The Art of Feeling

by Laura Tims

  “I thought I was lucky to have it.”

  I press my palms into my eyelids. “I’m sorry. That was stupid.”

  “No. You’re right. I didn’t realize until I met you—I am lucky.” He stares out the window at the moon. “You’re in pain every day. I don’t even know what it’s like to have something hurt. It’s ridiculous of me to act like that’s not lucky.”

  “Your condition is dangerous. It’s not a good thing.” I’m hot with shame, even though I’m shivering.

  He gives a stiff shrug.

  I steel myself, then reach over and rest my hand on his chest, partially to see if he’s warming up and partially because I want to. The scars are little valleys in his skin.

  He takes my fingers and traces them over the scars. “This one, I rested a mug on my stomach that was too hot.” Moves it again. “A kid at my old school bet me a hundred dollars he could make me scream. I made a lot of money that day.” Moves it again. “In middle school I’d just draw lines on myself with a knife, out of curiosity, I guess, and to remind people they couldn’t hurt me.” Moves it again. “That one’s from Gabriel.”

  I whip my hand away. “Gabriel?”

  “He wasn’t a happy teenager. Hard to be when you have the misfortune of being him, true, but we were also moving constantly, making faraway trips to new doctors and hospitals. Our mom had been used to things being easy, and I made things very not easy.” He draws smiley faces nonchalantly on the fogged-up window. “We fought a lot as kids. Once he hit me, and for a second, I remember he had this look of release, like he was finally getting rid of the million reasons he had to be angry with me.” He stares at the faces, then wipes the window clean. “It didn’t hurt me, and it helped him. So I told him to go ahead. It was our bargain—he could hit me when he needed to let off steam, and he’d forgive me for driving Mom farther and farther away. It ended when he accidentally sent me to the hospital.”

  I make a sound in my throat. He immediately forces his expression into a smirk. “I told him that he had the muscle mass of a ferret, so it wouldn’t have hurt even if I could feel pain, but he still acts like he slaughtered a litter of kittens whenever it comes up. If I’d known he was going to feel so guilty that he’d helicopter over me for the rest of my life, I’d have bought him a punching bag.”

  “Eliot, I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?” he demands. “I don’t have to feel pain. The scars, the hospital visits, my parents—if I think of them as a trade-off, it’s fair, isn’t it? You can’t get something without sacrificing something.”

  I think of Mom, and my leg. Sometimes you don’t even get anything for your sacrifices.

  He points at the window. “I went to a drive-in with my parents when I was little, before Dad left, and the windows fogged up just like this. Stupid idea, to watch a movie in your car.”

  I clench my fists. “They shouldn’t have left you.”

  “Of course they should have. It’s logical. Human nature is fight or flight, and you can’t fight my condition. When you’re faced with something unbearable, you leave. It’s what people do.”

  “You’re not unbearable, Eliot.” I’m still quivering, even though the car is now full of so much hot air it’s like a sauna.

  “Years of evidence to the contrary.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” My voice sounds like begging. I press my arm against his so he can feel me being here.

  “We’ll see for how long,” he says offhandedly.

  It’d be ridiculous if he was afraid of me tiring of him just like I’m scared of him tiring of me. I’m the normal one, the boring one. Before I can figure out how to explain this, he lights a cigarette and rolls down the window, so that the steam escapes into the night and the night creeps back inside.

  After I’m satisfied that Eliot isn’t dying of hypothermia, he drops me off at home, where I spend the night unable to sleep, overwhelmed with sadness about this random weird boy’s life.

  The next day, I have family therapy. It’s usually on Saturdays, but we rescheduled because Lena apparently had too much work to do yesterday. The blankness is always at its worst during family therapy. It transforms reality into a crackly TV screen with the volume low, and I’m perfectly content with it, because when depressing things happen on TV, it means they’re not happening to me.

  Before Eliot, the TV filter was on all the time.

  On the TV show, my family files into the room, minus Lena, who’s stuck in “traffic.” We take our usual spots—Rex in the squashy yellow armchair by the Legos, Dad on the couch next to me. They each have a resigned look. None of us really thinks that Dr. Brown is helping.

