Psych Major Syndrome

by Alicia Thompson

  “They sound cool,” Nathan said.

  “They are,” I said, and realized that I really, really meant it. I never gave my parents too much thought, and I guess I had kind of taken them for granted over the past few years. But for all their somewhat embarrassing quirks, they were amazing people. I was excited about introducing them to Nathan—and oddly, even more excited about introducing Nathan to them.

  “What about you?” I asked casually, as though I hadn’t been curious about this for the past few hours and, possibly, the past year. “What are your mom and her boyfriend like? And your sister—I’m an only child, which I always thought kind of sucks. I wish I had a sibling.”

  “Other than making incredibly mortifying mix CDs for me, Joanie’s awesome.” Nathan smiled. “But, believe me, I wished I was an only child sometimes when she would go postal because I took the last Pop-Tart, or when she’d pinch herself and say I did it to her.”

  I noticed he didn’t immediately answer my question about the rest of his family, and I wondered if he had just forgotten or if he was being deliberately evasive. Six hours ago, I would have dropped it. Now, I just got more aggressive. “You probably got even closer because of what you both had to go through with your dad,” I said.

  Nathan shook his head, but it wasn’t in denial. “I wondered if you knew, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Ever since Andrew heard about me bawling like a baby in Spanish class after my dad died, he sure does love to tell that story.”

  “I heard it was biology, but yeah,” I said, thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up but, now that it was broached, not wanting to back down. “So…it’s true, then?”

  He turned to look at me, a slant of light falling across his face. “Is it true that my father had cancer? Yeah. And is it true that I completely broke down, if that’s what you’d call it, after he died? Yes. I missed my dad. I’ll never stop missing him—it’s like that itch you sometimes get in your ear, so deep inside you can never reach it. Someone as self-centered as Andrew could never even begin to understand it.”

  And then, as if he hadn’t just opened himself up and poured his guts all over the car, one corner of Nathan’s mouth lifted. “So,” he said wryly. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not thrilled to hear that Andrew’s still spreading that around.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, the words completely inadequate. I was sorry Nathan’s dad had died, but I was also really ashamed that I had never stopped to think about what Nathan must have been going through. For me, the story was just another piece in the puzzle of figuring out what made Nathan tick. To him, it was a painful and personal memory. I had no right to exploit it.

  Nathan started to run a hand through his thick hair, but stopped in midmotion, as though realizing what he was doing. His hand dropped back to the gearshift. “Hey,” he said. “It’s not your fault.”

  That was a matter of opinion, but I didn’t push it. We were nearing my parents’ house, and I directed Nathan for the rest of the way, telling him where to go as I pointed out local landmarks. There weren’t many—the C’est La Vie cafe, the public library, Madame Ruby’s rival psychic shop—but he had that way of listening that made you feel as though everything you said was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard. What had he said before? I pay attention.

  Note to self: Learn how Nathan does this before becoming a therapist.

  Finally we pulled into the Astral Body B&B, an ornate Victorian house completely out of place among the stucco buildings. My parents had had the old house torn down when I was just a baby, insisting the gingerbread-looking replacement was far more their style. They were warned they’d have termites, and we’ve had to tent it a couple times since then, but they never worry too much about worldly stuff like that.

  I grabbed my duffel bag, leading the way up the steps as Nathan followed behind me, carrying his guitar. When we walked through the door, a little bell tinkled, and my dad came out from behind a display of Sedona postcards and calendars that tell where the planets are each day. I have, like, five of those, so I happened to know that Jupiter was currently in the part of its orbit that was closest to Earth. What that meant for the cosmos, I still didn’t totally understand.

  “Tuesday!” he said, opening his arms wide while I ran into them. Maybe I missed my parents more than I had thought, because it felt really, really good to be home. My mother came out, joining in the hug and the celebration. My dad asked questions about school, my mom fussed over my haircut, and I rolled my eyes at Nathan even though I was secretly enjoying myself.

  I tried to see them from Nathan’s perspective. My dad was very tall and distinguished-looking, really, with his white hair and his eye patch. His face creased easily into a smile, settling into lines that were so deeply etched you knew that was where his face really wanted to be. My mom looked less like a carny and more like Carnie Wilson after losing eighty pounds, with her sleek black bob and her tasteful eye makeup. Her lips were a bright red streak across her face, and when she smiled, she flashed two rows of white teeth, the front two slightly overlapping.

  Finally my mom turned to Nathan. “And you brought a new man,” she said in that slightly accented voice, waggling her eyebrows at him. “He’s a good-looking one.”

  Now I remembered why I often forgot how cool my parents were. They could also be incredibly embarrassing, especially my mother. “Nathan’s not my new man,” I said, giving Nathan a rueful smile that said, Parents—what are you going to do? “My car got towed, and he was nice enough to give me a ride.”

  My dad was asking about my car, but my mother had a one-track mind. “Why not? This one has a much better vibe than that other one you’re with—what’s his name? Adam?”

  I didn’t believe for one minute my mother didn’t remember his name. When we’d gone to the senior prom together, she’d taken, like, a thousand pictures, for crying out loud. “Andrew, Mom,” I said. “My boyfriend’s name is Andrew. Nathan’s actually his roommate.”

