Hospitals are not my favorite place. They’re filled with so much pain, sickness, sorrow, and death. People try to disguise the depressing atmosphere by painting the walls soothing colors like pale yellow, but there’s no hiding the ugly truth. For instance, the patient visitor room I’m in right now has a cute, cartoony mural of a green, flowery meadow. But even looking at the big, yellow sun and the brightly-painted blue sky on one wall, I still know this room is used for people to visit their dying relatives. Probably their dying children, considering the youthful décor.
Dr. Moscowitz mostly deals with terminally ill patients—hence the hospital visit. I assume that’s why he never has much sympathy for me. I’m not dying like most of his other patients, so I’m just being melodramatic.
“I have to admit, I’m sad to see you back like this,” he says, taking a seat in a padded vinyl chair across from the couch I sit on. “I had hoped you would be feeling better by now, but your mother tells me things are getting worse?” His voice lifts into a question, but his eyes have already cast their vote.
“I just had a bad day. Mom overreacted.”
I’m not sure if I believe that, but it doesn’t matter. Dr. Moscowitz clearly doesn’t. “Did she?” He leans back in his chair and pulls one of his ankles up over his other knee so that he can rest his notepad on his leg and take notes. The action takes some serious effort. It’s a wonder he can manage it. “I called your school earlier and spoke with your teachers. It’s only the second week, and already most of them have noticed a problem.”
He scrolls through the notes jotted down on his pad of paper. “Lethargic, disinterested, disengaged, unfocused, disassociated from her peers, not completing assignments, grades lower than they have been in previous years…”
He pauses to let me speak, but if he’s not going to ask a direct question, then I’m not going to say anything.
“These are not the traits of a bad day, Bailey. They aren’t signs of normal grief, either. I’m afraid there is a much deeper-rooted problem here that we’ve failed to find. In the meantime, I’m going to back you off of your meds. They aren’t helping. They’re making you numb. Starting today, I want you to cut your dose in half.”
I nod. Personally, I like the numbness that the antidepressants give me, but arguing would be pointless. He’ll give his diagnosis to my mom after this meeting, and she’ll make sure I do it.
“Very good.” Dr. Moscowitz scribbles something down on his notepad and lets out a long breath. His eyes narrow on me, ready to analyze my every word, expression, and body movement. “Is there something about the accident that you haven’t told me? Anything that might be making it difficult for you to move on?”
Like the guilt of knowing my boyfriend is dead because of me? I choose not to voice that particular thought. I’m not going to get into that discussion with someone I can’t stand. “You mean, like my boyfriend dying?”
Dr. Moscowitz raises a challenging brow on his round face. “We’ve been through this before. Losing a loved one is—”
“Have you ever lost someone you love, Dr. Moscowitz?” I can’t take another one of his platitudes. Not today. “Have you ever dated someone for two years, loved them with all your heart, and then had them die on you?”
“No, I’ve not been that unfortunate. I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend to lose, but I can imagine it would be—”
“No you can’t imagine!” I snap. “Don’t sit there and tell me how I’m supposed to feel when you have no idea what I’m going through. Telling me I don’t feel my emotions, or that I shouldn’t feel them, doesn’t make me not feel them. It just makes me not want to listen to anything you say.”
Dr. Moscowitz is shocked by my outburst. It’s definitely not my normal tell-him-what-he-wants-to-hear-so-that-I-can-stop-seeing-him-faster behavior. But I really have had a very bad day. I’m strung out on the end of my rope.
It takes Dr. Moscowitz a moment to recover and another three minutes at least for him to write a novel about my explosion. When he’s satisfied with his notes, he sets his pen down and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth as he decides how to proceed next.
I look up at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes of this torture left. I want to groan, but at least Dr. Moscowitz could only spare twenty-five minutes for me today instead of the usual fifty-minute session.
“Why don’t you just tell me about that night?” he finally asks. “Maybe you’ll see things differently now that so much time has passed.”
