The waiting room to Dr. Mendez’s office is filled with sleek, modern furniture that still seems somehow organic and welcoming. Copies of the Atlantic, the New Yorker, and the Economist sit on the tables between chairs. Everything is in comforting hues of brown and gray. Nothing looks thoughtless or haphazard.
Georgia sits beside me, texting.
A door opens and out walks a slim man who looks to be in his midforties, wearing a well-tailored beige linen suit with no tie. His tidy beard is gray and his hair is graying at the temples. He’s wearing rectangular tortoiseshell glasses.
He glows when he spots Georgia. “There’s a familiar face!”
Georgia leaps from her chair. “Can I give you a hug since I’m not your patient anymore?”
Dr. Mendez gestures broadly. “Come here!” After they break the hug, he assesses her. “You look healthy and happy.” He has the faintest hint of an accent.
“I am both of those things. How are Steven and your kids?”
“Well, Aurelia is starting her first year at Harding Academy and Ruben starts at Stanford in a few days. And as for Steven…” Dr. Mendez holds up his left hand to show Georgia a silver ring.
She squeals and claps her hands to her mouth. “Get out. Congratulations! When?”
He beams. “June, in Sonoma, near where Steven grew up. Georgia, it was beautiful. Even my very Catholic madrecita was there, and I caught her shedding a tear.”
“I could not be happier for you two.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you.” His eyes fall on me. “Now, who have you brought me?”
“This is my brother, Carver.”
Dr. Mendez extends a hand. “Carver, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” His handshake is firm, warm, and generous.
“Good to meet you, Dr. Mendez.”
He gestures into his room. “Shall we? Without further ado?”
I walk in. Behind me, Dr. Mendez says to Georgia, “Are you staying? If so, we won’t bother with goodbyes yet.”
Georgia says she’s waiting until we’re done.
I look around. More sleek, modern furniture, mixed with antiques. On the walls are framed vintage maps and old botanical prints. It smells like spice and wood—warm, brown, and clean. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books. Diagnostic manuals and other tools of the trade, of course, but also books of photography and painting, fiction and poetry. Leather-bound classics. Books in Spanish and English. I’m impressed.
Dr. Mendez shuts the door and gestures toward two identical brown leather armchairs facing each other, a coffee table with a pitcher of water, glasses, and a box of tissues between the two chairs. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“I thought I was supposed to lie down on a couch.” I’m only sort of joking.
Dr. Mendez laughs. It’s a kind, warm laugh. “That’s only in the movies. Unless you really want to, and then maybe we can rig up a hammock or something.”
I make my way to a chair and sit. “No, it’s cool. Sitting upright is fun too. I enjoy sitting upright.” I talk too much when I’m apprehensive.
I balance on the edge of the chair, like I’m watching a scary movie, and try to keep my legs from bouncing. I fold my arms and then unfold them. Dr. Mendez’s hands are empty. “Don’t you take notes?”
Dr. Mendez sits, relaxed, facing me. “I do after the session. I find that if I try to while people are talking, I don’t listen as well. Will it worry you if I don’t take notes during the session?”
“No.”
“Your sister obviously loves you very much.”
“Yeah. She’s always kinda looked out for me.”
“How so?”
“I got a lot of crap in middle school, I guess. I was way into books, which isn’t a recipe for middle school popularity. Anyway, Georgia would stick up for me.”
“I noticed you looking at my books.”
I blush. “Busted.”
He grins and waves off my concern. “Not at all. They’re there in the open for all to see. But most people don’t seem to pay them much attention. You did. You’re a big reader?”
“And writer.”
“Is that so? That’s fantastic. I have a very boring novel I’ve been working on for, oh, twenty years. At this point, I enjoy the idea of writing a novel more than I actually enjoy the writing part. What do you write?”
“Short stories. Poems. I have some ideas for novels, but I haven’t started anything.”
“I hope I haven’t dissuaded you by talking about my own struggles with finishing what I’ve started.”
“No.”
