“Call it a relapse.”
We climb into Dad’s pickup, settling into an easy silence. The hum of talk radio and rumble of the engine keep the quiet comfortable as we cut our way through town. It’s only a ten-minute drive to the office. If he doesn’t get on it, he’s not going to have any dirt for my mom.
Unless maybe this isn’t about me at all.
“You and mom aren’t fighting are you?” I ask.
He lifts his fingers from the steering wheel, halfheartedly waving that off. “No, Mom’s deep cleaning. I’m looking for excuses.”
He’s still a bad liar, but I didn’t expect anything about him would be different. It took him a year to get used to the idea of a weeping cherry tree in the front flower bed. The guy’s not big on change. He’s kind of like a glacier with hair. The steady, unflappable presence that keeps Mom from exploding and me from floating away on a whim.
He sighs, and I know he’s going to confess. “All right, she wanted me to talk to you.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“She’s just scared, that’s all. Scared that you’re not telling us everything. Some of your stories don’t match up.”
I glance out the window, watch the town passing by in a blur of old houses and storefronts that need sprucing.
“Mom thinks maybe you’re afraid to talk to us,” he says.
“I’m not,” I say.
“Because you can tell us what’s going on. Even if you don’t think we’ll like it, we want to hear it.”
I turn to the window again. This time, the tears in my eyes blur the images I see. “I’m not crazy, Dad.”
Suddenly, I need him to believe it.
“Never thought you were.”
“But, Mom…”
“Mom worries, Chlo. It’s what she does.”
I laugh. “Yeah, she worries that I’ll let her down.”
“She wants you to be happy.”
“She wants me to make her proud, Dad. That’s not the same.”
He makes a face, and I think it’s because he wants to defend her. In the end, he doesn’t. He pulls up to the curb by my doctor’s office and puts the car in park. “I want you to be happy.”
I lean across the seat between us, squeezing him in a hug. I want to hold enough strength from his broad shoulders to make me believe things will work out fine, but when I pull back, it disappears. Steam vanishing into nothing.
Chapter Nine
Inside Dr. Kirkpatrick’s office, I mentally prepare while she pours me a glass of ice water. She offers me hot tea first, top-notch imported stuff, she assures me. In the end, I opt for low-rent tap water because I’m too scatterbrained to pick flavors and sip carefully.
“It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a week since we spoke,” Dr. Kirkpatrick says as she sets down my glass.
This is shrink speak for Just how crazy have you been in the last few days?
And my answer would be pretty freaking crazy, but I’m not here to give answers. If I’m forced to sit in this stupid office, I’m going to pick her brain until I find something that will help me get my memories back.
“I’ve been busy,” I start. “But I think I’m starting to have things come back to me.”
Blatant lie. If you add my new vanishing computer files, my list of missing items is actually expanding.
“That’s terrific,” she says. “Would you like to talk about some of those things?”
I bite my lip and glance over at her bookshelves. It’s a calculated move. If I look too conflicted, she’ll know I’m faking, so I do it fast, hoping to sell it just enough.
“I’m not sure. I might not be ready yet. Is that okay?”
“Do you feel that you need my permission?” she asks me with a smile.
“It’s not that. It’s just…I don’t want to jinx it, you know? I want to be sure I’m really making progress.”
More importantly, I haven’t invented a memory to discuss today.
“All right, Chloe. Is there something else specific you’d like to talk about?”
And that is shrink speak for, Obviously there’s something specific you’d like to talk about.
I stand up and head over to her bookcase, scanning the shelves. “I want to talk about psychology. I don’t know if you remember, but I got really interested in it last year after that class I took.”
“I do. I believe I provided a list of recommended books and some additional elective courses that I thought would be beneficial.”
Okay, I didn’t take the courses. After months of panic attacks and therapy sessions, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to open that can of worms. No one needed another reminder of my Prozac Princess past, thanks.
I look down at my shoes and sigh. “I guess last year I was still tossing the idea around. Now, things are different. I’m a senior, and I’m applying to schools.”
“You worked very hard this summer,” she says, which almost makes me laugh. For all she probably knows, I spent my summer painting my toenails and watching Tom and Jerry reruns.
Still, I smile at her. “You’re right. And now that I feel like I have a real shot at a future in psychology, I think it changes things. I’m pretty committed to this.”
She leans back, looking proud. “Well, I think it’s a terrific idea, Chloe. People are often called to help others who’ve experienced similar hardships to themselves.”
“Exactly. And I guess that’s what I want to talk about. I want to start with myself. I want to take control of my own recovery and be proactive.”
I stop there because I’m out of fifty-cent words that I’m hoping will appeal to her.
She tilts her head, her too-black hair sliding over one cheek. “You know, even trained psychologists still need outside help sometimes. Going it alone isn’t always possible or wise.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. “I’m not trying to get out of therapy. But you always told me I will get as much out of therapy as I put into it. And I want to put my mind to work. I feel like I need a better understanding of how memory works.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t erase the tension from her eyes. “I’m happy to see you tackle this head-on, Chloe.”
“Great.”
Dr. Kirkpatrick purses her lips, and I can tell that we’re not quite there yet. “But first, I’d like to talk here about memories. About what they are. These are fragile, subjective recordings of past events that change over time and evolve with your emotions.”
I nod, leaning forward in my seat, ready to skip to the part where she tells me exactly how I can get these fragile, subjective recordings back.
Dr. Kirkpatrick leans forward too. There’s something about the way she pauses that I’ve never seen. I can’t help thinking she’s rehearsing what she’s about to say. Or maybe just second-guessing herself. Whatever it is, it creates a long pause before she speaks again.
“Chloe, during our last session I sensed you were reluctant to share the details of your memory loss with me. You know that this is a safe place, and I want you to feel comfortable with what you share, but I also feel it’s important that I understand the extent of your impairment so we know how to proceed.”
I should have expected this. I should have known at some point she’d want to know how serious this is. And I can’t tell her. Something deep in my bones tells me to stay quiet.
It feels wrong, lying to her. Last year, when I could barely make it through a pep rally without feeling my throat close up, she’s the one who told me how to cope, the one who told me to never doubt my own strength. She never once told me I was weak or overly dramatic or crazy.
I trusted her once, but I don’t anymore.
“I guess I’m not sure how to answer that,” I say, twisting my fingers. My stomach is knitting itself into a series of knots, each one a little tighter than the last. “I’m forgetting lots of little things. Deadlines. Bits of conversations. I feel sort of tuned out.”