Voluntaries: Basic dives selected by the diver with a capped degree of difficulty that demonstrate a diver has mastered basic techniques, such as balance, physical presence, grace, and form.
I KEEP my eyes on the dark wood, unsure which thing I should bring up first, the fucked-up dream where I try to bash him in the head or the choppy memories I’ve started to regain. I stall by chewing the swollen skin on my finger where I ripped out the hangnail.
“Sorry,” I tell Uncle Phil, my throat tight. “I’m just trying to figure out how to explain this. Do you think I could get a glass of water?”
“Of course. I should have offered. Can I get you anything else? Are you hungry?”
“Just the water.” Uncle Phil goes to the wet bar in the corner and brings back a water bottle and a banana.
“You were out running. You should eat something,” he says. “Your mother would approve.”
“Banana-mama. Yeah, you’re right. She would.” The inside joke makes us both grin. And surprisingly, now that the banana is in my hand, I’m ravenous for it. But I’m stalling, again.
“Whatever truth you’re struggling to put into words, Theo, will stay between us. But I can’t help you unless you say them out loud.”
“Remember when I started having bizarre dreams after the fire?”
He gives a solemn nod and I gulp a piece of fruit without chewing. Of course he remembers. He and my dad reconciled for a short time so he could treat me with hypnosis because I was such a wreck.
“I think they’re starting up again.”
He takes the banana peel from me and wraps it inside a cocktail napkin from his side table without emotion or concern. “Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
“Because it just happened. And it felt different from the ones I had before, not so much terrifying as strange. In this one I’m running down a deserted hallway, throwing open doors while dirt gets shoveled in alongside me. I’m trying to get to the last door but you slither around the corner like a snake and block me.”
“What kind of hallway? One at your school, perhaps?”
“No. It’s more sterile. White walls, gray doors, humming fluorescent lights.”
“Carl Jung believed that everyone in your dream is, in fact, you. The person running down the hall, the image you perceive as me slithering like a snake, even who or whatever you think is behind the last door. He also theorized that snakes are a symbol of transcendence. Perhaps this dream is meant to show you that you’re capable of surpassing your ordinary limitations. Your subconscious may be trying to help you make sense of your life in the wake of your parents’ deaths. A different door for the many different versions of yourself you need to maintain on a daily basis.”
I wonder what Carl Jung would think about me wanting to clobber Uncle Phil. Seems more like Freud’s area of expertise.
“Would that still apply if I’m not actually asleep when it happens?”
Uncle Phil stops flipping his lighter against his pant leg to study me more intently before picking up a small legal pad. In two seconds flat he looks more like a shrink than the guy I grew up around and the instant shift makes hairs prickle on the back of my neck. I don’t like when he goes into shrink mode. I just wanted to talk.
“Dreams, and dream states, can express hidden desires,” he explains, while scribbling notes on his pad. “Whether they occur during waking hours or in slumber, they offer an escape from reality. The only exception is when they’re maladaptive. Meaning they feel real to the point of interrupting day-to-day activities. Are they maladaptive, Theo?”
Dream states.
“Theo? Are you seeing something now?” Uncle Phil’s deep voice brings me back around to the conversation.
“What? No. I’m not crazy. I was processing what you said about dream states. You know I hate it when you psychoanalyze me.”
“It would be difficult for me not to, considering my position. And since you haven’t offered to elaborate further on the things bothering you, I find myself at a loss both as your friend and as a therapist.”
I decide to start at the beginning, with the memory that returned in the parking lot at school. The rest can wait. Otherwise I might actually sound as fucked up in the head as I feel.
“My memory is coming back too,” I tell him. “Yesterday, a diver on my team left a note on my truck and it triggered this memory of a fight I overheard between my parents. Only it was more than a memory. I felt like I was in the room in real time, standing on the carpeted stairs. I could sense all the emotions of everyone in the room. Dad’s disgust, Mom’s worry. Dad always said if a person sees or hears things that aren’t there, they probably need help because it means they’re going insane. I’m not sure what they were fighting about, but I remembered him telling Mom she was addicted to her own mind, maybe even delusion. I don’t know what he meant exactly, but I do know mental disorders are sometimes hereditary.”
“What you experienced was a flashback. A completely normal psychological phenomenon in a person with PTSD, such as yourself. Mental disorders are sometimes hereditary, but not always. And believe me, Theo, if you’ve inherited a fraction of your mother’s mental acuity it’s something to be lauded, not feared. The hypnosis I used to help you with the night terrors wasn’t foolproof. Profound stress, like that brought on by the anniversary of a loved one’s death, can bring PTSD symptoms rushing back to the surface. Including flashbacks, dream states, and nightmares, and in some cases hallucinations. Have you been under an unusual amount of stress?”
“I wasn’t. Not until I showed up to practice and that diver I just told you about, Les Carter, ripped a perfect 4½ Twist dive right before telling Coach Porter he wants to go to Stanford. You should have seen the look that guy gave me, like he knew he was going to screw up my chance of getting a scholarship. The worst part is I have to work in a group with him on this family history project. I can’t get a break from the guy. That was probably the undue final push for me mentally.”
He smirks, knowing I just flipped a little psychobabble back at him with undue.
