Forever Mark

by Jessyca Thibault

  Actually, there was.

  “Um, yeah. I was kind of wondering when I can stop coming here,” I said.

  Dr. M set down her notebook.

  “What do you mean, Carson?”

  “I mean, no offense because you’re nice and all, but I can’t keep seeing you forever,” I said. “And I’m better now. I’m happy. Like you said, I’m a different person.”

  “Yes, you are,” she said slowly. She was giving me the same look my mom gave me when she was telling me that everything she’d just said had gone in one ear and out the other. “But this is a process, Carson, and you need to see it through.”

  A process? I thought I was practically done with the process.

  “But I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to,” I said. “I’ve even been doing the things on that list you gave me. I read. I started to make a book of my poems and I’ve been working on it every night. I watched the freaking sun rise – ”

  I could feel myself getting a little hysterical. I probably wasn’t doing much to prove that I no longer needed therapy, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  “I took a walk and played basketball and went on a bike ride. The other day Kellen and I spent the afternoon riding around and taking pictures at different places. We went to the park and the bowling alley and the mall. We tried on ridiculous hats and made silly poses for the camera and, let me tell you, the duck-face selfie is something I swore I’d never do, but I did it and I have a picture of it. I have a picture of everything.”

  I felt defeated. I just didn’t understand. I’d done everything I was supposed to.

  Dr. M waited to see if I said anything else. When I didn’t, she opened her mouth.

  “Carson, I’m happy you’re doing all of that and experiencing new things, but I want you to be honest with me and with yourself. Do you really think you’re ready to stop coming here?”

  “Yes?” I said, but it came out sounding more like a question.

  Dr. M gave me a sympathetic look. “You think you’re ready because things are going well right now,” she said. “But the true test isn’t how we handle the good times. The true test is how we handle the bad times.”

  “So I have to keep coming here until something bad happens?”

  “I think you should keep coming here until you’re ready to face whatever life throws at you, good or bad,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with seeing a therapist, Carson. Everyone needs somebody to talk to.”

  But now I had somebody to talk to, which was something I never had before. That’s what Dr. M wasn’t getting. I didn’t want to argue with her anymore though, and I supposed a few more sessions wouldn’t kill me.

  “So I guess this means I’ll see you next week,” I said, getting up from the chair.

  “Carson, before you go I just have one more question.”

  I sat back down. “What?”

  “Have you told Kellen about your father?”

  I let this question swirl around in my brain for a few seconds.

  My father. Had I told Kellen about my father?

  I’d told him everything that mattered.

  “Yes,” I said. My voice cracked ever so slightly and I hoped Dr. M didn’t notice.

  Her knowing gaze told me she’d heard more than I wanted her to, but I hopped out of my seat before she could ask me anything else.

  “See ya, doc,” I said as I rushed out of the room without looking back.

  Chapter 36

  A Patchwork Quilt

  One piece here

  Another there

  Sewn together

  Add some green

  Some blue

  Throw in a sparkly square

  This is me

  A patchwork quilt

  Contradicting pieces

  Picked up at random

  And forced to cooperate

  Or at least co-exist

  But the stitches aren’t seamless

  The patterns don’t mesh

  Nothing fits quite right

  Nothing belongs

  And nothing makes sense

  Kellen Jordan was adorable. You know, in a “I kind of want to rip your clothes off and lock myself in a room with you but then again I also kind of want to just build blanket forts and have pillow fights with you” way.

  I couldn’t help it. Innocent or not so innocent, I just wanted to be around him. I felt like actual cling wrap but anytime I tried to give him a little space I realized that I didn’t really care for space.

  Space was for astronauts.

  So when I called Kellen and asked if he wanted to hang out and he told me that he was volunteering at the homeless shelter but that he would be over soon, I was relieved.

  “I’ll bring some CDs,” he said. “It’s time to educate you on the beauty of music.”

  “I don’t like music,” I said.

  “What?! That’s like not liking apple pie.”

  “Ew. Gross.”

  “You’re un-American.”

  I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me.

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

  “How did you – ”

  “You made that little sigh noise that you make when you roll your eyes.”

  I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to laugh or kick him in the knee.

  “Well I just rolled my eyes again,” I said.

  “I can picture the Carson eye roll face.”

  “Whatever, you can bring your dumb CDs but if you bring an apple pie to my front door then I’m locking you out.”

