Alex gestures toward Jimmy, who’s furiously riding his bike in a circle in front of the store. “Please. People aren’t coming in because they’re terrified of getting run down by Dale Earnhardt Jr. over there.”
“Guys, guys, let’s not start blaming each other.” I try not to let my panic show; I have to keep it together. “Eyes on the prize, right?”
Everyone mumbles agreement and looks at their feet, even Jimmy. Alex suggests that since the day is almost over and he has band practice that we close up for the night and pick it up tomorrow. Elle agrees, saying she has to get home and feed Jimmy something that isn’t “genetically modified fish product.”
They both offer me rides, but I say I’ll take my bike, so they pile into their cars and drive away.
When they’ve gone, I go back into the store. We got some extra fans, so it’s actually pleasant. Really, it looks so good since we fixed it up. The hum of the pumps makes it feel like the aquamarine walls are moving, gentle waves. And with all the tanks and lights cleaned, you can really see the amazing beauty of the fish. Those brilliant yellows and oranges, electric blues and greens, colors you can’t believe occur in nature. And the bizarre ways some of these creatures are put together—with eyes on the tops of their heads or on antenna. Tentacles drifting in the water, an iridescent glow from the eel tank.
“Don’t worry, guys,” I tell them. “I’ll find some way to save you; I promise.”
DAY 46
Rainbow Ribbon Cake
Sometimes on Golden Girls a guest star shows up, and the studio audience gasps and claps because it’s some person everyone knew in the eighties—maybe another big actor, or a politician or singer who was huge back then. I never have any idea who the person is, so the whole thing is utterly lost on me, a joke I’m not in on.
Anyway, nine times out of ten, the guest star rings the doorbell, and Sophia (sometimes Dorothy or Blanche, but never Rose) answers, and then slams the door in the guest star’s face as soon as he or she says “Hi,” because it’s someone she had a falling-out with in the old country or New York or wherever.
It’s the one time I don’t absolutely adore the show or feel safe watching it. When the audience reacts to the stranger, it’s this creepy reminder that there is a whole universe outside of the loud floral prints and wicker furniture in the girls’ Miami house.
This is exactly how it feels when I come home from another fruitless day of trying to save FishTopia with Alex and Elle, and find Dr. Brooks in the model-home living room, chatting with my apron-clad mother and sipping a glass of red wine.
Dr. B. on my couch . . . with my mom.
Seeing him completely out of context like this is so jarring that I don’t even recognize him for a few seconds. My eyes just send a message to my brain that there is some good-looking, clean-shaven guy in jeans and a polo shirt. Even when the synapses start firing and I make the connection that this is my Dr. B., I kind of want to pull a Sophia and slam the door in his face. He doesn’t belong in the world on this set, where my mom is wearing a breezy summer dress under her apron, where the big family portrait of the four of us before Dad died haunts the dining room table.
No, this is all wrong. Dr. B. and I have a different show, and it has a specific set—his office.
When they see me, Mom and Dr. B. both stand up.
“Wha—” I say, instead of “hello” or any sentiment a normal person might express in this situation. Feeling that my jaw is actually hanging open, I shut my mouth.
“Oh, hi, sweetie. Guess who I ran into at the grocery store on my way home from the salon?”
Probably she means it as a rhetorical question, but I go ahead and answer: “Dr. Brooks?”
Dr. B. gives a strained chuckle and tells me, “Yep, you got it!” Which makes me feel even stupider.
He reaches out to give me this weird quick hug. And yeah, I might be pretty damn confused about what’s going on, but I can’t help but notice that Dr. B. feels super firm and kind of muscle-y under his shirt. And he smells really, really good again!
Then there’s a splinter of a second when the three of us stand there, before my mom must realize that running into someone at Coral Cove Food Mart and that someone drinking pinot noir on your living room sofa requires a few more steps.
“Since you’ve been spending so much time with Dr. Brooks, I thought it might be nice if we got to know him a little better too, so I asked if he might want to join us for dinner.”