“Good. So. Let me introduce myself. My name is Raúl Mendez. I was born in Juarez, Mexico, and moved to El Paso when I was quite young. I grew up in Texas, did my undergrad at the University of Texas at Austin, before I came to Vanderbilt for graduate school and medical school. I’ve been here ever since. Now, have you ever been to a therapist before or did Georgia tell you how it works here?”
“No, not really. I mean, I guess we talk? I tell you about my mother? Find penises in Rorschach tests?” I wouldn’t normally make such a joke around an adult I had just met. But he puts me at ease and plus I don’t want to talk about heavy, serious stuff for as long as possible.
He laughs. He wags his finger and leans forward in his chair, adjusting his glasses. “Close. You talk; I listen. Sometimes I offer an insight about something you’ve said or ask you to elaborate on something. But I’m doing my job best when you’re talking and I’m listening. I’m not here to give you answers to your problems. I’m here to let you discover answers on your own. So it may be frustrating sometimes that I don’t come out and tell you what I think you should do, but I assure you that it’s part of the process. Okay?”
“Okay. I guess. I mean, honestly, I don’t super want to be here.”
“That’s normal.”
“At least something about me is.”
“So, Carver—interesting name, by the way—tell me about yourself.”
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair. “My name comes from Raymond Carver. My dad is a huge fan of his stories, so he gave me the name.”
“I’m a fan.”
“Of the name or of Raymond Carver?”
“Both. It seems you and your father have something in common there.”
“We both love to read. He’s an English professor.”
“Sorry for interrupting, continue.”
“Anyway, I’m seventeen and a senior at Nashville Arts Academy.”
“Now there’s a good school for a book lover. You must be an excellent writer to have gotten in there—I assume it was your writing and you’re not also an extremely talented jazz saxophonist.” He says the last part with an impish eyebrow raise.
“I am,” I murmur.
He starts to get up. “As it happens, I keep a saxophone here for my clients, if you’d like—”
I smile. “I was kidding.”
“Me too.” His eyes sparkle. He pauses for a moment. “So. How are you?”
I cast my eyes over his shoulder and try to inject nonchalance into my voice. “I’m good. Yeah, doing pretty good.”
“I’m glad.”
“Yeah.” I tap my fingers on the armrest, the way casual people do—the way people who are fine do.
“A lot of the people I see are doing pretty good.”
“Then why are they here?”
“They want to be doing better.”
“And?”
“Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. I like to think it helps more often than it doesn’t.”
“You’re not exactly unbiased.”
He laughs. “No. True.”
“Does it ever make people worse?”
“Are you dealing with something you’re worried about therapy worsening?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you currently dealing with something in your life you’d like to talk about?”
I consider saying no. But I guess that wouldn’t be entirely plausible since, you know, I showed up for this appointment. “I—had a panic attack.”
He nods. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
“What were the circumstances surrounding it?”
“Aren’t there medications for panic attacks?” I ask.
“There are.”
“Then why don’t we do that?”
“We will. I’m going to send you home today with a prescription for Zoloft, a drug I’ve used with success to treat anxiety and panic attacks. But I like to start people on a lower dose, so that their bodies can acclimate, and then it takes some tinkering to get the right dosage. It can take weeks before things are dialed in right. In the meantime, we’ll be doing therapy. I’ve found this two-pronged approach to be the most effective.”
“I just wanted to save you some time.”
“I assure you my time is not so valuable that you’re capable of wasting it.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
He smiles. “Do you feel like you’re in any physical danger? Like while driving?”
“I mean…not really. I know what an attack feels like now.”
“Your safety is paramount. If you ever feel that you’re in danger, I want to know immediately.”
“Okay.”
“What happened yesterday?”
I sigh. “It was as I was walking into school for the first day. Lost my shi—stuff.”
Dr. Mendez shrugs it off. “Word things however you want. You won’t offend me. I’ve heard it all.”
“Lost my shit in front of everyone. Completely freaked out. Fell and hit my head. I went home. I just couldn’t—That’s why I’m here.” It’s exhausting to say all this stuff out loud—but surprisingly less so than carrying it around.
“So you have this first panic attack and—”
I break eye contact.
Dr. Mendez pauses. “This is something that’s happened before.”
I raise two fingers, still not looking him in the eye.
