16.
Where Tyson Learns the Benefit of Therapy
“YOU KNOW,” Bear says, “it wouldn’t be that hard to find a new therapist. If you really wanted to.”
“I thought you liked Eddie,” I say, dropping my cereal bowl into the sink.
“Bear still hasn’t gotten over their first meeting,” Otter says, flipping through the newspaper. “It scarred him irrevocably, and he’ll never be the same. At least that’s what he says. I think he’s just a bit of a drama queen.”
Kori laughs quietly, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. We’ve only been home a few weeks, yet she’s gone from Corey to Kori and back again more times than I’ve seen in years past. Something has to be bothering her, but I’ve been so wrapped up in my own drama (what else is new) that I haven’t had time to ask her about it. We’ve only got a couple of weeks left until we leave for Tucson, and I need to see to it sooner rather than later.
“Drama queen?” Bear says, the outrage in his voice clear. “He asked me if I wanted to be sodomized with a baseball bat!”
“I don’t think that’s exactly how it went,” Otter says.
“Though that’s probably not too far from the truth if it’s about Eddie,” I remind him. Eddie Egan isn’t exactly what I would call a typical therapist. His ideology tends to be a bit warped. To be honest, I’m surprised his license hasn’t been revoked. But he’s the one who’s known me the longest out of the therapists I’ve been to, and he’s really not all that bad. Most of the time.
“You guys know the weirdest people,” Kori says. “Why would a therapist want to know if you wanted to have baseball-bat sex?”
“I don’t know,” Bear says. “It was just this whole… thing. And it’s not my fault all these kinds of people keep flocking to us. I’m the normal one here.”
We all stare at him.
“What? I am.”
“Normal is not something I’d use to describe you,” I say.
“Definitely not,” Kori agrees.
“And that is said with the utmost amount of love,” Otter says without looking up from the paper. “Well, as much love as can be given while saying you’re abnormal at the same time.”
“I hate you all,” Bear mutters.
“This is why I have to go to therapy,” I explain to Kori. “The family dynamic is such that there was no hope for me to have a sane adulthood. I’m a product of my environment.”
“If that’s true,” Bear says, “you probably would have turned out to be a serial killer or a hooker, with the environment you had. You’re lucky you’re reasonably well-adjusted. For the most part.”
“Reasonably,” I repeat. “That’s a relief.”
“Isn’t it?”
Sort of. But I don’t know how close to the truth that actually is. There are probably all sorts of psychological diseases I could be diagnosed with, not to mention the fact that I seem to still have parental issues and the fact that it’s been three days since I ran out on Dominic and haven’t seen hide nor hair from him. Not that I actually expected to, even with the thinly veiled threat he’d ended our conversation with. It doesn’t help that I can still hear that low growl of his in my head and it makes my hands clammy and my dick hard. I’m probably oversharing, but I figure you’re used to that by now with this family. Might as well keep up with tradition.
You’d think that therapy is hard, that sitting in front of a person who essentially starts out as a stranger and spilling all your dirty little secrets is akin to pulling out your own fingernails one by one. And maybe it does start that way. But there’s something strangely cathartic about talking out loud about things you’re normally too reticent to say to the ones you love. A therapist keeps their mouth shut, doesn’t judge you out loud (though, you have to wonder what they really think after you leave), and gives you advice and/or drugs on how to control your crazy. The talking part I never had a problem with. The drug part was harder. It was easier to be a zombie to escape my problems than to focus on them sober. Benzodiazepines were the greatest thing I knew because they helped me float away. The highs, however, became shorter and shorter, and I had to take more and more. Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t suicidal, just stupid. I did stupid things, got caught, got called on it, and got sober. It’s that simple. Though they say that once you’re an addict, you’re always an addict, and damn if there aren’t days when the earthquakes hit and my breath gets caught in my chest and I wonder how easy it would be to get more pills, how much better I’d feel if I was able not to feel, even for a few hours. I probably should have kept up with the therapy right when we got back to Seafare, but I got distracted by… other things.