I freeze. I never did tell my mom about my extra sessions with Dr. Brooks—the ones he said he’d wave the co-pay on—and I have this moment of panic, thinking that she found out somehow or he told her. Not that I’m doing anything wrong or anything, but Mom likes to stay on top of my appointments and stuff.
“Oh,” I say. No one mentions the extra appointments.
“I’m never one to pass on a home-cooked meal.” Dr. B. smiles, and it really does seem like the bad dialogue of a TV series. “With my fiancée in Miami during the week, I pretty much live on takeout.”
Up until Mom started this cake craze, she used to take great pride in pointing to this lame refrigerator magnet that V and I once got her that reads: The house specialty is reservations. But now Mom is going on about some new Bolognese she wanted to try, and giving Dr. B. this doting smile as if she were Julia Child herself bringing five-star cuisine to the masses.
“Well,” she says. “I’m just delighted you could make it, Glen.”
Glen? Glen!
On Dr. B.’s office door, there is a sign with his full name, and of course it was on his diplomas, so somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he had a first name. But hearing my mom use it is so messed up.
Mom excuses herself to check on the pasta, and I look at the spot on the couch next to Dr. B. where she was sitting. There’s also a red tulip chair (one of the home stager’s “dramatic accent pieces”) off to the side, and I’m not really sure which place is the most appropriate to sit. Remembering how we sat next to each other when we watched Say Anything . . . in his office, I go with the couch.
“So it’s okay that I’m here, right?” he asks. “You seem uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, it’s . . . surprising, I guess.”
“Sorry about that.” He shakes his head lightly. “Let’s just say your mom can be pretty, um, persistent.”
A kick in my chest. He’s only here because Mom attacked him in the produce aisle; of course, that makes complete sense. Mom’s whole “everyone can be a client” and “never take no for an answer” shtick. It must show on my face that I’m hurt or something, because Dr. B. lightly touches my forearm—and there’s a weird nervous electricity.
“Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, Molly,” he says, and even though he’s probably required to say it for his job, I instantly feel lighter. “And it is nice to see you in your natural setting—like field research.”
“Well, anything in the name of science, Glen.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Byrne.” He smiles kind of slowly, and looks right into my eyes, and I actually feel that same jolt of something even without touching.
The front door swings open, and immediately I slide a few inches away from him and toward the arm of the couch as V clomps in. Even though she’s been at work at Jaclyn’s Attic all day, she’s still effervescent in a long pastel maxi dress and chunky wood necklaces and bracelets.
Seeing us on the couch, she raises her perfectly shaped left eyebrow in a question.
“You must be Veronica.” Dr. B. stands and extends his hand. “I’m Glen Brooks, Molly’s therapist.”
“So you do house calls now?” V raises her eyebrow even higher, a nonverbal way of asking me what’s going on.
“Mom bumped into him at the grocery store and brought him home for dinner,” I say.
“Like a stray dog?” V asks.
“I promise, I don’t have fleas,” Dr. B. says.
The three of us laugh a little, but it seems more out of nervousness than genuine am
usement.
Twenty minutes later we’re all eating pasta with a “robust” (Mom’s word) meat sauce that would be delicious if it weren’t seven thousand degrees outside. Mom went all out. There’s garlic bread where you can see that she used actual chopped garlic—not just garlic salt—and a salad with peppery dressing and caramelized onions.
“Really just delicious,” Dr. B. keeps saying.
“I’m so glad you like it.” Mom is practically sparkling. “The recipe is from Tabitha Hitchens, the woman who wrote A Baker’s Journey and started the 100 Days of Cake challenge—Molly probably told you about that. . . .”
“Oh yes, she’s definitely mentioned it,” Dr. B. says lightly, and I look away.
I did tell Dr. B. about Mom’s cake making, but I was so frustrated by the whole thing, I may have used a lot of expletives and the phrase “How am I the crazy one?” more than once.
