A Mango-Shaped Space

by Wendy Mass

  She turns her face away and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. I can see the tears are sliding down her cheeks. She sniffles and wipes again. I feel totally helpless. Finally she faces me again.

  “I can’t believe you hid this from me for all these years,” she says with an unfamiliar hardness in her voice. “I’ve shared everything with you. Everything! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Shocked by her reaction, my words flow out strangely. “But nobody knows … I kept it from everybody. I got used to keeping it to myself. Please don’t take it personally.” I’m practically begging her now.

  She stands up. “How can I not? I thought you were my best friend.”

  “I am,” I say, jumping up from the log. “And you’re mine. We’re Partners in Crime!” My eyes fill with tears. This hasn’t gone at all as I expected. My head is reeling.

  “Maybe you don’t know what a best friend is.” She steps away from me.

  My jaw falls open. “Maybe you don’t. I thought if anyone would understand it would be you.”

  “Well, I don’t understand,” she says angrily. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me in third grade. Or fourth grade. Or seventh. It’s always been you and me against the world. I’ll bet there are lots of things you don’t bother to tell me.”

  “There aren’t,” I insist. Jenna and I had never fought before. Ever. I can feel my hands start to shake.

  “I have to go home,” Jenna says suddenly. She hurries along the path back to our houses. I run to the edge of the woods and wait for her to look back, but she doesn’t. I’m so shocked, I don’t know what to feel. As I walk home I decide on anger. By the next morning, I change my mind and choose disappointment. And after school on Monday, after Jenna had ignored me all day, I decide on very, very hurt.

  Chapter Five

  The fight with Jenna is still playing over in my head as my mother leads me into the therapist’s office. This waiting room is completely different from Dr. Randolph’s. No crying babies, no scratching sisters. The doctor’s schedule is supposedly full, but the room is completely empty, silent as a tomb. The oversized chairs are white; the walls, covered with occasional landscape paintings, are white; and the plush carpet is the whitest of all. I’m insanely glad I didn’t bring a cup of grape juice with me.

  On the wall above the magazine rack is a row of light switches with different names under them. My mother scans them until she finds the one marked “Finn.” She then flicks the switch to the On position.

  “What’s that for?” I ask in a whisper. I’m afraid to make any noise in this quiet, white place.

  “Dr. Finn told me to do that when we arrived,” she says. “A light turns on in her office so she knows to come get us.”

  I sit in one of the chairs and sink down deep. My feet don’t even reach the floor. This office doesn’t feel like a place for crazy people. At least not a place for crazy people with grape juice. I have the uneasy feeling we’re being watched. If there had been a moose head on the wall, I swear the eyes would have been moving. My hands get that numb feeling.

  “Mom,” I whisper from the depths of my chair, “do you think they have a hidden video camera focused on us? You know, to see what we’re like before we go in there?”

  “No, I don’t,” she replies. “I wish you’d just relax. Dr. Finn only wants to talk to you.”

  “At least someone wants to talk to me,” I mutter.

  “What do you mean?” my mother asks, shifting around in her own plush chair. “Who’s not talking to you?”

  I sigh and say, “Jenna. She hasn’t spoken to me since Saturday. I told her about what’s going on, and I don’t know, she just freaked out because I hadn’t told her before. She didn’t say a word to me in school today.”

  “You know how sensitive Jenna is,” my mother says. “But she’ll come around, you’ll see.”

  I don’t know what I’d do if she didn’t. There isn’t anyone else I would want for a best friend. I twist the friendship bracelet back and forth on my wrist. Molly and Kimberly and Sara are fine for school friends, but we’ve never spent much time together outside of school. We all live too far from each other. I wish Mango were here with me, his dirty paws leaving little tracks on the white carpet. I haven’t seen much of him this week. I think he’s been hanging out at the Roths’ house lately, sniffing around their new cat, Twinkles. I don’t know which is more embarrassing: Mango having a crush on the cat, or the fact that the cat’s name is Twinkles.

  A few minutes later the door opens, and a tall woman who looks like she’s in her late thirties enters. She walks over to me and holds out her hand.

  “You must be Mia,” she says. Her voice is sweet and makes me think of whipped cream, which reminds me that I was too upset to eat lunch today and could use some food.

  I nod.

  “I’m Ms. Finn,” she says, bending over to shake my hand. “Let’s go into my office and get to know each other.”

  “Isn’t it Dr. Finn?” my mother asks.

  Ms. Finn smiles and says, “I’m a psychotherapist, not a psychologist. Many people make that mistake. I assure you the level of care is the same.”

  I’m still stuck in the deep chair and have to use both hands to push myself out. My mother starts to follow us out the door, but Ms. Finn stops her.

  “This is usually best without the mothers,” she says. My mother has no choice but to stay behind. I pause at the doorway and look back pleadingly, but my mother waves me on.

  Feeling alone and unsure, I follow Ms. Finn into a small office that is very similar to the waiting room. Only this room has framed diplomas on the walls and a bowl of jelly beans on a big mahogany desk. A box of tissues is conveniently placed next to the plush couch where Ms. Finn instructs me to “sit, relax, make yourself at home.” The tissues are a bad sign. Either she expects me to cry or to sneeze a lot. At least I don’t sink in quite as deep this time when I sit down. My toes just reach the rug. I can only gaze longingly at the jelly beans, which are about a foot too far away to reach. My stomach growls.