  Nathan shot me a look that I ignored. Ex-roommate, ex-boyfriend, whatever. I didn’t feel like getting into it right now.

  Apparently, neither did my mother, because she brushed off my explanation and clapped her hands together instead. “An aura photo! Yes, we will see his aura!”

  “Mom,” I protested. “Not tonight, okay? Nathan’s been driving all day; I’m sure he’s very tired.…”

  But Nathan, the traitor, just grinned at me. “That sounds great, Mrs. Nolan,” he said.

  My mother made a psssh-ing sound. “Call me Mama,” she said. “And this is my husband, Maple.”

  I know that’s her psychic moniker, but I still wasn’t comfortable with her telling Nathan to call her that. It made it seem like they were one step away from being in-laws or something. And Maple is a woman’s name. I’ve explained that to my dad a thousand times, but he never listens. He says that it’s the tree he feels most connected to, and there’s just no arguing with him about nature.

  “Or you can call her Susan, and he’s Dave,” I muttered, and she shot me a silencing look.

  “Let us just set it up,” she said, disappearing through a doorway hung with beads and dragging my dad with her.

  As soon as they were gone, Nathan turned to me. “Tuesday?”

  I sighed. I could have happily lived a thousand years without that coming out. “Leigh is my middle name,” I said. “My first name is Tuesday.”

  I waited for some weekday-related joke, but he just nodded. “Tuesday,” he repeated, and for a minute I reconsidered my choice to go by my middle name. Tuesday didn’t sound so bad when he said it. “I like that. So what exactly is an aura photo?”

  It wasn’t like I could be embarrassed any more than I already was, so I decided to just take the plunge. “Here,” I said, guiding him into the main room. “I’ll show you.”

  My parents’ style was kind of eclectic-Turkish-folksy that somehow really worked. On the scuffed hardwood floors were these gorgeously soft rugs, the couches wer
e overstuffed and comfy, and the room was decorated in an explosion of folk art, Eastern tapestries, and kitsch. I led Nathan to the far wall, where a picture hung slightly apart from the rest. It was one of those classic picture frames parents buy—featuring twelve little ovals surrounding a bigger oval.

  “Most parents put their kid’s school pictures in here,” I said. “But not mine—mine put my aura photos.”

  It started when I was five, toothlessly smiling into the camera with a swirl of colors all around me. Over the years, sometimes the colors dimmed, indicating poorer spiritual health, and other times they were so prominent you could barely see my face. I’m not saying I buy into all of this, but my aura was the dimmest around third grade, which would make sense, considering the stuffed-monkey theft I had had to put up with that year.

  I explained to Nathan what some of the colors meant and how to interpret the photos, although I knew my mother would go into a much longer analysis. He asked questions, but they seemed to be less about aura photos in general and more about my aura photos.

  There was a photo album on one of the bookshelves, and Nathan sat down on the couch, flipping through it. I always thought it was superawkward that any tourist could just glance through pictures of me naked in the tub as a baby, but it was even more uncomfortable when it was someone you knew who was looking.

  Nathan smiled at some of the pictures, and he asked questions about a couple, but mostly he just flipped through the album silently. He got to the end, which featured one of many prom photos. I was wearing a dark teal strapless dress, smiling up at Andrew as he slid a corsage on my wrist.

  He stared down at the picture for a while before looking up at me. “You haven’t told them yet.”

  I squirmed uncomfortably. “Not exactly,” I said. “But I’m sure they suspect. It’s hard to get stuff by my psychic mother and my father’s eagle eye.”

  It was intended to be funny, but Nathan didn’t laugh. He just closed the book, placing it back on the shelf between a travel book on Thailand and a Kurt Vonnegut novel.

  My mother chose that moment to lean in from the doorway, her heavily painted lips smiling widely. “Come, Nathan,” she said. “Everything is ready for your photo.”

  Without another look at me, he followed my mother through the beads. I plopped down on the couch, a tear slipping silently down my cheek. I didn’t even know why I was crying, but once I started, tears flowed out of me faster than I could stop.

  A woman wearing a shoulder-padded striped shirt and a pair of those awful pants that looks like a skirt came in and then immediately turned around when she saw me. I knew I was probably horrible for business, but I just didn’t care.

  I reached up to slide the photo album down from the shelf, opening it on my lap to the very last picture. It had been taken the spring of my senior year, when Andrew and I had still been happy—still been together. We were sitting on the porch swing, his arm around me, pulling me closer. I touched my fingertip to his face.

  Usually my mom spends at least ten minutes analyzing the photo with the person, so I was surprised to look up and see Nathan. He had a Polaroid in his hand, and he tossed it onto the couch next to me.

  “Add it to the album if you want,” he said, his face expressionless. “Or don’t, whatever. But I don’t want it.”

  With that, he turned and walked out the door, and I knew from the tinkling bells that he had gone out the front door, as well. I picked up his Polaroid, puzzled.

