he was reading some notes he had about me, although I think he was
probably faking that. Finally, he looked up and started speaking. “So,” Randy
said. “What’s going on?”

He opened his
eyes really wide at me. I noticed one eye was slightly grayer than the other. I
wondered if this was a biological fact, or the effect of the lighting in his
office. He put his hands on his chunky thighs and looked at me expectantly.

I explained to
him about Eve, and how the other stuff that had been happening really didn’t
have very much to do with her, but if there was a problem I was having, it was
probably with this issue of the rapid physical deterioration of my best friend.
I didn’t mention how Eve came to me in my dreams, a ghost friend. Talking about
my dreams in therapy was, I figured, both too much of a cliche, and a little
too personal. I didn’t need Hairy Randy asking all about why I thought Eve
wanted to take me with her to the bathroom of heaven.

“Ouch,” Randy
said. “That’s tough stuff, huh kid?”

It was just
about the corniest thing a person could say, but I started sniffling all the
same. I am actually a pretty big crier, at least in private, and once I get
started it’s really hard for me to stop. After a few minutes of me crying and
him handing me tissues, he started to speak again.

“What are you
thinking about right now that is making you so sad, Andy? Can you put that
sadness into words?”

“Not really, “ I
said. What could I say? The truth, the whole Douglas debacle, was way too out
there to possibly discuss with this guy. What were Mom and Dad thinking?
Evidently, that I would have nothing to disclose as jaw-dropping as losing my
virginity to good old Doug. I didn’t exactly lie, but started out my therapy
with a nice little evasion, a little duck and cover.

“Right now, I am
just really upset because I haven’t gone to visit Eve in a ridiculously long
time, and I keep saying I will, but I don’t.” This was true. Not visiting Eve
was making me super-jittery.

“And why won’t
you visit her? Why don’t you want to go to see her?”

“It’s just the
way I am,” I lied. It was too gross to tell him about her period and all, and
anyway, that wasn’t the only reason I hadn’t seen Eve. I could have gone over
there after school any given day. I was the one stalling, asking for
permission.

“I mean, I get
focused on what’s right in front of me and it’s hard to stop doing what I’m
doing, and its been a super-busy month at school, with track and homework.
Anyway, it’s not that I don’t like being with her, I do. I don’t feel bad when
I’m with her. I can’t explain it. I just
procrastinate
.” My voice
sounded strangely shrill, like a bad recording played back. I hated the sound
of it, hated the bullshit I was saying.

“Well, people do
avoid hard things, Andy, and isn’t seeing Eve a hard thing?” Randy said this
with a bit too much confidence for my liking. I looked at him mutely and
nodded. I wasn’t sure if what he said was smart or obvious. The word insipid
came to mind the way Mr. Doyle used it. “That is an insipid comment
masquerading as insight,” he’d once said to a jock, who was stupid enough to
quote the Cliff Notes he read for
To Kill A Mockingbird
because he
couldn’t get through the novel.

Randy went on a
bit after that. He explained to me that people who are in crisis often feel out
of control and start behaving impulsively and acting out. He gave me these
strategies for dealing with my emotions. When I got upset, I was supposed to
try to think of something I could be
thankful
for. Then, after I paused to be
thankful
, if I still
felt like taking an action, I should ask myself if I was
invested
in the action.
It was pretty simple, really. For instance, if I had made myself stop and think
that time with Sharon, I could have told myself how
thankful
I was that I
wasn’t a skank bitch like her, and then I probably would not have felt
invested
in calling her
a skank bitch in front of the whole track team.

I kept nodding
my head after that while Randy explained how first we’d try to help me gain
some more control over myself, and then maybe we’d get into some more real
talk-therapy so I could express the feelings I was keeping so bottled up. I
wondered about that. I wondered what we’d do when those feelings came out. I wondered
if he thought feelings could be gotten rid of that way, like birds set free
from a cage.

Dad and I were
at the breakfast table after that first therapy session went down, and in his
typical Dad way, like nothing dramatic had been happening, he said, “So Andy, I
think it’s about time we have a little lunch together? Mom said you have a
half-day coming up? How about meeting me in town?”

“Sure, Dad,” I
said, since this kind of development was a lot better than having everyone stay
mad at me, or act afraid of me, like I might blow up at any minute.