“What’s there to tell? We went to a party. Spencer had too much to drink, decided to drive home, and then mistook a giant tree trunk for open road.” That’s only about 20 percent of the story, but it’s all he’s going to get from me.
Never without a follow-up question, Dr. Moscowitz fires one off immediately. “Why were you drinking?”
I grit my teeth and take a breath before answering. It doesn’t calm me down nearly enough. “I wasn’t,” I bite out. “I didn’t touch any alcohol that night. I don’t drink.”
Unruffled by my hostility, Dr. Moscowitz rephrases his question. “Why was Spencer drinking that night?”
I shrug my shoulder, praying my face stays smooth. “It was a party. It’s what teenagers do at parties.”
Dr. Moscowitz isn’t fooled. “You don’t. And from what I know of you, you aren’t the kind of girl who would date someone without similar standards to your own. Was drinking at parties a common occurrence for Spencer?”
I’m torn between lying and defending Spencer’s honor. As always, Spencer wins out. “No. Spencer wasn’t like that. He wasn’t very into parties, and he almost never drank. And if he did have alcohol, he never got drunk. He was a good kid.”
“I believe you,” Dr. Moscowitz replies quickly.
I try to relax when I realize my body is completely rigid. No doubt Dr. Moscowitz is taking a mental note of my defensiveness and cataloging it away for further dissection.
“So tell me again, Bailey.” He isn’t going to let me off the hook. “If Spencer doesn’t normally drink, why do you think he acted so out of character that night? His blood alcohol level was dangerously high. No one gets that drunk by accident. Why do you think he did it?”
I know exactly why he did it. Because of Wes. Because of me. “It was a victory party. We’d just won the homecoming game, and Spencer kicked a forty-eight yard game-winning field goal. It was a statewide record-breaking kick. He was the man of the hour that night. Maybe he just wanted to celebrate.”
I can’t tell if Dr. Moscowitz knows I’m lying. Well, not lying; what I said was true, but it’s not why Spencer got drunk. It’s not why he drove off and got himself killed.
Whether he knows I’m omitting crucial details or not, Dr. Moscowitz tries a different approach. “All right, let’s discuss now. Why was today such a bad day, as you called it?”
It’s our anniversary? Wes showed up at school? I hallucinated my dead boyfriend’s ghost? I say none of these things. I only glare at Dr. Moscowitz. The jerk takes notes. “Are you happy with your friends?” he asks without looking up from his notepad.
“They’re fine. Same as they’ve ever been.”
“And the boys? Are you dating anyone?”
“No.”
Now he stops scribbling and looks up. “Why not?”
For once, I decide to be truthful. “Because I compare them all to Spencer, and none of them measure up.”
“Maybe they will, if you give them a chance.”
“And maybe they just want to get into my pants.”
Dr. Moscowitz’s eyes bulge, and the tips of his ears turn red.
“The boys at my school can be summed up in four words: sports, parties, pizza, and sex.” I tick the words off on my fingers as I say them. “Spencer was different. What we had was special—it can’t be replaced.”
Dr. Moscowitz, surprisingly, doesn’t argue with me. “I’m not suggesting you try and replace it. And if none of the boys interest you, then don’t date any of them seriously. I promise you, Bailey, they will mature eventually, perhaps in college—” He pauses and corrects himself. “After college, you’ll find another decent man. But for now, you should at least be testing the waters, putting yourself out there. Even if you don’t find another boy like Spencer, you might find a friend. Someone you can trust, talk to, or relate to. Humans are social creatures. We depend on one another for comfort and happiness. Until you start opening up again, you’re going to stay depressed. You have to give yourself the chance to move past Spencer’s death or you’re going to be haunted by his loss for the rest of your life.”
The irony of his word choice is not lost on me. The worst part is, I know he’s right. I blow a big puff of air out of my cheeks. “My mom thinks I should go to homecoming.”
Dr. Moscowitz blinks at me a few times, shocked by my statement. Not that my mom wanting me to go to the dance is front-page news, but I never give up information on my own. Not ever. I don’t know why I said that.