At least Bear, Otter, and I are more or less back on the same page. That’s a start. I only have everything else to fix, from Dominic to my academic career to whatever might be wrong with Kori-Corey. Shouldn’t be too hard, though. I am a certified genius, after all. I even have a certificate that says so. You know, for all the good that does me.
“I like how he should have either been a serial killer or a hooker,” Kori says. “It’s good to know Tyson has risen above the adversity that was his childhood and doesn’t walk the streets prowling for victims or johns.”
“You’re welcome,” Bear tells me.
“I don’t hook anymore,” I say.
“Good to know,” Otter says. “I was getting worried, what with all the men you were bringing home to have sex with for money. I at least should have seen an 80 percent cut of it. I was afraid Otter was going to have to choke a bitch.”
“And you two want to be parents,” I say, staring at them both. “Maybe you should shelve that whole idea for now.”
“You were the test run,” Bear reassures me. “We’ll do better next time.”
“You can adopt me,” Kori says. “I’m already an adult, and the only thing I would want is money and to be loved. In that order.”
“You’re already part of this family,” Otter tells him.
“Great! Can I have some money and love?”
“Go hook like your ex-boyfriend brother,” Otter says. “And remember that I get 80 percent. Don’t make Otter come after you. You won’t like what Otter does.”
“I think I would,” Kori says, fanning herself and batting her eyes.
“So gross,” I moan.
“Remember this moment when you think I’m the weird one,” Bear tells me.
“Super,” I say. “I think I’ll go to therapy now. Thanks to all of you for heaping upon the issues I already have.”
“You’re welcome,” they all intone.
FOR BETTER or worse, Eddie Egan hasn’t changed a bit.
“Tell me, Tyson,” he says as I sit across from him in his office, “at any point were you ever attracted physically to your mother?”
“I’m pretty sure that was never an issue,” I say. “Plus, there’s the whole gay thing, you know.”
“Right.” He frowns as he scribbles something ludicrously long on the legal pad in front of him. Bear and I have a bet going that he’s not actually taking notes just to do so for the session. Bear thinks he’s writing a book about the crazier of his patients, and that I’m going to be included. I think that he thinks he’s the one in therapy and is writing down all the things he wants to work on for himself. “The whole gay thing. You know, I’ve been doing some research about that.”
Uh-oh. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
I wait, but he just stares at me. “And what was the conclusion of your research?” I finally ask, unsure if that’s the smart thing to do.
“That there’s absolutely nothing wrong with homosexuality,” he says. “It’s perfectly natural. Anyone who says otherwise is completely irresponsible.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Did you know that almost fifteen hundred species of animals have been observed engaging in homosexual behavior?”
“I think I heard that somewhere. Jeopardy, maybe.”
“Animals from penguins to baboons have been documented in homosexual relationships! Why, right now you could be infected with acanthocephalans who are at this very minute touching each other’s proboscis! Though, to have the gut worm, you would most likely have had to eaten scarabaeid beetle grubs. Have you eaten any beetle grubs lately?”
“None,” I say. “I’m a vegetarian, remember?”
“That’s right,” he says, sounding extraordinarily disappointed. He takes another half page of notes. “There seems to be a large quantity of same-sex pairings in birds. However, the zoo turned down my request to observe the penguins there, and I’m just absolutely terrified of pigeons. I was assaulted once when I was younger by two pigeons who wanted to eat my cotton candy when I was on the boardwalk, and I really haven’t been the same since.”
“There used to be a seagull that hated Bear,” I offer, only because I am at a loss for anything else to say.
“Was it a homophobic seagull?” Eddie asks. He pours me a glass of water and sets it on the small table between us.
“I really couldn’t say.”
“That’s too bad. It’s one thing to document homosexuality in animals, but could you imagine documenting animal hate crimes? That would be groundbreaking!”
“The Nobel Prize would surely be yours.”
“The laurels would never cease,” he agrees. “Since the zoo recklessly denied me entrance and since pigeons are the spawn of the devil with nothing but malice in their hearts and minds, I thought it best to proceed with ducks. I staked out a prime location at a duck pond in the park nearby and attempted to record any sightings of homosexual behavior.”
“You were in the bushes, weren’t you.”
