I Wish You All the Best

by Mason Deaver

  “I see. Are you comfortable staying with your sister right now?”

  “Is there an alternative?”

  “Do you want one?”

  I shake my head. “Just wondering. This all stays between us, right?”

  Dr. Taylor uncrosses her legs and leans forward in her chair, the leather squeaking underneath her. “You’re my patient.” She points to the door with the end of her pen. “I won’t discuss anything that happens inside this room with anyone but you. Not only am I legally required to, but the privacy and safety of my patients is important to me, Ben. We could go over informed consent if you’d like?”

  “Informed consent?”

  Dr. Taylor walks over to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room, sifting through the rainbow of folders situated there. “It’s an important procedure, where I lay out everything I’ll be going over with you, the limits of what we’ll be discussing, as well as the benefits of treatment, and, more importantly”—she walks back across the room and hands me the stack of paper—“confidentiality.”

  I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to read through everything the documents entail. Sure, there’s the Hippocratic oath and everything, but I don’t even know if that’s supposed to apply to therapists, or if that’s just the surgery sort of doctor. This woman hasn’t given me anything to base a level of trust on.

  But the papers lay it all out, or at least they seem to. “We can go over each part step by step if you like.” Dr. Taylor leans in closer. “But I swear to you that unless I think you are an immediate threat to your own life or someone else’s, I’m not going to tell a soul what goes on in here.”

  “I … I’m sorry.” This weird sense of shame creeps up my face.

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Ben. I realize it’s scary, I can only imagine what you’ve been going through these last few days, even months.” Dr. Taylor speaks quietly. “But that’s what I’m here to do. I want to help you, help understand what you’re going through.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s what I’m here for. Do you want to go through the forms?”

  “If we’ve got time?”

  “Sure. We can review them while we talk.”

  It’s a lot. There are some things that are simple or self-explanatory, but there’s even more that I don’t understand. Then Dr. Taylor says, “So are you out to your sister?”

  “Oh, um …” I flip through the next page and read briefly over what it says, sign my initials where Dr. Taylor tells me it’s needed.

  “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  I try to breathe. “I mean, I’m out. To her. And to Thomas. I sort of had to be, didn’t I?” I try to laugh, but even to my own ears it sounds forced.

  “Are you comfortable with that?”

  “I have to be, don’t I?”

  “No. Of course, circumstances were out of your hands. I know in this scenario, telling them why you’d been forced out of your home was the easiest option, and maybe the only one. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

  “They’re trying. Hannah and Thomas correct themselves when they use the wrong pronouns.”

  “That’s good. And what about at school? Are you adjusting easily?”

  “I mean, it’s school. I’m not out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dr. Taylor clicks her pen and adds that to her notes. “Do you want to talk about that?”

  “Nothing to really talk about.”

  “You think so?”

  “Doesn’t exactly feel safe.”

  “That’s a fair point.” There’s this shine in her eyes, and I expect her to fight me on that, but she doesn’t.

  “But?” I say.

  “No ‘but.’ Have you met anyone at your new school? Any new friends?”

  “No.”

  “Really? That’s a shame. No one at all?”

  “No,” I repeat. “No one.” We’ve reached the last of the forms. I read over it quickly before I sign my name. Dr. Taylor flips through all of them one more time before she gathers them all up.

  “Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

  “Like?”

  She shrugs. “Anything you feel that may help me know you better. Or anything specific you’ve been dealing with?”

  “I don’t think so.” There’s Mariam, but that feels like a private thing, something I don’t need to share here. Not right now, at least.

  “Okay.” Dr. Taylor stands up, tossing her notepad on her desk.

  “Okay?” My eyes follow her all the way to her desk. “Is that all?”

  “For today.” She slides open a drawer and grabs a small pamphlet. “I’d like to keep seeing you, Ben, if you want to, that is. But I also have something here.” She holds the paper out for me to take.

  “What is it?” I flip it over in my hands, reading the header, which is in bright multicolored letters.

  “It’s a support group for kids on the LGBTQIAP+ spectrum.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but she sticks up a finger to silence me. “I know, but not all the members use ‘queer’ to identify with. I’d like you to think about attending. It’s mostly young adults and teens. I really think it could help.

  “They usually meet every other Friday around six thirty. Just think about it.” I eye the pamphlet, reading the contact information and address for the meeting on the back. “Would you be open to seeing me again?”

  I consider it for a second. I mean, I don’t really feel any better, but am I supposed to after just one meeting? I really just sort of want to go home, crawl into bed, and wait for tomorrow. “I guess.”

  “You don’t have to,” she adds.

  “I can meet again,” I say. That’s probably what Hannah wants.

  “We’ll try for next Thursday, okay? I’m free in the afternoons, and that way you don’t have to keep missing school.”

  I stand up, folding the pamphlet to slip it into my back pocket, knowing I won’t be going to this support group thing. If I could hardly face coming out here, how am I supposed to come out to a room full of strangers?