  He must have heard something he didn’t like in there, but looking at his photo, I couldn’t think what. His aura was very strong, especially with the color blue, which meant that he was very good at making the complicated simple. There was an orangish-brown on the left side, which indicated some past wound, but the right side was yellow, which implied future healing.

  Was that it? Had my mom picked up something about his dad’s death? I knew that Nathan didn’t like to talk about it much, but he was clearly still grieving for his father.

  Taking the photo with me, I went outside to find Nathan leaning against the wraparound porch, strumming his guitar. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.”

  That was as far as I had gotten in my head with the script of what I would say to him. I sat down on the porch swing, using the balls of my feet to rock gently back and forth. “Did something in there upset you?” I asked tentatively.

  He sighed, setting his guitar down. “Yeah—no,” he said, running an agitated hand through his hair. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  And then, as if he hadn’t just said that, he started talking. “My dad was sick for three years, you know?” he said, looking not at me but at some distant point in the sky. “Three years. You’d think that’d be enough time to prepare you, but it’s not.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s prepared to lose their parents,” I said quietly. “How can you be expected to be when you were still in high school?”

  He looked at me then. “So, how long do you think it takes to let it go, then?”

  I shrugged, not exactly wanting to give an expiration date. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think you ever do, completely. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. It’s just something you carry with you.”

  “Baggage, that’s what people call it,” Nathan said. “You’re saying that losing someone means you’ll always carry around that baggage?”

  I don’t know why, but I almost got the impression we weren’t talking about his father anymore. “I guess,” I said, wondering what it was he wanted from me. “But after a while it becomes a part of you, and you just…adapt.”

  Even through the dark, I could feel the intensity of his eyes on me. “Maybe I’m expecting too much,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s just too soon.”

  I wondered what exactly he meant by that, but I never had the chance to ask. He picked up his guitar again, and he began lightly strumming. After a while, he started to hum along, and then he was singing, his voice low and rumbly in the otherwise quiet night. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and just listened.

  When he finished, I smiled. “That was a really pretty song,” I said. “Did you write it?”

  He gave a little laugh. “No, Wilco did,” he said. “But yeah, it’s one of my favorites.”

  Something occurred to me, and I sat up to face him. “Earlier, I asked you if you brought the guitar everywhere,” I said, “and you got kind of weird. Why? It’s not like you’re one of those jerks who always has a guitar but can’t actually play it.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No.”

  He grinned. “Everyone knows that the whole point of learning guitar is to impress the girls. You can’t just say, ‘sorry, I’d love to show off, but I forgot my guitar at home,’ can you?”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “I guess not.”

  “So now you know my secret,” he said. “Did it work?”

  I pretended to think about it. “Yeah, it worked.”

  STRANGE SITUATION: A situation designed to study attachment, wherein secure attachment in a baby is measured by the degree to which the baby is upset when a caregiver leaves, and calmed down when the caregiver returns

  EVENTUALLY, I know that my parents will completely redecorate my room to make it another guest room. In a bed-and-breakfast, after all, space is a pretty huge commodity. But for now, my parents had kept it exactly the same, which was kind of a relief. I don’t think I could come back for my first visit after college and find my bed covered in one of those patchwork quilts my mother uses for guest rooms, or see the obligatory ten mirrors on the wall. My mother loves mirrors.

  “So, this is your room,” Nathan said, setting his guitar down and glancing around.

  “Yup,” I said. “Sorry you don’t get your own room. Usually Thanksgiving is a pretty slow time for us, but I guess we’re all booked up. You’re probably tired from the drive, though, so you can take the bed tonight.”


  He looked at me but didn’t argue. “Okay, thanks,” he said. “We’ll switch off.”

  “Oh,” I said, a little taken aback that it had been that easy. “No problem.”

  Oblivious of my inner turmoil, Nathan walked over to my vanity, the surface of which was covered in pictures of me and friends from high school (most of whom I’d already lost touch with, save the occasional Facebook message). There was also a star-shaped box I’d painted and collaged, a blown-glass paperweight, and a small statue of Buddha my parents had given me for my sixteenth birthday.

  “This must have been an awesome place to grow up,” he said, picking up the paperweight and looking at the colors swirled inside the clear glass.

  “In some ways it was,” I said. “But sometimes it was a little overwhelming. I spent a lot of time climbing out that window and sitting on the roof. I mean, I can’t find the Big Dipper to save my life, but it’s fun just to look at the stars, you know?”

  Nathan crossed over to the window, pressing his face against the glass. My room was right above the front porch, so it was relatively easy to step onto the flat part of the roof and hang out. “Is that why you went to that stargazing?” he asked.

  How did he know so much about me? As if I’d asked the question aloud, Nathan turned around. “I was there,” he said.

  Of course. I remembered now—it had been orientation week, and one of the nightly events was stargazing with the astronomy professor. It happened to coincide with the ’70s throwback roller rink party, so not many people had showed up. Nathan and I had both gone for the telescope at the same time, bumping shoulders, and he’d apologized. I’d barely looked at him—we hadn’t even met yet. And now here we were, standing in my childhood bedroom.

  “My dad probably has some pajamas you can borrow,” I said, figuring I’d take care of that issue before it even arose. “I’ll be right back.”