  After she checks to see if there’s any accomplishments we should be proud of, Dr. Brown sits back and folds her hands in her lap. “What if today we explore something we haven’t discussed much yet? The driver of the other car—I’m interested in hearing all your feelings about this person.”

  Dad exhales long and slow, and Rex resorts to his usual strategy of combining his cells with the chair by osmosis. My leg starts aching. Why this topic? She couldn’t possibly know what I remembered.

  “The fucker should be dead in the ground. There’s not a whole lot to explore,” Rex mutters.

  “So you have feelings of anger.” Dr. Brown’s eyes are calm, even though Dad and I are obviously in agony. “Given the chance to talk to this person, what would you say?”

  “I’d be too busy murdering their ass to talk,” he says gruffly, but there’s a thickness in it. “I’d run them down with my truck, see how they like it.”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” I blurt.

  “I fucking would.” He scowls at me, then fixes his gaze on the Legos and adds abruptly, “Sometimes I play this game where I pick a random dude crossing the street and pretend it’s him, because you never know, right? It could be. And I have to stop myself from slamming the gas pedal. Do you guys, uh . . . ever do stuff like that?”

  “Anger is a natural response to tragedy,” Dr. Brown says quietly.

  Rex fidgets. What he wanted to hear was probably more along the lines of “It’s okay, you’re not crazy.”

  “Also, every time something shitty happens to me, I imagine I can psychically make it happen to them, like I’m a voodoo doll. Stubbed my toe? Fuck their toe, too.”

  “Rex . . .” Dad’s face is heavy.

  “Or I picture them eating breakfast. Maybe today they had toast and eggs; maybe yesterday they had oatmeal. And no one will ever bust in and stop them from enjoying a delicious goddamn breakfast every day for the rest of their life.”

  He’d never say any of this in front of Lena. I can’t believe he’s saying it in front of Dad, who he’s very carefully not looking at.

  “Grief often—” Dr. Brown starts.

  Something clearly occurs to Rex, because his back straightens so fast it’s like he was shot full of mercury. “Why did you bring this up? Did the police find him?”

  There’s so much weight to the hope in his voice, the rage and relief and desperation. It’s so heavy it’s pressing me into the ground.

  Can you remember the type of car? Any detail will help us catch them.

  “I’m afraid not,” says Dr. Brown.

  Dad glances at me uneasily. “That’s nobody’s fault. It happened so fast, it’s not like Sam could have seen . . . she can’t be expected to—she tried her best.”

  Rex stares determinedly into his lap, away from me.

  I see it as clearly as if the words had scrolled across the bottom of the screen: THEY BLAME YOU.

  And they should. Because I did try my best—to keep it buried.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” says Dad with sudden firmness.

  Dr. Brown nods, thin eyebrows arching. Dad’s never taken charge here before. “Anger is a draining emotion, but positivity is energizing. Why don’t we share some memories you have of your mother. Rex?”

  She’s capitalizing on Lena’s absence to pry Rex open. I fold my kne
es against my chest, the heaviness still suffocating. I picture Eliot in the passenger seat last night, the water trickling down his face probably the closest I’ll ever get to seeing him cry, and for some reason it helps me breathe easier.

  “Yeah, okay. So this one time she bought this giant toaster oven off craigslist.” Rex is agitated, swinging his legs like a kid. “It stuck out over the edge of our tiny-ass kitchen counter, and the guy overcharged her for it, and I kept teasing her: ‘You’ll have to chuck it. You dragged it all the way in here,’ blah blah. . . . She was always giving me these heartfelt talks about responsibility and it was, like, she wasn’t responsible. She was always bringing home junk. Anyway, I kept going and going, and eventually she just started crying. I stressed her out so much, man.”

  And then Rex is the one crying. He takes stilted shuddering breaths, and suddenly I realize what I would have noticed if I’d been paying attention to the TV screen—his eyes have been red-rimmed since we got here. He came high to therapy.