  “I’d also like to talk with Hannah briefly, if that’s okay.” Dr. Taylor eyes me.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not telling her anything we haven’t agreed to. I just want to make sure she understands everything, if she has any questions.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “So you’re comfortable with that?”

  Not really, but maybe it would be easier for Dr. Taylor to handle this instead of Hannah grilling me in the car ride back home. Dr. Taylor pokes her head out the door and says something, Hannah trailing in right behind her.

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Just fine,” Dr. Taylor says. “I just wanted to talk about a few things regarding Ben’s appointments.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ben and I will meet on Thursday; every other week should suffice unless Ben tells me they want to change the frequency of the appointments.” Dr. Taylor says this about as straightforward as I can imagine someone can. “I’ll be communicating with them directly and won’t be sharing any information unless Ben signs a release form.”

  “Oh” is all Hannah says, and I can’t look at her right now. I wonder how it feels, having the woman you’re paying to treat the sibling you just took in tell you that you don’t have a right to know anything that goes on in here.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to discuss any details about their appointments besides when they will occur.”

  “No,” Hannah says. “I mean, yeah, of course. No, I totally understand.” She seems a little jumpy. Maybe from the knife I just stabbed her in the back with. “Was there anything else you needed to talk to me about?”

  Dr. Taylor looks my way. “Ben?”

  “I’m done.”

  “All right, I’ll see you next Thursday.” The last thing Dr. Taylor does is grab a small card from her desk. “Here’s the contact
information for the office, just call if you need to change the times.”

  I tuck the card in alongside the brochure.

  “Thank you, Dr. Taylor.” Hannah and Dr. Taylor shake hands. “You ready to go?”

  I nod and eye the clock on the wall. It’s only one in the afternoon, but it feels later than that.

  “Want to stop and get some lunch?”

  My stomach lurches, totally empty, but I shake my head. I don’t think I have it in me to keep food down right now.

  “Interesting.” Mrs. Liu eyes the painting, and I’m trying not to feel self-conscious. A task I’m failing at miserably. “I like the empty space here, and the choice of colors, especially the dark blues. What made you pick that?”

  I just picked blue because I like blue. Isn’t sky supposed to be bluish anyway? “It felt right,” I say instead. I don’t think my other answer will win me many points. Mrs. Liu is an interesting teacher, to say the least. Over the last two weeks, she’s been circling over me like a hawk while I work, even if it was just a sketch. So far she’s had me at the wheel making this hideous clay pot. And before that, she gave me a bag full of wire clothes hangers and told me to make something out of them.

  Yesterday, she gave me an easel and a canvas and told me to paint the first thing that came to mind. Mariam had been texting me about cardinals during lunch, and how they’re Mariam’s favorite bird. So that was the first thing I blurted out.

  And I painted a cardinal, just like I’d been told to.

  “It’s a nice contrast, especially with the red,” she tries to joke. At least I think it’s supposed to be a joke. “Do you like painting, Ben? You’re very good at it.”

  “Yeah.” I actually enjoy it more than drawing. I guess maybe it feels fresher, since I can’t do it as much as I want to. I couldn’t exactly drag out paint sets at home, and at Wayne, art classes weren’t much to write home about.

  Not that they were worse, and I learned a lot. Things were just definitely stricter there.

  That’s when the bell decides to ring. I scramble to get my paint and brushes into the sink. “Oh, take your time, kid.” Mrs. Liu pats my shoulder.

  “Sorry, wasn’t paying attention,” I say, my hands already stained with the watery orange.

  “It’s okay. I wanted to ask you something anyway.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I noticed you’re going out to the courtyard during your lunch.”

  Jesus, I’m ready for everyone to stop being obsessed with where I go for my lunch break. “Oh, yeah, not a cafeteria fan.”

  “Well, if you ever want to come in here and work …” Mrs. Liu pulls a small key out of the pockets on her smock.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course. I’ve got a good feeling about you, Ben.” She slaps the key down on the counter. “But just a warning, I don’t give too many chances.”

  “I’ll be careful. I swear.”

  “You better.” She winks at me and goes back to her office. Near-unlimited access to the art room? Most definitely not a bad thing.

  It’s an uphill climb to Friday, but I get there. Between homework and trying to catch up on all my classes, it’s nice to just have a night to myself. Hannah and Thomas both decide they want to go out to dinner; I decline the invitation, figuring they probably want some time to themselves after everything I’ve put them through.

  Plus, this way I can draw without interruption, and I don’t really have to worry about walking in on them or intruding on their space. Nights alone at home were rare, and normally I reserved those times for more drawing or marathoning Mariam’s videos.

  “So, what’re we doing tonight?” Mariam’s voice echoes through the speakers on my laptop. It’s been way too long since we’ve had a night like this. Just me and them, talking while we both work. It’s actually relaxing.

  “Nothing special. What’re you working on?” My eyes drift from the TV to my computer to my sketchbook. I’ve been sketching so many ideas for paintings over the last few days.

  “Speeches. I’ve got to get ready for this conference. And I’m looking at dates for the next tour.” They show me their notebook. Even just a single page is crammed to the margins with their messy writing. It never fails to amaze me that Mariam can speak in front of hundreds, or in some cases, a thousand people, without a care in the world.

