EMILY DICKINSON
Hitch and I hold the door beside the tiny pediatric psychiatry sign open for Mom at Dr. Wellesley’s office. She doesn’t thank us. Bad omen—very bad omen.
I head toward the front desk to check in. She and Hitch find a seat in the tiny waiting room. I don’t know how Dr. Wellesley manages his schedule, but in almost three years I’ve only run into another patient twice while waiting for my appointment. Everything about the place is designed to protect the privacy of his at-risk teenage patients. At the end of each visit, clients are ushered out the back door that feeds directly into the parking lot to avoid the risk of running into a familiar face. We have the place to ourselves again today.
When I return to where Mom sits, she doesn’t take her eyes off the outdated Sports Illustrated clutched in her fists. Bad sign number two. Mom knows about as much about football as she does theoretical physics. She’s upset. I overstepped my bounds with the Roger comment. Now there will be consequences. And I kind of deserve it.
“Emilie, Dr. Wellesley’s ready,” the secretary calls from behind the desk.
I reach for Hitch’s leash.
“He can stay with me,” Mom says without looking at my face. She’s pulling out the silent ammunition. Withholding Hitch is her deadliest weapon. There won’t be any guilt tripping or crying today—no bombs or hand grenades. What there will be is cold, hard sniper fire—a single noiseless shot to the head when I least expect it.
“Fine.” I make my way to Dr. Wellesley’s open door.
He stands when I enter but doesn’t cross the room. I slip into one of the two chairs angled in front of his desk. Concentrating on not crossing my arms or legs, I fold my hands in my lap to camouflage my nails. He’s a master at deciphering body language, and I don’t want to send up any red flags.
“Emilie.” He nods, folds his long avian body in half, and perches on the edge of his chair. Like the great blue heron with the long neck that nested beside our house the year before Dad died, Dr. Wellesley’s motions are slow and deliberate, but I know better than to be fooled by the leisurely movement. Just like the skinny-legged bird with the sharp beak, he can strike lightning fast, snatching me up like an unsuspecting fish or gopher. Most days, though, he opts to peck away at my defenses with one probing question after another.
“So, how are things?” he asks, foraging for information.
Here we go. “Okay, I guess.” I study my hands.
He waits.
I wait longer.
He picks up his pen. “Tell me about school.”
Bam. “It’s okay, I guess.”
He stares, unblinking.
I hate this. “I’d rather be homeschooled.”
“Why do you think that is?” He rubs his pointy chin between his index finger and thumb.
Well, let’s see. Maybe because I have epilepsy. Maybe because Dad died. Maybe because I live in fear of being exposed. It wasn’t all that long ago that people with epilepsy were believed to be possessed by demons and banished from their communities or isolated in mental hospitals for fear they were contagious.
Okay, I know people don’t think that anymore—not really—but it isn’t like having epilepsy is suddenly cool.
“Um, because I don’t like being around a lot of people. I’m more comfortable at home.” I have to be alert to my tendency to babble when I get nervous. My main goal is to survive the sixty-minute session and say as little as possible. But I have to be careful not to be so close lipped I get labeled as confrontational or passive aggressive.
He tilts his head to the side when he nods. “Talk to me about that.”
“We’ve been through this before. I don’t feel comfortable around strangers.” I glance at my hands. Normally I’d pick at my cuticles and avoid the collage of happy family photos on the bookshelf behind his desk. But I don’t have any hangnails. In fact, my hands haven’t looked this good since before Dad’s diagnosis. I settle for rubbing the tip of my index finger around the bed of my thumbnail.
“Have you made any friends?” He rocks back in his chair, crossing a foot over the opposite knee.
I picture a young Dr. Wellesley role-playing this nonchalant body language in shrink school. “A couple.”
“Tell me about them,” he says, pausing to glance out the window.
I shrug, trying to peek at the clock while he’s not looking. “Well, there’s this girl named Ayla.”
He zeroes in on my face. “Mm-hm.”
“She’s on the lit mag. She’s cool—she invited me to sit with her at lunch and we’ve been to each other’s houses.” I refold my hands and place them in my lap.
“So you feel comfortable with her? She’s not a stranger?” His chair creaks when he leans forward, propping his elbows on the desk.
“Well, no, I guess she’s not a stranger anymore. I feel comfortable with her.” It’s true. I do feel I can be myself with Ayla. Granted, I felt better before she started laying on the whole guilt trip about not telling Chatham.
Dr. Wellesley jots a note on a legal pad on his desk. I hate it when he does that. I lose track of my thoughts and become hyper focused, trying to figure out what he’s writing, whether I said something sane or insane.
“So you’ve told her about your epilepsy?” His eyes narrow on my face.
I look him dead in the eye. “Yes. Yes, I have.” So there. I stop just shy of poking out my tongue.
He waits. I spend the next several minutes explaining how the conversation with Ayla unfolded. When I admit it felt kind of good to be honest with Ayla, he smiles. I’m not a shrink, but I’m pretty sure there was a tinge of told-you-so in his facial expression.
“So have you made any other friends?” he asks, eyes still locked on my face without blinking. The man never blinks. Maybe that’s another trick they teach in shrink school.