  But I’m the one who gave him the pills, and I’m the reason he hasn’t gotten the closure he needs, because the person who hit our car is still free. Because nobody ever looked for a silver Jeep.

  I cross the room and wrap my arms around him, bracing my good leg against his chair. All hugs have been awkward since the accident. His broad chest catches. Hugs aren’t part of his life anymore. Other than Tito, he has no one—his friends had abandoned him even BMD, and he was born at war with our family.

  Maybe he doesn’t need someone to love but someone to hate. If I could give him the driver, maybe he’d flush the pills and get off the couch.

  It was all Mom wanted.

  Dad stares at us hugging with a frozen look, like he wants to join but doesn’t know how. And that’s how we are when Lena walks in. Her eyes widen, but it only takes a quarter second for Rex to wrench away and dry his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she stammers, looking at Rex in a way that’s almost tender. “Traffic . . . I was hoping I’d catch the end of the session.”

  “Understandable,” says Dr. Brown. “Unfortunately we’re nearly out of—”

  “I just wanted to make an announcement really fast, while everyone’s here.”

  My heart sinks. What announcement would she only make in front of Dr. Brown?

  She tears her eyes from Rex and adopts a big smile. “I was reading your book that you lent me, Dr. Brown. It’s so enlightening. It brought me to some realizations.”

  “You wrote a book, Dr. Brown?” inquires Dad, grasping for small talk.

  “Lena spotted it on my bottom shelf.” Dr. Brown fiddles with the buttons on her blouse. “It’s out of print, and apparently she couldn’t find it at the library or online, so finally I agreed to lend her a copy. But I’m working on a new book that will sell much better, so . . .”

  “A new book?” Lena lights up. “Do you need any help? I could organize your notes—”

  “God, you were like this in high school, too,” Rex moans, then adds in a nasal imitation, “‘Oh, Ms. Robbins, let me carry that for you—Ms. Carol, if you need me to print out the syllabus—’”

  “I like being of assistance to women I respect,” Lena snarls, any tenderness gone. “It gives me an opportunity to follow a good example. You should consider doing that sometime.”

  “I mean, you sucking up to Mom didn’t help you follow her example of not being a—”

  “Anyway,” she bellows, ignoring Rex. “Her book is called The Best Thing About Pain: How Pain Makes Us Human, and there’s a section about getting a fresh start both emotionally and physically, and it made me realize—we need to redecorate! Our house is so cluttered with old things.”

  “Redecorate?” repeats Rex like he just threw up in his mouth.

  Dad’s brow furrows. Then he smiles painfully. “You know, Lena, maybe it is time to make some changes. Sam?”

  Even though the word redecorate nauseates me, it’s impossible to shut down Dad’s rare moments of hope. I turn it up to a hundred watts. “That’s a great idea!”

  Rex gapes at me with fury and betrayal. “And who’s going to do all the work?”

  “I am!” Lena is beaming. “That was the second part of my announcement. I asked to change my internship to a remote position where I only have to commute one day a week.”

  Rex stares at her, uncomprehending. “Why?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” she sighs. “Because I’m moving back in!”

  She looks at all of us with a bright, expectant grin. Then it starts to fade. I can’t tell who’s most horrified, Dad or Rex or me. I’d say me, but Rex’s face is hard to beat.

  “That’s wonderful, honey!” Dad croaks, too late.

  Dr. Brown stands up. “I’m happy for you, Lena. Looks like we’ll have lots to talk about next week.”

  In other words, scram.

  Lena, Rex, and Dad go into the hallway, bickering, and Dr. Brown shuts the door behind them. I can hear Rex’s voice get louder as he recovers from shock. “What the fuck, Lena?”

  Dr. Brown turns to me. “How are we feeling about this development?”

  If my home life sucked before, it’ll truly be hell from now on. Rex and Lena will drop bombs on each other until we all burn down. BMD, my one important job was to stand between them, a human Berlin Wall, but that’s the nice thing about tragedy—you can let all your important jobs slide and no one will say a word.

  “Fine,” I lie. “She’s my sister.”