“We’re having her Rainbow Ribbon Cake for dessert,” Mom continues. “I’m not sure how it’s going to taste, but it looks lovely.”
“I can’t wait to give it a try,” says Dr. B.
My sister just shakes her head above her spaghetti. If we were seated closer to each other, I’d totally kick her under the table.
“Veronica.” Dr. B. turns toward her. “I meant to say something about it when you came in, but your jewelry is really unique.”
“Thanks.” V looks up and smiles; flattery will get you everywhere with that girl. “I work at this boutique on Marigold Drive, and they have some cool stuff.” She twists the wood bracelet around her wrist. “I was actually the one who ordered it for the store. Jaclyn—the owner—knows that I want to get in to fashion merchandising, so she’s started letting me help with stuff like that.”
“Really?” Mom asks. This is totally news to me, too. Since when does V want to go into fashion merchandising? What is fashion merchandising? And V is fifteen. Even Mrs. Peck would tell her that she doesn’t have to worry about “extracurrics” until junior year.
“Yeah, Jaclyn says I have my finger on the pulse of today’s youth or something.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful.” Mom smiles. I don’t think she and V have been on great terms since V got grounded. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
V gives her famous eye roll and mumbles something about how she tried.
“I’ll have to start coming by the store more often,” Mom says.
“Actually, the anniversary of the day I met my fiancée is coming up,” says Dr. B. “Maybe I can come by and have you help me pick out a present for her?”
I wonder if he’s just being nice. Let me rephrase that. I sincerely hope he’s just being nice. I know it’s probably mean and petty and all, but it’s still driving me nuts that V apparently hangs out with Alex; I’m not sure I could handle her being all buddy-buddy with Dr. B., too.
“Sure.” V nods. “If you tell me what she likes and bring in a picture, I can totally help you find something.”
“Perfect.”
“How did you meet your fiancée?” Mom asks. “I always love to hear about that when the brides come into the salon to get their hair done.”
“It’s kind of a cute story, really. Whitney and I were in the same line at the DMV, and we just struck up a conversation.” When Dr. B. talks about her, his face just kind of brightens, and it’s almost like he’s a whole different person.
“Oh, that is so sweet,” Mom gushes.
“On our third date I finally admitted that the other line had been significantly shorter, but I was willing to spend extra time at the DMV if it meant I got to meet her.”
“Aww.” Now even V is charmed.
Their story is romance-novel perfect. None of this awkward high school stuff; no gal disappointing a guy by being different than he thought she would be.
Dr. B. talks a little about how it’s hard with Whitney gone during the week but adds, “I’m really proud of her. She had her first big investigative report on this week, and it went really well. They’re thinking of giving her a regular feature.”
All at once I’m struck by the need to save FishTopia. Not just for Alex and the fish, but so Dr. B. can be proud of me, too.
The rest of dinner goes on, and I start to get that floating feeling that I’m not really there but hovering over everyone. What a nice group. The mom who’s still hot enough to rock her kids’ clothes, two teen girls (one of them a knockout, the other okay), their polite houseguest. Everyone following the correct table manners.
“You know, Mrs. Byrne, it is absolutely remarkable how much you look like your daughters in that picture.” Dr. B. points to the portrait over the table, and Mom blushes and thanks him.
Turning to me, he asks, “Is that from the dollhouse your father made you?”
“Wha?”
“The doll in the picture.” He nods up at the little figure I’m holding, which had been just one of the photographer’s props to get a little girl to smile.
Mom cocks her head, and V rolls her eyes so hard, it’s got to hurt.
“Oh . . . I . . .” There’s absolutely nowhere good for me to take this sentence.
“That so never happened,” V says incredulously. “We have a whole room upstairs of all the toys our parents coulda/woulda/shoulda given us. Dad never gave us anything good.”
“I . . .” Dr. B. looks at me.
“Whatever. Are we done playing family time? I’ve got stuff to do.” V pushes back from the table and storms off.