Dr. Mendez nods and sits back, forming a triangle with his fingers. “Have these panic attacks come in conjunction with some precipitating event? Some new stressor in your life?”
He earns points for using the phrase “precipitating event.” He seems to have perceived that I don’t have patience for people who talk down to me. But that doesn’t make me any more excited to talk about said precipitating event.
I stare at the Oriental rug under me because I’m unsure what sort of facial expression is appropriate to introduce the death of your three best friends to a total stranger who you’d prefer not to be talking to. Impassiveness doesn’t seem quite right. Smiling is definitely out.
“The stuff we discuss in here, it’s super, super private, right? Like you won’t tell the police?” I ask.
His face doesn’t register even a hint of shock. “Absolutely private. Unless I have reason to believe that you may be an imminent harm to yourself or others. Anything in your past is strictly between us.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want you withholding because you think I can’t handle it. I promise you, I can.”
“I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
Dr. Mendez doesn’t respond.
“I don’t really want to talk about why.”
He still doesn’t respond. Just listens.
“I’ve barely even talked about it with my own parents.”
“Any particular reason?”
“No, not really. They’re great parents. I’ve always just been kinda private with them about my feelings and stuff. I don’t know why.”
“Parents can be tricky.”
This guy is difficult not to talk to. It’s like the words are butting past my teeth and lips, going, Excuse me, guys, if you’re not going to help us make it to the doc’s ears, we’ll just take matters into our own hands.
I clench and unclench my fists. “A few weeks ago my best friends died in a car wreck. All three of them.” I’m still looking at the floor until I say “all three of them,” when I look up and meet Dr. Mendez’s gaze.
He doesn’t flinch. His eyes are an open door. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “How awful.”
I glance away and rub my face because I’m starting to choke up. I hope he doesn’t keep probing. For starters, I’m not ready to talk about how I hold myself responsible; how Judge Edwards is coming for me. I’m not ready to hear myself saying those things yet. I’m scared it will make them more real to say them out loud. An incantation summoning a soul-sucking demon from a flaming pit.
I breathe through the tightness of my throat. “Yeah. It’s bad. So the night of the last funeral was the first. I went to the ER that time. Yesterday, the first day of school, was the second attack. I’m here because I don’t want there to be a third.”
Dr. Mendez nods. “That gives us a fairly clear idea of where our work should start. So talk to me about what you’re feeling right now. If you’ve had any reflections on the grief you’re experiencing?”
It’s such a simple question, but I’m completely without an answer. There’s something priestly about Dr. Mendez that makes me want to confess. His demeanor is so open, gentle, and nonjudgmental. I seesaw between not trusting Dr. Mendez enough to tell him about how I wear Sauce Crew’s death around my neck and not wanting to disappoint him by telling him.
“I miss them.”
Dr. Mendez nods but says nothing. He’s obviously not the type to nervously fill lulls in the conversation. He’ll let silence breathe.
“I…forget sometimes that they’re gone. It happens right after I wake up. For about five seconds each day. For that little moment I’m free. Then I remember. I also remember sometimes right as I’m trying to fall asleep, and it snaps me awake.”
I pour myself a glass of water and take a sip. I’m not particularly thirsty but I don’t know what to do with my hands. “This friend of mine—she dated one of my friends I lost—talked about grief coming in waves and at weird times.”
“Has your grief taken a similar form?”
“Yes.”
“This girl you mentioned; is she somebody who’s a source of support and comfort to you?”
“Yeah, she is.”
“Do you have other people who can share in your experience of this grief in a similar way?”
“I’ve talked a little with the grandma of one of my friends who died.”
“I’ve noticed that you haven’t said their names. You’ve referred to them as ‘a friend’ or ‘friends.’ Do you find it difficult to say their names?”
“I—yeah. I guess I kinda do.”
“Do you know why?”
I ponder. “I’m not sure this is why, but I hate saying their names while talking about them dying. It’s stupid, but I’m almost afraid if I do, it’ll make it real.”
Dr. Mendez shakes his head. “I’ve seen people who were afraid to throw out clothes or shoes of a loved one, because they worried that by doing so, they would make the death final. Nonnegotiable. What would their loved one do if she came home and needed her shoes?”