  “That’s a big sacrifice, to take time off from her life because she believes you all need her,” says Dr. Brown. When I don’t reply, she adds, “People need to feel needed. It gives them a purpose.”

  What if that’s why I’ve been spending so much time with Eliot? Gabriel thought I just wanted a project.

  “It’d be one thing if we did need her, but she just wants to think that,” I blurt. Eliot does need me, though. Someone to take his condition seriously, to remind him to eat, to be his friend when no one will tolerate the attitude. Maybe I’m the only one who understands him enough to do that.

  “Some people convince themselves they can handle their own problems by trying to tackle other people’s. Be patient with your sister.” She opens her notebook. “By the way, did you try the exercise I suggested last time we met?”

  I almost lie, but then I hear Rex asking about the police, and Dad claiming I tried my best. “Yeah.”

  “Was it helpful?”

  “I remembered some of the accident, if that’s what you mean.” My leg throbs, and I dig my fingers into my jeans. “Just a flash of the other car. It was a silver Jeep.”

  She leans forward, looking genuinely interested for the first time. “Really.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s been so long, the police couldn’t—”

  “Could you recall more if you did the exercise again?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You seem reluctant,” she notes.

  “It’s just that I don’t see the point in dragging all this stuff back up after six months.”

  “You might remember what the other driver looked like. Information like that could certainly help the police.”

  “I don’t know. It’s been six months,” I repeat quickly, my mouth full of sand.

  “Does the idea of meeting this person frighten you?”

  “I’m not like Rex. I don’t think about them as a person. Just . . . a force, like a tsunami, or an earthquake.” Something insentient and all-powerful, shredding our lives without knowing or caring.

  “It’s understandable to be frightened by something like that.” She pauses. “But it’s not about who or what this person is. It’s about you processing what happened. If it also ultimately helps the police catch them, that closure would just be an added benefit for you and your family.”

  In the weeks after the accident, people kept prescribing time. There were stages to grief, they said. Complete the steps, and you’ll be okay again. But my family a
nd I must have skipped something crucial, because we’re stuck spiraling apart.

  Confronting the driver is what we missed. We’re in stasis because I’m afraid to remember.

  Dr. Brown is muttering to herself. “Fascinating that pain jogged the memory. Senses often trigger recall, certain scents, sounds . . . makes sense that trauma would be associated with pain. I wonder if . . . criminal investigations . . .”

  My leg pulses in time with my heart, and I see broken glass every time I close my eyes. My stomach is a hard ball of panic. I can’t do it. I can’t write it down again and relive it, even if it’d fix my family, even if that makes me selfish and weak.

  “That exercise didn’t really change my anxiety.” I try to smile. “Is there anything else I could do when I’m stressed?” Like now.

  She returns her focus to me. “Alarming images can be combated with positive images. The next time you’re anxious, picture something that relaxes you, or makes you happy.”

  My mind automatically switches to Eliot. I paint a picture of him inside my head, detailing his dark eyelashes and the clean curve of his jaw. He wouldn’t feel one bit of this pain. My chest starts to untangle.

  “All right, Sam. I’ll see you next week.” Dr. Brown is writing in her notebook, bent over it so that her shoulder blades stick out under the fabric of her button-down. “And don’t forget to give that writing assignment another shot.”

  My chest tangles back up.

  That night, I try again, alone in my room. I decide to replicate the conditions of the first time it worked. Once it’s almost midnight, I turn off the lights, leaving my crutches propped against the wall. One step and I’ll be on the carpet, the memory silver in my bloodstream.

  I’m going to do it for Rex and Lena, I’m going to do it for Dad, I’m going to do it for M—

  I curl my fingers so tight into the edge of my mattress that they go numb. Tito watches me from the floor, his worried eyes shining in the dark. I imagine Eliot walking painlessly in front of me, offering his hand. Maybe if he was really here . . . but he’s not, and if I do this it will hurt.

  Sometimes no matter how much you need to do something, no matter how important it is to you and the people you love, you just can’t, and it’s that simple. This Can’t is mountains tall and oceans deep and a fucking fact of the universe.