My brain is still stuck on my visit from Spencer. Even if it was my subconscious conjuring up an imaginary ghost, Spencer was still asking me to move on. Maybe, deep down, I want to. Maybe his visit was my brain’s way of telling me that I’m ready to try.
Dr. Moscowitz’s entire face lights up with delight. There’s a gleam in his eyes I’ve never seen before—a smug excitement that makes me think he considers this moment to be some kind of breakthrough.
He smooths out his expression before answering me, being cautious not to frighten me back into my shell. I expect him to tell me that homecoming is a perfect idea, but he doesn’t. His answer surprises me. “And how do you feel about that?”
The fact that he didn’t automatically push makes me want to answer.
Wow. Maybe we are having a breakthrough.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “And sad. I think about going, and my stomach starts to turn inside out.” I pause, but Dr. Moscowitz says nothing. He wants me to continue. Still feeling chatty, I try to explain. “It was the night of the homecoming game last year when Spencer died. The dance was the next night. They almost canceled it. They let the students take a vote. Most kids decided Spencer would want them to have the dance. He’d want them to go out and have a good time in his memory, not sit around mourning his death.” I smile a little. “They were right. Spencer would have wanted that. But I couldn’t go to the dance. Not without him.”
I don’t realize I’ve got tears in my eyes until Dr. Moscowitz holds out a box of tissues. I take one, dab at my nose and eyes, and get to the real root of the problem. “This year’s dance doesn’t fall exactly on the one-year anniversary of Spencer’s death, but it’s the event that marks it all the same. I’ve never been to a dance without Spencer as my date. How am I supposed to go, on the anniversary of his death, with someone else? How could I possibly pretend I’m having a good time when all I’ll be able to think about is that night, and how he’s gone, and that the person dancing with me isn’t him—will never be him.”
I’ve finally used up all of my desire to talk. I drift into silence, and Dr. Moscowitz seems content to let it ride while he writes down everything I’ve just said. Rising to his feet because our precious twenty-five minutes are up, he imparts me with one last piece of advice. “Perhaps it’s not about having a good time or going with a date. I agree with your mother that you should attend the dance. I think it would be good for you to face your fears, but more than that, it would be a conscious step in trying to move on. Going would be a way of telling yourself you can do this—that you can live your life again and let other people into it.”
He walks to the door and turns to me before opening it, waiting for a response from me. I sigh. “I’ll consider it.” It’s the best promise I can give him right now, and it’s a lot more sincere than any of the other promises I’ve made to anyone else today.
Dr. Moscowitz accepts my answer with a nod and walks with me to the sitting area by the elevator where Mom is waiting for us. Mom jumps out of her seat when we approach, as if she’s got a loaded spring beneath her. Her lip is red from where she’s been chewing on it for the last half an hour. When she sees the smile on Dr. Moscowitz’s face, her eyes fill with hope.
I slump down into a chair and wait while Mom and Dr. Moscowitz have a powwow in hushed tones over in the corner. I’m not offended. This is part of the routine. I spill my personal feelings to Dr. Moscowitz, and he relays his interpretation of them to Mom along with his advice on what do with me.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, prepared for a wait—sometimes these Save Bailey parent-doctor conferences can take a while—when the elevator chimes and a shocked voice blurts, “Bailey? What are you doing here?”
I can’t believe I’ve run into Wes twice in one day. He’s dressed exactly as he was when I saw him earlier, with that same worn backpack slung over his shoulder, only now he carries a skateboard in his hand. He’s gaping at me as if I forgot to put pants on before coming out in public.
“What are you doing here?” I fire back, not the least bit interested in explaining that his surprise visit to Columbia High resulted in an emergency visit with my psychiatrist.
He glances around the room, shifting his weight from one foot to another, and reaches for that dumb strap over his arm again. Before he can answer—if he’s even planning to explain—my mom interrupts us with a startled cry. “Wes!”