  Kellen arrived about an hour later with his laptop, a stack of CDs, and no pie. When I cleared a spot on the coffee table for his stuff, he shook his head.

  “We need the right ambience to really get in the music-listening zone,” he said.

  “The right ambience?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “Would you like me to take out a wall to make the room more open?”

  “Tempting, but no,” he said, grinning. “I think we should make a blanket fort.”

  “And how do we do that?” I asked.

  “You’ve never made a blanket fort?” His eyes widened in disbelief.

  “No,” I said.

  Kellen put a hand over his face. “Carson Reynolds,” he said. “You have so much to learn.”

  Kellen started moving the couch and the loveseat and rearranging all the furniture so I went and grabbed a bunch of blankets and pillows to avoid getting in the way of the construction zone.

  “I still can’t believe you’ve never made a blanket fort,” he said now as he threw a blanket over the backs of the couch and loveseat so that it formed a sort of tunnel. “And you don’t like music.”

  “Don’t forget about the apple pie,” I said.

  “Don’t remind me. I’m still trying to decide if I can even handle being in the same room as you.”

  “I’m a pumpkin pie person.”

  Kellen stopped what he was doing and pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  I laughed and threw a pillow at him.

  Kellen caught the pillow, grinning. He tossed it and a few others into the tunnel beneath the blankets and looked at me.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s ready.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We go inside,” he said, pointing at the tunnel. “Man, Carson, it’s a good thing you met me because these are essential life skills I’m teaching you here.”

  “Making a blanket fort is an essential life skill?”

  “In all states except Florida.”

  “But we live in Florida.”

  “Do you plan to live in Florida forever, Carson?”

  “No.”

  “Then you need to know how to do this.”

  “Okay,” I said, laughing. “But why not in Florida?”

  “Florida has too many issues to have time for teaching how to make blanket forts,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “So how did you learn?”

  “My mom isn’t from
this sad excuse of a state.”

  I carried over the plate of pizza rolls I’d made while Kellen was enhancing the room’s ambience and crawled inside the tunnel. Kellen followed me with his laptop and CDs.

  “Alright,” I said. I laid down and propped my elbows on top of a pillow. “We’ve got the blanket fort, we’ve got the music, and we’ve got pizza rolls. Have we reached the right level of ambience?”

  “Yep,” Kellen said, grabbing a pizza roll and popping it into his mouth. “This is definitely the perfect combination. What do you think?”

  “A medley of such beautiful things is the medicine for my poor unfortunate soul.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said. “Now before we start, please explain why you hate music so much, because I didn’t even know that was possible.”

  “I guess I should rephrase that. It’s not that I hate music,” I said. “I just hate most music. I have a very specific taste.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Ever heard of screamo?”

  Kellen shook his head. “That’s unhealthy,” he said. “That’s like listening to ten tracks of a violent anxiety attack.”

  “That’s a little judgmental.”

  “I’m sorry. No offense to the screamo bands that destroy their vocal chords to make their CDs, but in my opinion it’s like listening to ten tracks of a violent anxiety attack.”

  “You just have to give it a chance.”

  “Says the girl who hates all other genres of music!” Kellen said, laughing. “How do you even understand the words?”

  “I don’t a lot of the time,” I said. “But that’s why I like it. I don’t want to hear words. I have enough words in my head. I just want to hear noise that will drown everything else out. Plus, once you get past the screaming and you really listen you can hear the emotion in the songs. It’s raw and deep and sometimes painful, but I can relate to it. It makes me feel less crazy when all I want to do is scream.”

  “Oh,” Kellen said. He looked down and I could tell he felt bad. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Most people don’t,” I said, shrugging.

  Kellen held up his stack of CDs. “You know, we don’t have to listen to these,” he says. “We can do something else or we can listen to your music.”

  I smiled and shoved Kellen’s shoulder lightly. “My music is not for the faint of heart,” I said jokingly. “Besides, I’m trying new things, right? Who knows, maybe I won’t want to totally rip my eardrums out and sell them online.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay,” he said, popping a CD into his laptop. “But with these the emotion is more in the words and the beat, so you have to really listen.”

  “Got it. I gave all the voices in my head the day off.”

  “You’re such a kind host.”

  “Everyone deserves a Saturday off once in a while,” I said as I watched Kellen click some buttons to bring up the CD. “Hey, don’t most people get digital music now?”

  “Carson, I use a bike instead of a car. Is it really a surprise that I like CDs better?”