My hands tremble, but imperceptibly so. Like one of those weird eye twitches you can’t see if you look in the mirror. “Can I tell you their names?” My voice trembles too. I can hear it.
“If you’d like to.”
I hesitate. “Blake Lloyd. Eli Bauer. Mars Edwards.” I say the names like a benediction. It feels good and it hurts.
Dr. Mendez absorbs them. “Thank you for telling me their names. I can tell how important they are to you; how sacred you keep them.”
I’m uncertain why I blurt this out. “So. A while ago I was at Blake’s grandma’s house, helping her with some of the yard work that Blake was supposed to do…before he died. And while I was there, she suggested we have a goodbye day for Blake. I’m wondering if I should do it.”
“What’s a goodbye day?”
“The way she talked about it, we’d spend a day together doing the things she’d have done with Blake if she’d gotten to have a last day with him. I guess we’d try to give life to his story for one more day. Pay tribute. Say goodbye. I have no idea how it works.”
Dr. Mendez sits back in his chair, gazing past me, tapping his lips. “Hmm.”
After a few seconds, I say, “So, doctor. Tell me about your mother.”
He laughs and leans forward. “If I understand correctly, you would be acting as a sort of surrogate for Blake?”
“Kind of? I mean I wouldn’t be wearing Blake’s clothes or anything, but…”
“No, but it would be the two of you interacting in some way with his memory. Perhaps the sharing of stories or experiences that would have been meaningful.”
“I guess.”
He taps his lips again. “Interesting.” His brow wrinkles in thought.
“Interesting good or interesting bad? Or interesting that I have to figure out on my own?”
“The latter. Grief is a valley from which there are multiple points of exit. I have no experience with this goodbye day idea, but there are proven therapies that work on a similar principle, where you give yourself a new context for experiencing something. If, for example, you’re afraid of relationships, you go and enter a relationship and try to experience it in a new, healthier way. So maybe interacting with Blake’s memory in this manner would give you a new context for experiencing his loss.”
“So do it?”
“That would be difficult for me to know even if we had talked more. I’d say that’s a decision you have to make for yourself. The question is: Do you want to do it? Does it feel right? If so, and it turns out to not be what you hoped, we can work through it. Lesson learned. It’s not something that would have occurred to me to suggest, but what occurs to me is not necessarily the benchmark for excellence in an idea.”
I continue to mull while Dr. Mendez and I talk about how I’m coping, sleeping, eating.
Our session ends. Dr. Mendez and Georgia bid each other a happy farewell. He wishes her luck with the coming school year. She wishes him the best with his new marriage. I walk out with my Zoloft prescription in hand.
I feel lighter. Not like I’ve taken off a heavy backpack, but like I’ve temporarily purged myself of some poison. Empty, hollow, blank.
When we get outside, the sky is greenish-gray and the air has a sort of feral vitality, like a storm is coming. A balmy gust whips our faces, and in the distance I hear the metallic clanging of a flagpole’s clip against the pole. It’s the only sound other than the wind in my ears.
We sit in the car and I abruptly start crying. I have no idea why and Georgia doesn’t ask. Maybe it’s how forlorn that flagpole line sounded. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it felt good to talk to someone who I thought wasn’t judging me. Maybe the grieving don’t need a reason to cry. It’s open season on crying. A cry-all-you-want buffet.
Georgia squeezes my hand. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I wipe my eyes. “We need to drop this prescription off to be filled.”
“You’re brave for getting help.”
I blow out the breath I’m holding. “I’m not. I obsess about going to jail. I feel scared and shitty and sad and guilty nonstop.”
“I know. But you’ll improve. Do what Dr. Mendez says. Be honest with him. Take your meds.”
I hope she’s right. Maybe Dr. Mendez can help with the grief, but what about the guilt? Unless he has a time machine. And he sure can’t keep me out of jail.
Georgia drives me home after dropping off my prescription at Walgreens. I steel myself for my second first day—half day, I guess—of my senior year.
Even when we arrive home, it hasn’t started to storm. The sky feels like a hammer hanging above the earth on a frayed cord.