His face lit up. “I was! I figure if there’s any chance of seeing homosexual sex, the best place would be in the park in the bushes. I read on the Internet that it’s a prime homosexual hunting ground.”
“You’ve really thought this through,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.
He sighs. “Sadly, it was not to be. The ducks soon became aware of my presence and unfortunately banded together to chase me from the pond. I should have known by their erratic behavior that something was wrong. It was abundantly clear when I thought back on it. It wasn’t gay behavior I was observing.”
“Oh?” I ask, picking up the glass of water. “And what was so obvious?”
“They were all high on drugs. I’d inadvertently stumbled upon a group of ducks addicted to quack!”
I spray water all over myself, the desk, and Eddie Egan.
He grimaces as I struggle to breathe. “There’s something to be said for comedic timing,” he says as he takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes his face. “I’ve worked for days on that punch line.”
“You told me,” I gasp, “that whole story so you could tell a joke?”
He shrugs as he dabs his notepad, some of the ink smeared from my projectile spraying. “I figured it was the best way to get you to open up. It’s been a while since we’ve talked face-to-face.”
“Did you really go sit in the park in the bushes to try to find gay ducks?”
“I did,” he says. “Though I admit to the last part being a joke. I thought it might make the segue easier.”
“Into what?” I ask, though I have a pretty good idea. I should have known this would be oncoming.
He looks at me levelly. “Did you find what you were looking for when you realized you were consuming increasingly dangerous doses of the benzos?”
I wish we were still talking about drug-addicted ducks. It’d be easier. “You know about that, huh?”
“Yes, Tyson, I know about that. Not only am I still considered your treating therapist, but Derrick, Oliver, and your therapist in New Hampshire have all expressed their concerns to me.”
Gosh. It’s good to know nothing is kept secret anymore. Anger rises in me, but it’s an addict’s anger, a thing that swells at the realization that everyone seems to know my business. It’s something I’ve had to work through ever since Bear and Otter sat me down and told me they knew I had a problem. I try to force it down, because it’s an unfounded thing. “Good to know,” I manage to say in a level voice.
Eddie’s eyes soften. There are more lines around his eyes than there used to be and his long hair is shot with gray, but he’s still the same guy I’ve known since I was nine years old. Hell, even the bead curtain to enter his office still hangs from the doorway, though a few strands are missing now. “I could spin you the whole song and dance,” he says. “Tell you it’s just because people love you and are concerned about you, but you know that already.”
I nod, because I do.
“And I could tell you that you’re smarter than that, that you should know better. But I don’t know the need to admonish you is necessary anymore, and I’m sure you’ve probably kicked your own ass enough about it. And, if not, I’d be willing to bet my therapy license that Derrick did it enough for you.”
“That might be the understatement of the century.”
Eddie nods. “He can be surprisingly scary when he wants to be.”
“So if you’re not mad and if you’re not going to tell me I’m better than it, then what did you want to accomplish by bringing it up?”
“The why of it, Tyson. Yes, we know you’re smarter than that, probably smarter than anyone else I’ve known, and yes, we know your brother is a horrifying man whose anger is like a great fury, but I want to know why.”
“That’s… huh.”
“What?” he asks, making another note.
“I just realized I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that question. Maybe told why, but never asked.”
“Everyone was concerned with the fixing of it, I’m sure,” he says. “How bad were the withdrawal symptoms?”
“Not as bad as you might think, I guess. The first few days were the hardest.”
“Hallucinations?”
I shake my head. “Not that I remember, anyway.”
“Nightmares?”
“No more than usual. I didn’t sleep for a few days, and I’m pretty sure I was drenched in sweat the whole time, but it passed.” Not to mention the nausea and the overwhelming sense that the whole world was about to collapse on top of me, and if I could just get one more pill, just even half of one to take the edge off, it’d be okay. I had begged, I had cajoled, I had yelled.
It could have been worse, I know.
Of course, it shouldn’t have happened at all.
“So, why?” he asks.
“Isn’t it the same with every addict?” I ask this of him not to be facetious, but out of curiosity.