I glance at the clock. Twenty-nine minutes down, thirty-one to go. Actually, sixteen until Mom comes in. Then they’ll kill a few minutes with idle chitchat till we get down to the real mother-daughter business.
I have to be truthful. This could be a trap. Mom may have already told Dr. Wellesley about Chatham. If she hasn’t, she’s bound to mention it when she comes in, so I may as well be honest. “Well, there’s this guy, Chatham.”
If Dr. Wellesley leans much farther forward, he’ll be sitting in my lap. “Tell me about him.”
I make a mental note to look into a psychology degree. Seriously. I may not be a real people person, but for one hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I think I can sit behind a desk and say, “Tell me about that. Tell me about how that makes you feel.” “He’s really nice—not what I expected from North Ridge guys.”
He nods. Then out of the blue, he pierces my defenses with a sharp, pointed question. “So how did your friend Chatham take the news about your epilepsy?”
I grip the arms of my chair, trying to swallow around the cotton ball wedged in my throat. “Um . . .” My eyeballs bulge. “He, umm . . .”
I glance at the clock. The receptionist will send Mom back any second. She thinks I’ve told Chatham about the seizures. I hate liars, but I don’t have a choice. I have to lie to Dr. Wellesley to cover the other lie to Mom. Plus, it’s not exactly a lie, right? I just haven’t told Chatham yet. But I am going to tell him—ASAP. I promised Ayla I would, and I will. Tomorrow. “He was . . . supportive.”
The door creaks open at exactly a quarter till. I might have a lot of issues with Mom, but punctuality is not one of them. She’s as reliable as the postman. I spend the next three and a half minutes petting Hitch while they talk about my social and emotional development like I’m not in the room. Roger, the boxes of Dad’s clothes, and the pink manicure somehow never make their way into the discussion. With twelve minutes left until freedom, I settle back in my chair. This could’ve gone much, much worse.
I’m staring out the window at a heavy, lead-gray cloud, rehearsing my conversation with Chatham, when Mom pulls the trigger on her well-aimed sniper shot. “So, Doc, I have good news.” She reaches over to ruffle the thick mane of yellow hair on Hitch’s chest. “The school board has reviewed the Americans with Disabilities Act and has rewritten its policy on service dogs to include seizure alert dogs.”
“Emilie, that’s great.” Dr. Wellesley unfolds his long body and walks around his desk toward me. “I know that was one of your main concerns about public school—not being able to take Hitch. Now you can. See, you stepped out of your comfort zone and took a risk, and now things are falling into place.”
Oh, they’re falling, all right.
He squeezes my shoulder with his bony hand. Mom and Dr. Wellesley decide—without my input—I should take Hitch to school next week. How thoughtful of them to give me a few days to publicize my epilepsy to my peers before I show up at the Ridge with Hitch in tow.
Things go from concerning to catastrophic when we step out the back door and into the parking lot. While my eyes are still adjusting to the now blinding sunlight, Maddie materializes from a candy-apple red Mini Cooper, eyes hidden behind a pair of oversized black sunglasses. I blink, hoping the yellow halo of light before my eyes is not her head but rather a figment of my imagination. Why isn’t she in school? A look of shock crosses her face when she spots me, but she quickly smooths it away.
“Emilie, is that you?” She’s all artificial sweetener when she holds a hand out to Mom. “You must be Mrs. Day.”
Mom falls hook, line, and sinker for the sugar dripping from Maddie’s tongue. She nods, beaming, clearly impressed at my newfound social abilities.
“We missed you at Daddy’s shrimp boil.” Maddie slides the sunglasses down her nose a fraction of an inch. The glint in her eye clashes with the cheery tone of her voice as she taps Hitch on the top of the head.
Any self-respecting dog person knows you offer your outstretched hand to the dog first or at the very least rub under the chin. But Hitch quietly accepts her dominant, need-to-be-in-charge gesture. I follow his lead, swallowing my disgust.
“How sweet that you bring your dog with you to the . . .” She peers over my shoulder to the door at our backs. “. . . doctor?”
“Yeah. He’s awesome.” I ignore the question implied by her tone, wondering what she’s doing here but not wanting to prolong our conversation. I vaguely remember Ayla saying something about Maddie’s dad owning a medical practice. “Does your dad work here?”
She pushes her sunglasses back up her nose. “He owns the building.”
“Oh?” That means she’s familiar enough with the place to know I’m seeing a shrink. If she has more than two brain cells, she’ll also make the connection that Hitch is a service dog.
She holds up a large manila folder. “And he’s waiting on this. My mom let me take a half day to catch up on my beauty sleep, but I have to be at school by fourth period. I guess I’ll see you at school, Emilie.”
Mom beams, wiggling her fingers in a polite little wave.
Maddie may have my mom eating out of the palm of her hand, but she’s not fooling me. I know she doesn’t like me one bit. I also know if she felt so inclined, she could now destroy everything I’ve built at school with one well-placed rumor.
Just like that, the sand beneath my feet shifts again, and I’m being pulled out into choppy waters on a tide of white lies and half-truths. A tsunami-force wave barrels across the ocean toward my fake life at the Ridge with Chatham.