  “Now, Mia,” Ms. Finn begins in a firm voice. All traces of the whipped cream have disappeared. “Dr. Randolph has filled me in on your situation. Maybe together, you and I can figure out what is causing you to see these colors.”

  I nod cautiously.

  She continues. “I’m a very straightforward person. Another therapist might be the ‘silent type,’ but I call it like I see it, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you see the colors when you’re mad at your parents?”

  “I don’t usually get mad at my parents,” I tell her honestly, my eyes drifting back to the bowl of jelly beans. “That’s my older sister’s job.”

  “Remember, Mia, anything you say in here is confidential.”

  I nod. Unfortunately, my only secret is already out.

  “I need to ask if you’ve ever taken drugs,” Ms. Finn says, looking me straight in the eye, daring me to lie. “Anything that might have caused these colors as a side effect.”

  Taken aback, I tell her no, I’ve never taken drugs. I don’t even like to take medicine when I’m sick.

  She jots something down on her notepad.

  “Now, Mia, what is your place in the birth order of your family?”

  “I have one older sister and a younger brother. But they don’t see things like I do.”

  She taps her pen rapidly on her desk and asks, “Are you familiar with middle child syndrome?”

  I shake my head. I don’t like the sound of anything that ends with the word syndrome.

  “Let me see if I can explain,” she says, her voice suddenly soothing again. “Middle children are in an unfortunate position. They get neither the privileges reserved for the first born nor the special attention specific to the baby of the family. Do you follow me?”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” I tell her, trying not to sound defensive. “But I don’t think it’s like that in my family. My parents
don’t treat us any differently.”

  “Who has the largest bedroom?” Ms. Finn asks bluntly.

  “Beth does,” I admit. “But that’s only because she was here first, you know; she was already in there when I was born.”

  “And who does your mother spend the most time with?”

  “Zack, I guess,” I say, feeling slightly defeated. “But that’s because she has to do things with him that Beth and I can do on our own. He’s only eleven.”

  “So you see what I’m saying?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. “Middle children can feel neglected, often for good reasons. Or they feel that they aren’t as special as the other children, or even as loved. When that happens, middle children often act out.”

  “Act out?” I repeat suspiciously.

  “A child may devise an elaborate plan to get his or her parents’ attention,” she explains. “Something that will make her stand out from the other siblings.”

  I do not like where this is heading.

  “Something,” she continues, “like telling her parents that she sees colors all the time. Colors that no one else, including her brother and sister, can see.” She leans forward and waits for my response.

  My heart sinks — a feeling I’m becoming all too familiar with. Another doctor who doesn’t believe me. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?

  “That’s not it,” I assure her, aware that I’m losing the battle to stay calm. “I am not making this up to get attention. I don’t even like getting attention. I just want to figure out what’s wrong with me.”

  She nods thoughtfully and scribbles some more notes. “Tell me, Mia,” she says, “do you often get depressed for no reason?”

  “No.”

  “Do you get enough sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any trouble making friends?”

  “No.” Keeping them is another story, but I don’t tell her that.

  “And these colors and shapes, they feel real to you?”

  “Very real.”

  She looks at me steadily. “Well, then,” she says, “why don’t I talk to your mother for a while? We’ll see what she has to say.”

  As she leads me out of her office, I swipe three jelly beans from the bowl.

  When we reach the still-empty waiting room, I trade places with my mother. I wait until I hear Ms. Finn’s door close behind her, then tiptoe down the hall and stand outside her office.

  I put my ear as close to the door as I can without touching it. The first thing I hear is my mother exclaim, “A brain tumor?”

  I jump back against the wall; my eyes open wide. Does Ms. Finn think I have a brain tumor? Isn’t that what people in soap operas get before they die young and still beautiful? The grape-flavored jelly bean in my mouth suddenly tastes flat.

  “I’m sure that’s not it, Mrs. Winchell,” she assures my mother and, without her realizing it, me. “A neurologist does a lot more than test for brain tumors. If Mia’s problem is real and not in her imagination, then a neurologist will be able to test her brain functions.”

  Relieved but still shaken, I return to the relative safety of my deep chair. It sucks me in again, but this time I don’t mind. So another doctor will poke and prod and then send me to someone else. Why did I get myself into this?

  I pick up the magazine my mother left on the table and open to a page full of text. As I read, a rainbow of colors drifts by in my head. I close my eyes and watch the colors fade away. I imagine that when I open my eyes again all the letters are black, the color of the type they are printed in, and nothing more.

  I open my eyes and stare at the page. I see the black letters. But I also see the pinks and greens and purples and yellows. I can’t say I’m surprised.

  My mother ducks her head in the waiting room. “Let’s go, Mia.” By the time I push myself out of the chair, she’s halfway down the hall. I hurry to catch up.

  “So what’s going on?”

  Without turning to look at me, she says, “Ms. Finn gave me the number of a neurologist at the University of Chicago. He’s going to run some tests.”