“You’re still grounded.” Mom is on her feet, like she might go after her.
“Fine. I’ve got stuff to do in my room,” V calls as she hurries up the stairs.
All perfect and calm, Mom turns to Dr. B. again. “I’m sorry about that. Teenagers can be . . . difficult.”
“No, Mrs. Byrne, I’m the one who should be apologizing,” says Dr. B. “Molly’s sessions are confidential, so it was wrong of me to ask in the first place.”
Neither one of them really has anything to apologize for. I’m probably the one who should say I’m sorry. But I can’t even look at them.
Everyone is really quiet until Dr. B. finally invents some early-morning appointment and thanks my mom for the delicious meal but says he should probably be going. Mom doesn’t even try to make him take a piece of Rainbow Ribbon Cake.
Later that night, Mom knocks on the door when I’m drawing a picture of Pickles on my phone with some dumb painting app.
“Come in.”
“Sweetie.” Sitting on the edge of the sleigh bed, she takes the phone out of my hand so I have to look at her. “I’m sorry I blindsided you by inviting Dr. Brooks over,” she says, brushing my mouse-poop hair off my forehead.
“It’s fine.”
“He’s very nice.” She hesitates briefly. “But do you honestly think that he’s helping you?”
“Yes, Mom.” Unbelievable. She’s the one who insisted I go see Dr. Brooks in the first place! Now V makes one stupid comment, and Mom is convinced that he’s the worst shrink since Hannibal Lecter. “Don’t I seem, like, a million times better than before?”
“Well, you have seemed pretty happy this last week or so.”
“See, there you go.”
She looks like she wants to say a whole lot more, but eventually she just sighs and nods, then asks, “Want a piece of cake?”
DAY 48
Italian Cream Cake with Mascarpone
I’m still so completely, utterly mortified by dinner the other night that I don’t even want to go to my appointment. But since I gave Mom the bad baby routine about how much Dr. B. is helping me, attendance seems mandatory.
My stomach is all bunchy, and I’m crushing the Admissions Ace! stress ball in my hand when I hesitantly walk into his office.
From behind his desk Dr. B.’s lips are pressed into a closed-mouth expression somewhere between disappointed and doting—the kind of look you give a sweet puppy that took a dump on your ten-thousand-dollar imported rug.
“So it
seems you might have been misleading me about a few things,” he says as I take a seat on the couch.
“I’m so sorry.” If the stress ball in my hand were a lump of coal, it would be a diamond by now.
“What’s up with that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but Dr. B. is looking at me for more of an answer.
“I want you to think about it, Molly.” He’s back to that serious shrink tone he had during our first few months, before the music and the movies. “Why do you think you would make up memories about your father?”
I shrug. There are spiderwebs in the air-conditioning vent in the floor; I’m staring it at intently enough to notice. “I guess I just don’t remember much about him at all . . .”
“And you feel bad about that?”
“Yeah. It’s like, just because I don’t know that we always ate grilled cheese on Wednesdays or whatever doesn’t mean I don’t miss him.”
“Of course not,” Dr. B. says, and explains that a lot of times people miss an absent parent, even if they never met that person. “It can be a huge void that takes years to get over.”
“I wonder how stuff might be different if he were still around. Like, maybe it would have helped balance things out at home with Mom.”
“This is all very normal, Molly.” Dr. B. nods. “And this is the kind of stuff that you can feel safe discussing here—without worrying about hurting your mom’s feelings or anything like that. But I’m still not quite sure why you would make stuff up for me.”
Another me apology.
“For therapy to be effective, you really have to be brutally honest with me and with yourself.”
“I guess you just kept asking questions about my parents, and you seemed to really like it when I talked about my dad. And I wanted you to like me.”
“So you were telling me things that you thought I wanted to hear?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, you have to stop doing that, Molly Byrne.” He smiles. “And don’t worry. Nothing you can tell me will make me not like you.”
100 Days of Cake Page 12
