by Tara K Ross
Thump Thump. “Thea?”
In its place is the reality of my life. Or maybe I should say my lack of life. It doesn’t seem to matter what happens to me. The world trudges along around me with endlessly more amusing, shocking, or tragic issues. It’s as though I’m the center of a slowly turning Ferris wheel, never able to reach the highs and lows of others, but nauseated in watching their lives spin out. Sleep seems to be a better state. At least last night it was. Maybe my fluff about lactose had some legitimacy? I rarely dream, and when I do, I usually wake in a cold sweat. But this dream was different. I try again to relax my brain and block out Mom’s words and knocking. Lighter. Drifting back into …
Thump thump thump thump.
My door opens against unoiled hinges. The sound grates worse than a rusty seesaw, not because of the pitch, but because of what it means.
“Sweetie?” Mom’s voice pummels the last of any textures or scents or sounds. The peace is gone.
I moan in protest. She begins to rub my back, attempting to placate my obvious disapproval of her presence. Woolie’s soft padding replaces her weight beside me. He inches his way up the bed toward my head. Mom’s good. She knows I can’t resist Woolie’s low purr for affection. I emerge from my pillow cocoon to dawn’s gentle light streaming in through my shutters. A wet nose hits my cheek, and I reach out to embrace my overweight fluff ball.
Propped against my desk, Mom watches me, crested by the morning light. “Sorry to wake you on the weekend, sweetie, but we need to head out in half an hour for your session.”
When my sideways gaze focuses on her, warm tingles rise up my body. I immerse myself in her loving expression, the one that used to awaken me as a young child. Back then, she would lean right over me and her warm breath would reach my ear. She would whisper, “Good morning, my sweet, sweet Thea bee. Time to start buzzing.”
A bit of the warmth from the dream returns, and I smile at the memory. Back then, I slept soundly every night. I didn’t experience a hiccup of fear each time morning arrived. No urgency to gather myself into a presentable state to survive a new day. But to survive what? I should be vibrating with life. These are supposed to be my happy-go-lucky years. And instead, my whole body feels flattened against my bed by a perpetual fly swatter. How can she still love me like this? I have obviously stopped buzzing.
A familiar burn builds in my nose. I nuzzle into Woolie, rolling my legs out of bed so that I face away from Mom.
I swallow in an attempt to lubricate my throat, but my voice comes out strained. “Thanks, Mom. Forgot about the appointment.”
Woolie wiggles free, and I force myself up into a stretch. Mom won’t leave until I have risen from bed; she has learned that on weekends, I allow myself a reprieve from my double-alarmed schedule. And when I do sleep in, I’m not truly up until I am perpendicular to the closest soft surface.
“Sounds like you had a late night. Everything okay?”
“What do you mean?” I say through a yawn and full-body stretch.
She starts to place my scattered highlighters and pens in the aqua desk caddy she purchased as a back-to-school incentive this year. “I heard you on the phone until past midnight.”
I stiffen with my arms still overhead. “Were you listening?” Maybe I wasn’t as quiet as I thought.
“No, Thea. I was attempting to sleep, but you can still hear mumbles through the walls.” Having finished her organizational efforts, Mom pushes herself away from the desk, and papers fall to the floor. Papers and a notebook. “Sorry, I’ll—”
“No, I’ve got it.” I stumble to reach the mess of stationery first, but she has alertness on her side. Our hands meet on—yep—Evan’s keepsake of what we can only guess is his unhealthy obsession with Jade.
Mom’s gaze passes between me and the notebook. I pull it out from under her hold and hastily gather the other papers into a messy pile behind me.
“Is that yours, Thea?” She grasps my shoulder and balances against my desk with her other arm as she rises. “Because if it is—”
I shrug free and toss the pile of papers under my blankets. “No, it’s not mine, Mom.”
“Then why do you have it?” Like a decorated monument of a soldier, she positions herself between my bed and the door.