Nature versus nurture.
“Do you have reason to believe this other diver would purposely try to get under your skin? Not to sabotage you, but so you sabotage yourself?”
“He’s never seemed the type before, but trying to get a scholarship to Stanford is a big deal. Everybody gets rejected from that place. Do you think I could be imagining a Stanford hallway in my dream state?”
“Perhaps. Only time will tell for sure. I’m reticent to try hypnosis again. But, considering your age and physical stature, I think increasing your Adderall dosage might help. As long as you don’t double up again without consulting me.”
“What if taking more doesn’t help?”
“I doubt that will be true in your case, but there’s only one way to know for sure. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“I lose my mind.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Are you taking any other medications or supplements I should know about?”
I shake my head.
“It’s important for me to know what you put into your system, Theo, recreationally or otherwise. I’m not here to judge.”
“Sometimes me and the guys drink and smoke a little weed.”
Uncle Phil writes something on his legal pad and I swallow nervously.
“I know Dad used to smoke weed to chill. I wasn’t blind. The guy went to the garage a lot at night, even though he kept his car in the driveway. But he never drank because of GP, you know? Guess he didn’t want to manifest the whole like father, like son cliché.”
Uncle Phil keeps his head down but lifts his eyes. “Is that manifestation something that worries you, as well?” he asks.
“Becoming like my father? The Mack Attack.” I chuckle. “Not at all.”
“There are worse people you could emulate,” he says seriously. “We all have our vices so I’ll caution you to use your best judgment. Mixing drugs is an unpredictable and dangerous game. Addiction is only fifty percent genetic, so you’ve got a fighting chance there. The other fifty percent is wired to coping skills. I’m sure watching your grandfather’s downward spiral has helped you understand the consequences of that better than anyone. Of course, I’ll have to draw a vial of blood to ensure—”
“You want to draw my blood now? Here?” My stomach twists faster than Les Carter doing his 5239D. I’ve a always hated needles more than anything. I’m just not sure why.
“I’d prefer we do it at Green Hill. I want to ascertain whether the Adderall has had any adverse effects on your liver. It’s a fairly standard practice in prescribing amphetamines, I assure you. One vial should do.” He pulls out his phone and flips through screens. “I’ll give you a short supply today if you’re available to come to the hospital on Tuesday. Say, four P.M.?”
“It might be more like six because of practice. Is that too late?”
“The most important thing I’ve ever learned is that it’s never too late for anything important.”
I grin at him and check my phone for the time. “I better head home and get ready for the carnival. I still need to come up with a dive for the demo tonight.” I’m out of my chair, heading for his front door when I turn and say, “Maybe you should come watch. I know GP will be there, but last time I checked it was a free country. I’ll be taking the board around seven.”
“Seeing you dive tonight would be well worth the risk of running into Bruce Mackey.” He tosses me his lighter. “Don’t leave just yet. Let me get those Adderall capsules for you.”
I flick the cover on the lighter open and closed and run through my dive list. Forward 3½, Inward 2½, Back 1½ with 2½ Twists. The flip cover gets stuck on the next strike against my thigh and nearly burns my leg. I should know better than to play with fire by now. My eyes flick reflexively to the fireplace in the living room and I migrate toward the mantel. Uncle Phil has never kept photos on display before, but today there’s one of the three of us from the quarry: Mom, Uncle Phil, and me. I’m not 100 percent sure if it’s from the same day, but Mom is the only one whose smile doesn’t go all the way to her eyes. The same smile she gave me in the water.
“You look like your mother again. Perhaps you should do the 5337D for your performance tonight.” Uncle Phil hands me an unlabeled prescription bottle. “That’s enough for two weeks.”
“Coach told me I wasn’t allowed to chuck Mom’s dive before the Andover meet. I have been working on it, though, visualizing myself ripping the entry. I just haven’t nailed the final twist yet.”
“I have no doubt you will,” he says. “You’re more like your mother than you know.”
“I hope you’re right.”
As I turn to put the frame back on the mantel something stabs the bottom of my foot. I reach for what I assume will be a pushpin or a staple. Instead I find a small diamond earring in the shape of a triangle that I know belonged to my mom.
I hold it in my open palm for Uncle Phil to see without saying anything because I realize in that moment, with my heart skipping a beat, how much finding this tiny thing that belonged to her means to me. That maybe I didn’t destroy everything after all and this trace of her confirms that there must be more, just like Coach Porter said.
“Incredible,” Uncle Phil says. “I’m surprised the cleaning woman missed vacuuming that up after all this time.” He goes to take the earring from me and I close my fist.
“Of course. It’s yours. Take the photo, as well. It was meant for you. Something I had on my desk at Green Hill. I was so enthralled by our discussion I nearly forgot to mention it.”
“Thanks, Uncle Phil.” I head to the door for my shoes.
“Before you go, Theo, I’m curious to know what you think might be behind the unreachable door in your dream state?”
“If I had to guess—I’d say it’s the thing I want most.”
“Very perceptive. You may carry some of Mitch’s traits, after all.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Uncle Phil. Dad isn’t the only shrink I’ve been around most of my life. I’m the perfect case of nature versus nurture.”
“I’m rather inclined to agree.”