“It might seem like that on the outside,” he says. “And I’m not an addiction specialist. I work with children mostly, as you know. But I have a feeling that regardless of the similarities between people and their addictions, the closer you get, the more differences appear.”
“It was easier,” I say. “I didn’t think as much.”
“Took the edge off?”
“You could say that, I guess. More like I didn’t care what edges there were. And even if they were there, they were blurred, so I couldn’t find reason to care.”
“What drugs were you given, specifically?”
He knows this already, I think, but he’s trying to gauge my sincerity. Unfortunately, addicts are known liars. Not because they want to be, but because it’s just the way it is. It’s hard to trust someone when they’re high or trying to cover the fact that they are. “Started with Xanax. It wasn’t working, so I was given Klonopin instead.” The difference is like starting with a match and then being given a piece of dynamite.
“Why wasn’t Xanax working?”
Another trap of sorts. He’s wanting to know if the high wasn’t high enough. It was. The Xanax was never about that. I shrug. “I still couldn’t breathe.”
“Did you do the exercises I taught you?”
“I tried. Sometimes it worked. Most of the time it didn’t. It probably didn’t help that I was hiding the panic attacks as much as possible from Bear and Otter.”
“Why?”
I pick at the armrest of the chair. “I didn’t want them to worry.”
“The panic attacks continued.”
“Yes. Maybe not with the same severity, but yes.”
“Meditation? Yoga?”
I shook my head. “I was never very good at either of those, Eddie. You know that. My mind works too fast to focus like that.”
“And the Klonopin helped with that?”
I hesitate here, because “help” is more of a euphemism than anything else. If by “helped” he means I was stoned most of the time and could rarely find a single fuck to give, then yes, it helped. I was Robot Tyson and Zombie Tyson, and though I tried my damnedest not to show it, I know my eyes had dulled and I spoke more slowly. Robot Tyson moved through life as if underwater. Zombie Tyson couldn’t be bothered with paying attention in class.
“I don’t know about ‘helped’,” I say slowly. “It was more of a means to an end.”
“How so?”
“I was hurting. The drugs helped me to not hurt. It was very self-serving.”
“Such things usually are,” he says with no recrimination in his voice. “Do you think you would have stopped on your own?”
“Hard to say.”
“Try.”
I sigh. “Maybe? Probably. I like to think I would have.”
“But?”
“But I don’t know. I know better than what my actions show.”
He smiles at me. “I know, Tyson. You always did. I think maybe you just lost your way for a little bit.”
“That’s what Bear said.”
“He’s smart, that one.”
“Sometimes.”
Eddie smiles. “And I know how hard you tend to be on yourself. But you have to consider that what you see as selfish might in fact be grief.”
“Over?”
He shrugs. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Think about it, Tyson. You’ve been through a lot in your life, much more than most people your age have.”
“It hasn’t been all bad,” I counter. “I’ve had Bear and Otter. And the others.”
“You have. And that’s good. But people have still left, Tyson, and I don’t know that you’ve properly dealt with that.”
I snort. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology? You try to get some kind of rise out of me only to have me collapse and vomit emotionally all over you? You know me better than that.”
He grins at me. “Saw through that, did you?”
“It was pretty clear.”
“Then let’s try for full transparency, shall we?”
“Do your worst.”
Oh, you’re fucked, it says.
Probably, I think back.
“I don’t think you’ve properly dealt with your mother leaving. I don’t think you’ve properly dealt with the death of Mrs. Paquinn. I don’t think you’ve properly dealt with the fact that you loved someone who you thought couldn’t return your affections. I think all of this, coupled with your propensity to hide behind your intelligence and your ability to act far beyond your years, has left you susceptible to your so-called earthquakes. I think you overthink things to the point that it becomes your primary focus. You see your behavior as selfish and self-serving, but I see it as extraordinarily single-minded, to the point of obsession. Not with the subject of your thoughts, but the idea of them, their aspects, and everything right or wrong with said subject. You’re slightly manipulative—not in a malicious way, but such that you’re able to hide certain things about yourself so that others don’t see them. Derrick. Oliver. Dominic. You act like an adult because you’ve been forced to since a very young age. You were never able to have a childhood like most given your situation and the singular drive you felt to protect your brother. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders because you believe that’s what you’re supposed to do. And the panic disorder, whether it stemmed from a neurological issue or an emotional one, was something you could latch on to, and then came the Klonopin. And for the first time in your life, you thought, why not? Why not let it go, just for a little while? Why not let things slide with the blurred edges? You decided to take an easy out, just to see what would happen. And when you were called on it, you went back to the way you were before. That singular drive. It explains how you were able to knock the addiction so quickly after being on the medication for almost a year.” He sits back in his chair. “Is that transparent enough for you?”