Oh no. This is not good. When she stakes her ground like this, she is so hard to move without answers.
“I found it. I’m going to give it back. It’s no big deal.” That’s not going to cut it. I glance toward my closet. “Can I get dressed?”
“No big deal?” Her voice rises in pitch and volume. “Whoever drew that picture—”
“Mom, it’s okay. I am taking care of it.”
“Wasn’t that a picture of Jade?”
Well, that’s a testament to Jade’s talent. Mom saw the sketch for less than a few seconds. But now she is never going to let this go.
Tension gathers in my throat, sending my own voice higher. “Mom, trust me. It’s not a big deal. I can put it in the trash right now.”
“But …” She steps toward my bed, focused on her intended target. A closer look is not going to help this situation. Without thinking, I thrust myself into her path. She gasps at the impact and lunges backward.
“Give it a rest. Can’t you just be happy with trying to fix me?” Despite clenched teeth, my mouth doesn’t stop. “Do you think if you fix my friends, I won’t be so screwed up?”
She touches her fingertips to her parted lips. Confusion washes over her face.
“Maybe you should be looking a little closer to home for the root of my issues.” Oh no. That was too harsh.
Her wide-eyed gaze travels between me and the covered papers. It’s as if the need to find a solution bows her shoulders. She’s probably still stuck on how I came into ownership of Jade’s racy sketch and missed what I said. Please say you missed what I just said. But then her brow changes to the Fenton furrow, most commonly employed by Dad.
I fall back onto my bed. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get me. This is why I’m in therapy on a Saturday morning. She needs her sweet Thea bee back, but can’t figure out how to do that. “Mom, I’m sorry, but—”
She raises a hand and marches across the room. When she reaches the door, she smacks her open palm on the frame. Her head lowers. “Please be downstairs and ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
Can’t forget therapy. Who else but Dr. Kowalski could possibly figure me out?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Through a light mist, Mom veers her car left off Hillside onto Queen Street. On clear days, her speed hovers just above the limit, but today she could get pulled over for obstructing traffic. And it is not at all due to the weather. Slushy rain is a green light for smooth driving in Canada. Meanwhile, we putter past Willow Glen Primary as though it were my first day of school—ever—and not a Saturday in November.
A pink-poncho-clad child splashes through a puddle from the sidewalk, and Mom flutters her brakes, clearly expecting a nonexistent ball to appear and entice the girl to venture toward her imminent death. She slows the car to a crawl as we pass, seemingly blind to the fact the girl’s father is stomping slush with equal excitement.
Is she trying to make me late? She wouldn’t use my anxiety against me. Or is she that ticked off? I make a point of examining the car clock and my phone. Repeatedly. But it doesn’t help. Our trip to the hospital is heavy with silence, except for the squeak of rubber on the windshield. There is no music, and I don’t dare grovel anymore. I apologized for the fifth time at the beginning of the drive, and my repeated verbal admission of fault received a stone-cold death stare. I am accepting the silent treatment as the first hurdle I’ll have to clear before earning forgiveness. She signals into the patient drop-off lane. Her focus stays transfixed by the to-and-fro of her wiper blades as she inches toward the curb.
Not knowing what else to do, I raise the hood of my jacket, pull open the car door, and enter a befitting wallop of freezing rain. Mom leans across the seat in front of th
e glove compartment. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”
I give her a quick nod.
“And Thea?” She pauses until I face her. This must be trial number two: while exposed to downpour of sleet, guilty party must wait to hear random details. “Please try in there. Talk to him about … anything.”
The thought of skipping therapy or zoning out during it had crossed my mind. Dang it. I nod again, more vigorously, my feet dancing against the cold.
“He really can help you. And I promise we don’t talk about you.”
I doubt the validity of either of those statements, but I shiver fiercely and pray for her to finish.
“When I go in on Monday, I’ll check if we can change your appointments to later in the day.”