Wes blushes at the greeting and mumbles “Hi, Mrs. Atkinson” to the tops of his tennis shoes. He should have kept his eyes on her, because she wraps him in an unsuspecting hug, taking him by complete surprise.
“It’s been so long!” she gushes. “How are you?” She pulls back and gives him a motherly once-over. “You are turning out so handsome,” she says—to both Wes’s and my mortification. “How’s your mom? I haven’t spoken to her in ages.”
Wes, cheeks burning again, ducks his head and takes a step back from my mom and her lack of personal boundaries. “She’s doing okay.” He clears his throat and looks at Dr. Moscowitz, of all people. “Hey, doc.”
“He’s your doctor, too?” I ask.
Wes doesn’t answer my question. There’s no need, anyway. The answer is obvious.
I’m shocked, but I really shouldn’t be. It makes sense that Mom would give Ms. Delaney Dr. Moscowitz’s name as a referral after Spencer died. Wes was probably just as in need of counseling after the accident as I was. But I’m surprised he still sees him, and I’m even more surprised that our little encounter would have him running to his therapist, too. I really hope that’s just a coincidence.
I gather up my purse and tug on my mom’s arm, plastering a fake smile on my face for Dr. Moscowitz. “We should get going. Don’t want to take up any more of your time today.”
My attempt to flee doesn’t work. “The two of you know each other?” he asks, wagging his stubby finger between Wes and me.
When Wes shrugs, Dr. Moscowitz looks to me for more information. I don’t want to explain, but I know that if I don’t, my mother will, and she’ll give more details than I’m comfortable with. “He was Spencer’s best friend.”
My answer doesn’t satisfy my mom. “Not just Spencer’s,” she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “Bailey’s, too. The three of them used to be inseparable.” She smiles again at Wes. “We miss you around the house. You don’t need Spencer with you to have an invitation, you know. You can stop by anytime.”
“Mom!” Oh my gosh. I want to die.
Wes won’t look at me, but he’s too polite to not answer my mom. “Thanks, Mrs. Atkinson.”
It’s not a promise to visit, but I don’t think Mom realizes that.
The nightmare refuses to end. “Are the two of you not friends anymore?” Dr. Moscowitz asks. The nosy, assuming jerk. “What happened? Was it because of Spencer’s death?”
I suck in a breath and start to shake. I really, really don’t want to get into this right here, right now, with both Wes and my mother present. I want to kill Dr. Moscowitz. He’s already gone too far, but does he stop there? No, of course not.
“It’s curious that neither of you has ever mentioned the other to me. Why is that?”
Wes flounders for a response, and I glare at my doctor, mentally vowing that I will never come back and see this man again. “Mom!” I snap sharply enough that it makes everyone jump and even catches the attention of a couple of people in scrubs over at the nurses station. “Can we go now? We don’t want to take any more of Wes’s appointment time.”
Mom bites her lip. She, like Dr. Moscowitz, wants to stand around all day asking endless, painful questions, but she can see that I need to get out of here, so she sighs her defeat and shakes Dr. Moscowitz’s hand. “Thank you again for squeezing her in today. We’ll take care of the medication, and I’ll talk to her father about starting up regular appointments with you again. We’ll give you a call soon.”
So not necessary. I’ll run away before I start regular appointments again. I tug my mom to the elevator and smash the button a million times, hoping it will make the doors open faster. As we wait, my mom turns back and calls out, “It was so good to see you again, Wes. Don’t be a stranger anymore.”
“Okay, Mrs. Atkinson. It was good to see you again, too.”
Liar.
“Bye, Bailey.”
I’m a little surprised that he said good-bye to me. I glance back and meet his eyes. They’re swimming with emotion—confusion, pain, anger, regret. The intensity of his gaze sucks so much air from my lungs that I can barely whisper a single word in response. “Bye.”
I begin to breathe again when the elevator opens, and I step inside. Wes never takes his eyes off me until after the doors slide shut. I don’t know what I look like at the moment, but my mom knows enough not to say anything.