“Great. You just
drive down to Mt. Karmel to park your car, or have Mom drive you to the train,
because Bedford has no daily parking, ok? We can go to that place you like,
with the pool room.”

“Oh, yeah, where
is that again? I can walk there, right?” I didn’t want to admit that I had sort
of forgotten.

“Of course, just
a few blocks north from Grand Central. You’ll be fine!” Dad was really playing
up the cheerful act. Clearly, he wanted things smoothed over as badly as I did.

My Dad made us
reservations at the place we talked about - a real slick modern - looking place
with a pool right next to the tables. Not a pool like you’d swim in, more like
a fountain. Tourists throw pennies in it. We had a half- day for some sort of
teacher meeting on Tuesday and the deal was I would drive to the train station
and then meet him for a late lunch. I had wanted to see Eve that day, and I
even screwed up my courage to call, but it hadn’t worked out. She had another
doctor’s appointment. Mrs. O’Meara rushed me off the phone so fast I hadn’t
been able to schedule another date. I still had a bad feeling about the whole
deal, like even if Eve wasn’t avoiding me on purpose, maybe something had
happened. Maybe they got some sort of bad news. When I thought about how
distant I felt from Eve, I couldn’t sleep or focus on what I was doing, so I
tried my best to block it out. Weirdly, since my session with Randy, my
nightmares about Eve had mostly stopped. Maybe that was the point of therapy
after all, to put my subconscious on pause.

On Tuesday, I
was actually in a pretty decent mood. It was a really blustery day, the first
day I’d needed to wear more than a sweater outside. The trees were all getting
super-colorful, which always put me in a good mood. I felt almost carefree,
except for a nagging little worry about parking. Dad had said something about
going down to Mt. Karmel station instead of the one in town - something about
more meters there, but I wasn’t listening really and didn’t remember that until
I got to the Bedford station. I had about ten minutes before the train came so,
when I saw there weren’t all that many spaces I kind of freaked and cut in
really close to this other car where there wasn’t a meter. I was scared I’d
scrape the car next to where I was pulling in. The only problem was I didn’t
see the tree. I heard a terrible crunching sound, and then a bunch of people up
on the platform waiting for the train stared down at me, shaking their heads.
This one guy, who looked like a day-laborer, in working-guy clothes, grabbed
his hair with both hands, like I was driving his car or something. I am such a
shitty driver it’s actually amazing that my parents still let me drive.

Being me, I was
so freaked out about possibly missing the train, I left the damn car there and
went to get my ticket. I purposely walked down to the platform you couldn’t see
my car from, just in case one of those spectators wanted to give me a lecture
about how to park without crushing the front bumper. I did a quick check of the
front end before making my getaway and it seemed like the damage was just to
the bumper - not something my parents would bother to fix, but still, pretty
damn lame. Once I got up on the platform, I found a bench to sit on and put my
head in my hands. I tried slowing down my breathing and thinking the way Randy
says to think.
Don’t beat yourself up about something you can’t undo.
I channeled his
fakey-calm voice.
Be in the moment. Be thankful and invested.
I was
definitely thankful I didn’t hit someone else’s car, because if I had, leaving
the scene without fessing up to it would be some sort of minor crime. I was
also definitely invested in getting the hell out of that train station without
talking to any of those idiots who watched me park into the goddamn tree.
Hopefully, none of them knew my parents or they’d be on their cell phones to
them right then.

I made a
conscious decision not to call my Mom or Dad. I was actually considering not
telling either one of them, and just letting them see the bumper one day like a
week later. I could feign innocence, act like someone must’ve backed into me.
That way I could still keep the day as I had envisioned it: nice lunch, some
shopping, come home. I didn’t even have a lot of homework for once.

I felt calmer
when I thought things through this way. My parents pretty much thought I was
flipping out anyway, so what was the problem with giving them a little more
ammunition? I’d promise to talk to Randy about my “impulsivity-issues” and blah
blah.

The wind had
really kicked up at that point and I was starting to freeze my butt off in just
my peacoat, with no gloves or hat. The weather had taken a sudden turn, like
fall was trying to jump-start right into winter. Thankfully, the train came and
I got on and found a window seat facing the right direction. If I face
backward, I get motion-sickness, which was the last thing I needed since my
head was already spinning.