Of course, she can check the scheduling system. There goes any remaining thought of ditching. Reality is, as much as I’d like to skip, I’m too much of a chicken to actually do it.
Her scrunched nose imitates my wince from the elements.
I relax my face and give her what she wants. “Thank you, Mom.”
She disappears back across the console, and I accept her silent permission to close the door. I head toward the hospital, and the wind hits me with a fresh spray of sleet. Slush seeps through my runners with the final step up to the revolving doors.
Despite having made frequent trips through Mom’s gauntlet to forgiveness, it seems with each new pass she creates ever more convoluted hurdles. Like, I understand the whole “talk to Dr. Kowalski,” but what exactly does she expect me to say? She knows I obsess about what other people think of me, but the reality of my internal landscape makes my outside seem airbrushed in comparison. Should I share a list of the typical teenage stressors to appease her? Or do I describe the unwarranted suck of oxygen from my chest when I walk into school each day? What if I reveal that each suffocating moment has no external bully to justify it, and that simply imagining the irrational scenarios of what might happen spirals me downward? And then there is this so-called impulse-control disorder. Do I shrug off my hair pulling as a bad habit or admit that this release is what keeps me from running out of school on a sprint with no identifiable destination?
If I describe what is happening lately, Dr. K will have me committed to his floor by the end of today’s session. The hallucinations, the lights, the feeling that I’m dying? I can’t go there with him. And if Mom ever did find out, it would destroy her.
I could talk about the dream from this morning. Maybe he could explain how my body felt more alive than it does when I’m awake. Shrinks are supposed to be dream-interpretation experts, right? And everyone has dreams. If he did report back to Mom, she would be happy to know I talked to him about something normal. And it’s better than deflecting to other people’s issues, which last time resulted in my FOMO assignment.
I shake the tension out of my hands. At least I have a plan.
The door to Dr. Kowalski’s office sits ajar, and a convoluted mixture of piano, drums, and saxophone drifts out to mingle with the sterile atmosphere of the hospital psych ward. His deep voice acknowledges my knock immediately.
“Come on in.” With a wave of his arm, he directs me toward the armchair. “Please give me one minute.”
He swivels back to his computer screen, takes a sip from a heavy clay mug, and taps away at his keyboard with his free hand.
While waiting, I silence my phone and rehearse my line of questioning. He pushes back from his desk and pivots a hundred and eighty degrees in his chair in what I imagine must be a humorous move for his younger clients.
Before he leads me down another memory-lane journey, I blurt out, “So, what do you think about dreams?”
“What do I think about dreams?” He rises and stretches his shoulders back. “Did Vera not come with you today?” A hint of disappointment seems to linger in his voice. He scans the hallway before closing the door.
What is it to him whether Vera came today? Is he incapable of saying your mother? I cross my arms over my chest and pretend not to hear the question. “Do you think dreams could mean something in real life?”
He eases back into his seat and clears his throat. “Can you share a little more about where this is coming from?”
“What if I had a dream that felt different from my usual ones?”
“How was it different?”
This is not getting me anywhere. I take his leading questions as an inevitable request to recount the dream. Half an hour passes, with me sharing and Dr. K tossing out occasional one-word probes. He types on his tablet, sometimes with rigor and other times slowly nodding, acknowledging my memories like those of a four-year-old describing an imaginary friend. I can’t figure out what is important and what is arbitrary to him. But I continue, if for no other reason than to get Mom off my back.
“And then, my mom woke me up to come here.”
He leans back in his seat. “Thank you for sharing, Thea.”
I wait, hoping for some epic Freudian interpretation, or at least some revelation about a repressed desire from my childhood.
His tablet screen goes black before he lifts his eyes. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Did you watch any shows or movies last night?”
My gaze travels from ceiling to floor. “Um, no.” What is he getting at?
“What about a book or recent experience that may have triggered some part of your dream?”
“No. I was just hanging out with my friends.”