“Like a punch in the face,” I tell him through the thunder in my ears.
“I wouldn’t normally say something like that. But I figure it’s time someone did. And regardless of what you think, you’re strong enough to hear it. Sometimes, tough love is what a person needs in order to clear their head.”
I’m incredulous. “That’s your idea of tough love?”
“Scary, isn’t it?” He sounds amused.
“Terrifying.”
“And yet, how accurate was it?”
“I don’t know if I can even respond to that.”
“So, very accurate, then.”
“Well, it’s not every day I get told I’m a manipulative junkie.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is that really what you took away from all that?”
“No,” I grumble. “I also took away that you’re a bit of a jerk.”
Eddie laughs. “You’ll thank me for it later.”
“I dream about her. Sometimes.” It’s out before I can stop it.
“Oh?” is all he says.
“That’s normal, right?”
“You’re asking me what normal is?”
I look down at my hands. “Right. Probably not the best question.”
“Normal is boring,” Eddie says. “I couldn’t imagine a drabber existence.”
“I could go for drab right now. It’d be a nice change from the crazy.”
“You’d get bored, I think.”
I sigh. “Maybe.”
“Are they bad dreams? You mentioned nightmares before.”
“Yes. Well, most of the time.”
He says nothing.
“Sometimes it’s her coming back. Like she did. She’s standing at the door and she’s smiling, and I think how I know her and I don’t. And I’m paralyzed. I can’t move, even though I know I should be running. I can’t move and I can’t… well. I can’t breathe.”
“That’s when she told Derrick she was fighting him for custody?”
“Yeah. Sort of. It got more convoluted than that.” Which is an understatement, of course. I didn’t find out until much later that she’d come back yet again when Otter and Mrs. Paquinn were in the hospital. I thought I’d be angry that Bear and Otter had kept that from me, and there were a few moments that I was. But when Bear told me what had been said between him and Julie McKenna, the anger melted away. How anyone could think that Bear Thompson is anything but the strongest man alive is beyond me. “They’re not all bad, though.”
“The dreams?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because there were… good parts. To her. I think.”
Eddie looks surprised. “There were?”
I almost feel embarrassed at this, that I should have any good memories of a woman so horrible as to leave her kids behind to fend for themselves, only to return to try and wreck their lives at the promise of money from a perfect stranger. How could there be anything good about someone like that?
But there is. There was. Once, she took me to the beach, and she and I flew a kite together, and she laughed and said, “Look how high it is! Look how high up the kite is, Ty!” And it was. It was as high as I’d ever seen it go before. And the way she had smiled at me, like I was the greatest thing she’d ever seen. And the way she had laughed with me, like she didn’t have a single care in all the world.
Once, she made cookies and let me lick the spatula.
Once, she held me in her arms after I’d fallen and scraped my leg.
Once, she sat with me when I was sick, singing a song in a low voice.
Once, she pushed me on a swing as it started to rain.
Julie McKenna is not a good person. She made choices so reprehensible that it negates anything that could be considered motherly about her. I hate her for what she did to me. I hate her for what she did to Bear. And I hate her for what she tried to do after our family had finally found some even footing, some solid ground to stand upon. I hate her for all that.
But there was one time when I was five, shortly before she left, when she looked at me and said, “You know I love you, right?”
I was only five, but I already knew she wasn’t much of a mother. She was drunk a lot of the time and would stay locked in her room when her own earthquakes rolled over her and buried her in a landslide of depression. She would stay out until early morning and come stumbling home, reeking of Jim Beam and Marlboro Reds, waking Bear and me up. He would get up, telling me to stay in bed, and he’d close the door behind him, and there’d be raised voices as he told her off, because how could she do this to us? To me? How could she take money from Bear, money he was saving for school? How could she leave us alone for days at a time, when she knew Bear had to go to school and there was no one else to watch me? What kind of mother was she?