  “Sounds like a fun time,” I say.

  “Yup.” They pop their lips. “What about you?”

  “Drawing.” I show them the sketch pad.

  “Nice, when are you going to give me a new header for the channel?” Mariam leans on their hands and bats their eyelashes.

  “That would require the right tools, my friend.” Some kind of drawing program on the laptop, probably a drawing tablet too. Too much for me, especially since those things cost money.

  Mariam just rolls their eyes, the master of the eye roll. “Want to see my latest haul?”

  I smile. “Always.”

  “How about new scarves?” They lean back to show more of the scarf wrapped around their head in the frame of the webcam. It’s hard to tell from here, but the material looks glossy, and the bright red really goes well with their lipstick.

  “I love it.”

  Mariam and I have had long conversations about being religious and nonbinary. For Mariam though, their hijab represents comfort, security, a connection to their faith. They could spend hours talking about how it made them feel. In fact, they made a whole series on their channel last year, what being Shia Muslim and being nonbinary meant to them.

  For a second, I remember what Mom told me that night. How God doesn’t want this. Mariam’s the only reason I can’t believe that.

  “I bought a few more, but this one is my favorite. Oh!” They reach off-camera for something. “And this sweater.” Mariam stands up quickly, pushing their desk chair out of the way, and twirls in front of the camera. It’s one of those that sort of looks like a cloak, but it’s cut so it won’t fall off you or anything. The kind I was always sort of jealous of when I saw them in stores, out shopping with Mom.

  “Oh my God.”

  “I know, right?” Mariam twirls again. “I’m never wearing anything else. Thirty percent off too!” They do a little dance. “Not that I’ll have much of a chance to wear it at home. The lowest it gets here is like sixty degrees, if we’re lucky. But maybe on tour.”

  “I’m jealous.”

  “You’ll get there one day, Benji. I promise. When you’re designing logos and painting masterpieces, no one can tell you what to wear.”

  “Yeah, right.” Technically no one could tell me what to wear now, but I know exactly what would happen if I dared to go out in public dressed like that, or in some of the cool-looking polka-dot dresses I’ve seen online, or maybe in calf-high boots I know would never fit my feet.

  I settle into the couch and go back to my drawing. I’ve been thinking about portraits for a while now. There’s always been something about faces that just feels so interesting to me. I spent the last few days saving photos of various models I found online, their smooth faces and sharp lips, eyebrows perfectly plucked and eyes like they’re piercing you.

  I heard a car pull into the driveway. Instead of the headlights dimming and the engine cutting off, it just sits there idling.

  “Weird,” I whisper to myself.

  “Huh?” Mariam asks.

  “Nothing.” I resume drawing. “Hannah and Thomas just got home.”

  “So how are you liking the new school?” Mariam’s in front of the camera now.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Any new friends threatening to take my spot?”

  “None so far.” Nathan kept trying to get me to come to lunch with him, but once Mrs. Liu let me in the art room, any hope of that was crushed. He didn’t seem too bothered by my rejections though. It was almost like it was becoming a game to him or something.

  I glance back out the window. The car is still there, just sitting in the driveway with
the engine running and headlights shining through the curtains.

  “Everything okay? You seem a bit spacey tonight.”

  “Hannah and Thomas are just sitting outside in their car.”

  Mariam starts laughing to themselves. “Maybe they’re making out.”

  “Gross.” I crawl toward the window, pulling back the curtains as slowly as possible. The driveway isn’t that long, but it’s still too dark to really tell the color or make of a car. Not that I would’ve known anyway. There are cars, trucks, and SUVs. That’s pretty much the extent of my car knowledge.

  But my stomach sinks when I realize that this car definitely isn’t Hannah and Thomas’s large black SUV. That much I can tell, even in the dark. No, this car looks an awful lot like Dad’s.

  “No.”

  “Ben?” Mariam’s voice scares me. I’d already forgotten they were here.

  Panic fills my chest as I pull back the curtains and run to the front door to check the locks. Mom and Dad can probably see my shadow running from one end of the house to the other, but that doesn’t really matter right now. I grab my phone and keep my thumb hovered over Hannah’s number.

  Mariam’s voice keeps echoing through the hallways. “Ben? What’s going on? Hello? Ben?”

  I hover at the top of the stairs, making sure I can just barely see the glow of the lights through the dense curtains, ready to sprint to my room if I need to. But after a minute, the headlights turn off. I run back to the window, brushing past the curtains. It’s still there, the engine no longer running.

  Then there’s a knock at the door.

  They’re coming. Holy shit. They’re coming for me.

  “Ben? What happened?”

  “I need to call you back!” I shout without meaning to.

  “Ben!”

  “I think my parents are here,” I choke out. I can hear the crack in my voice. I don’t wait for their response, I just close the laptop and grab everything. I run back to the guest room, taking the steps so quickly that I almost fall at the top. I make sure to lock the door behind me.