“Was there a song or a conversation that may have—”
“No. There was nothing. I already said this came out of nowhere.” I pull my hand through my damp tresses. “That’s why it freaked me out, and why I’m telling you about it.”
“Yes, because it was different.”
“Not just different in what happened, or what I touched or heard.” A rising strain takes over my voice. “But different in how I felt.”
With a flurry of swipes and jabs, he revives his tablet. “And how did you feel?”
I press the tips of my fingers against my closed eyelids, willing myself to reenter the dream. At first there are only the remnants of images and sensations. “Can you turn off the music?” I ask, eyes still closed.
He complies.
In the silence that ensues, I urge my brain to recount the low, singing voice from the dream. The tones fill my body, and the sensation of a warm breeze awakens each hair follicle on my exposed neck. “I felt …” The lightness returns to my body. I open my eyes. “I felt like I was in a different reality. I felt weightless. Alive.”
“Alive.” He props his elbow on the arm of his chair and rests his fist on his cheek. “And when you are not in the dream, how do you feel?”
My featherlike state ceases. I stare down at the rug. It is not difficult to enter my usual state of mind. That place where everything feels unsettled and off-balance. Where I’m forever wandering through a fog of self-doubt and fear, always searching for a way out. But I never find it. I dig my nails into the arms of my chair to repress the impulse to reach into my hair. “Not dead.”
He leans forward.
“Maybe stuck, or … No.” It comes to me, like the first crash of thunder in a storm. “Sometimes I think I’ve found a way to feel alive. But then I fall. Fast. And far. Like the first drop on a roller coaster. ” I rub my palms against the padded material. “But, I never reach the bottom.”
Like he just read the satisfying climax of a book, he slumps against the back of the chair and crosses his legs. “Good.”
“How is a perpetual free fall to my inevitable death a good thing?”
His body trembles with silent laughter. “We just need to teach you how to ride more evenly on that roller coaster.”
I gently bite my lip and nod, wanting to believe this could be possible. But my negative brain still fights through. Where will I end up if I run out of track before this happens?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For the remainder of Saturday, I avoid all familial contact by
hiding behind textbooks and my laptop. It gives Mom time to brood, Dad space to sleep, and Tom little opportunity to question me about my morning and/or evening plans. Woolie and GooglePlay keep my room feeling inhabited, and frequent check-ins with Ashley and Jade make the day move slightly faster than a sloth. Mom has made no mention of canceling my evening plans, but if she knew what was really happening, she wouldn’t approve. Boys, on the best of days, force that hipster deodorant into overdrive. Note to self: buy better deodorant.
At dinner, I dutifully come out and make a point of initiating hairdresser appropriate conversations: weather, TV, celebrity gossip. I avoid any mention of digestion issues, sleep disturbances, fluctuating mental status, or dead classmates. Things of the past. My posture is loose like a banana peel and my expression sweet like the mushy fruit inside. There will be no further displays of anger or instability that could put the kibosh on tonight.
With my last spoonful of stew, my evening plans seem set. And then Tom slows from his conveyer-belt food consumption. “So Frizz, did Ashley help you to get sassed up for your d—”
He meets my death stare.
The banana freezes, with an expression that must appear fierce. His eyes bulge in response, and my brother, who never backpedals, fumbles out a more favorable ending. “For your … your girl’s thing … your girl’s night out?”
I pan across to my parents. They seem blissfully unaware that anything is amiss. I mouth a silent thank you. “Yes, Tom. She lent me her shoes.”
“Good luck with that.Thanks for dinner, Mom.” He stuffs in one last piece of crusty bread, rises with plate in hand, and heads to the kitchen.
Mom shakes her head ever so slightly, as though jarred from an internal argument. “Let me grab you dessert.” She stumbles out of her seat after him.
“No thanks.” He reemerges, brushing past her with a contorted grin that doesn’t move past his lips. “Gotta get back to the books.” He passes the table without further acknowledgment and is gone.