I knew this. I knew all of this about her. I did.
But I was five years old, and she looked at me and said, “You know I love you, right?” Already she was planning to leave. Already she was saying good-bye, in her own way. Already she was looking at her five-year-old son, knowing she was going to leave him behind. She knew this. All of this.
But she said what she said, and I remember a feeling in my chest like a sun bursting, because could I remember a time before when she’d ever said that to me? Could I remember ever hearing those words from her?
I couldn’t.
I thought that it was meant to be the start of something wonderful. That she had climbed out of whatever hole she’d dug for herself and she was going to be my mom and Bear and I could be her sons and we would make her so proud. She’d be so damn proud of us, and I’d hear it from her all the time.
You know I love you, right?
I smiled at her.
I love you too, I said.
And she laughed. I laughed with her.
A few weeks later, she was gone.
“She was complex,” I tell Eddie now. “I don’t think even she knew how complex she was. You can say what you will about her, and I’ve said most of it myself at one point or another, but I still think there was some good about her.”
“You truly believe this,” Eddie says.
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you throw me for a loop.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”
“Have you thought about getting in contact with her?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Bear, for one. He’d be pissed.”
“Forget Derrick for a second,” Eddie says. “Is that it?”
I shake my head slowly. “Because no matter what good I think there might be, she still left.”
“Even if she had her reasons?”
“Nothing she could say could justify what she did.”
“You sure?”
I glare at him. “You’re damn right I am.”
“So that door is closed.”
“Firmly.” That feels like a lie.
“And what about the other doors?”
“What other doors?”
He waits.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Indeed,” he says.
“How’s Dominic?” he asks.
“Fuck you, Eddie,” I reply weakly.
“Grief, Tyson. It all comes back down to grief. Your mother. Mrs. Paquinn. Dominic. Not all can be fixed, but some of it can.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
He shrugs. “There’s only so much I can do. I can lend an ear and give you fancy words like ‘regression’ and ‘repressed,’ but it’s up to you to do the work. Can I tell you a secret, Tyson?”
“What?”
“Therapy is bullshit. I sit here and listen to you and offer you pretty words of advice, but it’s up to you to figure it out. And that’s what happens. Most of the time. I just let you think I’m helping you. But really, it’s you who needs to help yourself. I can teach you the art of breathing, Tyson. But it’s up to you to actually do it.”
“And you think I can?”
He laughs. “More than anyone else I have ever had sitting across from me in this office. There’s something special about you, whether you know it or not. You have such strength in you that I refuse to believe you’ll be anything but the greatest man you can possibly be. Life is never easy. There are the bumps in the road that sometimes turn into mountains. But you’re a born climber, and I promise you that no matter how big the obstacle in your way, you’ll overcome it. There is no alternative.”
“No pressure.”
“None whatsoever.”
I think hard. “Gay ducks, huh?”
He grins at me. “Probably strung out right now in their quack den.”
And then I tell him the story of Dominic and me. He listens, as he always does, and when I’m finished, he gives me some very simple advice.
He’s a smart one, that Eddie Egan. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
DOMINIC’S NOT home when I park in front of his house. That’s okay. I can do the creepy stalker thing and wait. It could be hours, I know, but this is important. I’ll wait all damn night if I have to.
I don’t wait long.
He pulls into the driveway. Sees me sitting near the curb. He doesn’t hesitate. Opens the passenger door. Gets in with me. Looks over at me. He smells so good.
He doesn’t speak. Just watches me. I know he’s waiting for me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, yourself,” he says back.
“You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
I nod. “Ben?”
“With his mom. I got all the time in the world, Ty.”
I start the car and pull away from the curb.
It’s minutes later that I say, “Dom?”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah?”
“I missed you. Every day.” With every single piece of my heart.
I can hear the overwhelming relief in his broken voice when he says, “I missed you too.”
We drive on.