  “What kinds of tests?” I ask as we head out to the car. “Is something wrong with my brain?”

  She finally stops walking and turns to me. “Nothing is wrong with your brain, Mia.”

  I size her up as she stands by the car, searching her purse for the keys. “But you don’t know for sure, do you?”

  She keeps digging in her bag. “I suppose I don’t.”

  “Mom?”

  “What?” she answers, not quite snapping at me, but almost.

  “You already put the key in the car door.” I point to the keys dangling from the lock.

  After that we don’t talk much. I keep peeking over at her on the ride home, but she has a sort of pinched expression on her face. This worries me more than anything else. My head feels very heavy. I flip down the visor and stare at the small mirror. I never thought of my brain as anything other than the place where thoughts came from. Now it’s this big heavy thing rattling around in there — all mushy and gray and, I don’t know, brainlike. I move my fingers around my skull.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asks with a sideways glance.

  “I read somewhere that doctors used to feel the bumps on people’s heads to tell what was wrong with them.” I keep searching but don’t feel anything unusual.

  “Don’t worry, Mia. Everything will be fine.”

  “I won’t worry if you won’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” she says.

  “Me either then.”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” I echo.

  “So neither of us is worried,” she says.

  “Right.”

  Then we look at each other and the corners of our mouths twitch. I start laughing and she joins me. It’s better than crying.

  “You don’t have a brain tumor!” my mother says, shaking me awake. Dad stands behind her, beaming.

  “What?” I rub my eyes and look at my wall clocks. 6:10 a.m. Mango yawns and stretches at the foot of the bed.

  “How do you know? I haven’t even had the tests yet.” Suddenly panic grips me. I sit up and grab my mother by the sleeve of her nightshirt. “Or did I have them and the doctor took out the memory part of my brain?”

  They laugh. “No, you didn’t have them,” my mother assures me. “I just got off the phone with the neurologist.”

  “At six o’clock in the morning?”

  She sits down on the edge of the bed. “He’s at a conference in Europe, where it’s already the afternoon. He got the message I left yesterday and wanted to reassure us. He said that since you’ve had this condition your whole life without any other neurological impairments, he can rule out diseases such as epilepsy or tumors.”

  I lean back on the pillow as relief washes over me. “What else did he say?”

  “He said he’s pretty sure what’s going on from my description, but he wants to meet with you first. He’ll be back next week, and your father and I will drive you down.”

  I sit up again. “Wait, he didn’t say anything about middle child syndrome, did he?”

  They look at me oddly, and my mother shakes her head.

  “So I have to wait a whole week to find out?”

  “You’ve waited thirteen years, right?” my dad says, closing the door behind them.

  “Thirteen and a half,” I whisper. By this time Mango has climbed up onto my chest, and I pet him while he purrs loudly. Each mango-colored puff reminds me that even though I’m not dying of a brain tumor, I still don’t know what’s wrong with me. And my best friend still isn’t talking to me. I lie there with Mango for a few more minutes and decide it’s time for action.

  Mr. Davis lets me in and tells me Jenna’s still up in her room. I knock on the door and wait for her to tell me to come in.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she says. She is standing by her bed, trying valiantly to squeeze her schoolbooks into a purple minibackpack that I ha
ven’t seen before. We used to make fun of people with minibackpacks and now she has one. But she’s wearing the pajamas I got her last Christmas. I’ll take that as a good sign.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “Please talk to me.” I sit on the bed. “I can’t stand it.”

  She lays down the backpack in defeat. “What do you want me to say?”

  For the second time that morning I feel a surge of relief. At least she’s not giving me the silent treatment anymore. “I don’t want to fight. And I understand why you got mad at me.” Then I can’t help myself. I mutter, “Even though I really needed you to be there for me.”

  “That’s an apology?” Jenna asks. She crosses her arms in front of her.

  I tug at my ponytail for lack of anything better to do while I think of a response. “It’s half an apology. The other half has to come from you.”

  “You’re the one who kept the secret,” she says pointedly.

  I take a deep breath. “Listen, Jenna, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just couldn’t talk about it. But now I need to talk about it. With you. Unless you’ve got a new best friend I should know about. Like the person who gave you that backpack.”

  “This stupid thing? A friend of my father’s gave it to me. I promised my father I’d wear it at least once.”

  I’m relieved it wasn’t from Kimberly or Molly or Sara trying to move in on my best friend while we were in a fight.

  Jenna pulls her clothes out of the closet and lays them on the bed. “I don’t want to fight anymore either. But you don’t know what it’s like finding out something might be wrong with someone you care about. I’ve been there before, and believe me, it’s really scary.”

  I look down at the floor, ashamed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m really sorry if I made you worry.”

  “And I’m sorry I got so mean,” she says, starting to pace. “But I kind of did a bad thing yesterday after you left school early.” Guilt flickers across her face. I recognize it from that time she literally got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She takes a deep breath. “Well, Kimberly was asking me what was going on with you, and at first I told her I didn’t know — because I didn’t know — but then when I did know and I was so mad at you … well, I told her the truth. About you seeing the colors.”