  “Good point. One of these days I’ll get you out of the Stone Age.”

  “Doubt it,” he said, grinning. “Okay, so I did bring some of my mom’s pop stuff – don’t give me that look, not all music that is considered pop is overproduced and full of auto tune. But I think I’ll start you off with some punk rock. Don’t want to throw you right into the deep end.”

  “I’d hardly consider pop music to be deep.”

  Kellen smirked. “Don’t judge a song by its genre, remember?”

  I rolled my eyes and Kellen pressed play. Music blasted out of the speakers – fast and heavy on the guitar and drums. I instantly picked up the beat and tapped my foot out to the instrumentals. I laid my head on my pillow and closed my eyes, listening. The vocals came in and it felt a little strange listening to music where I could hear the words, but the guy’s voice had a cool rasp to it. It was full of energy and angst, with an undertone of a pissed off attitude. In no time I could actually feel myself getting into the song. He was singing about some girl that used him – hello relatable. I was so pumped I was ready to throw on a pair of boxing gloves and take the nearest jerk into the ring. I liked the feeling. It was empowering.

  “So what do you think?” Kellen asked when the song faded out. I could still hear the final chords lingering in the air.

  I smiled, my eyes still closed. “Play another.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Kellen wasn’t lying when he said he was going to educate me on music. I’d listened to so many different artists and styles and genres that my ears felt like they’d just been on a safari. I heard lions (classic rock), rhinos (punk rock), cheetahs (rap), zebras (techno), giraffes (R&B), elephants (country), and I even listened to a few flamingoes (pop, of course).

  The punk rock rhinos were definitely my favorite – I thought I might look into adopting some of them. When I really listened to the words and the beats though, none of it was really bad, just different. The country was a little twangy and the rap kind of made my head spin and, I mean, I wasn’t going to convert to being a hardcore flamingo lover, but it was a nice change to hear something new.

  “Okay, so you have officially been musically diversified,” Kellen said, putting the final CD back into its case.

  “Musically diversified?” I asked, grinning. “Is that a thing?”

  “Yep. Musical diversification is a recommended procedure for all currently and formerly depressed kids. They think it helps us get out of our slump.”

  “They?”

  “The people.”

  “Well that clears that up,” I said, sitting up. “Were you musically diversified?”

  Kellen nodded. “How do you think I got all these CDs. My mom read somewhere that changing what you listen to can improve your mood so she bought a CD from literally every kind of music known to man. Just be thankful I left the nursery rhyme CD at home.”

  “Your mom bought you a CD of nursery rhymes?”

  “My mom thinks she’s funny.”

  Kellen was teasing, but the love he had for his mom was written all over his face. He was lucky. As much as it probably would have annoyed me to have my mom shove a stack of new CDs in my face, it would have been nice if she had put in any kind of effort. Her solution had always been to just send me to other people – the therapist, church camp. She just wanted me fixed. She was never really there for me, not like Lena was for Kellen.

  Kellen’s phone buzzed and I was grateful for the noise. It snapped me out of the pity party that I could feel my head starting to plan.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Roscoe,” he said.

  “Your tattoo artist?”

  “Yeah, he just wants to make sure I’m still coming in today,” Kellen said as he typed back a quick response.

  “You’re getting a new tattoo?”

  “Not really,” he said. He held out his left forearm for me to see and pointed to a tattoo of a tree.

  The tree’s roots started at Kellen’s wrist and then the tattoo worked its way up to the trunk before stemming out in every direction with branches. The tree was mostly bare but there were about two dozen leaves placed sporadically throughout the web of branches. The tree was black and grey, but the leaves popped against Kellen’s skin in shades of red and green and orange.

  I couldn’t get over how real it looked. The details were incredible – the knots in the bark, the way the roots connected and intertwined in a chaotic harmony. It was like Roscoe had taken a picture of a tree and embedded it into Kellen’s skin. It was hard to believe I’d never noticed the tattoo before. I guess I saw the ink of Kellen’s arms as one big collage instead of individual pieces of art.

  “It’s a work in progress,” Kellen said. “A month after I got out of rehab I got the tree and one leaf.” Kellen pointed to a green leaf on the left side of the tree. “Every month since then I’ve g
one and gotten another leaf added on.”

  “Wow,” I said, still mesmerized by the tattoo. “It’s beautiful.”

  “One day I’ll have a tree full of leaves.”

  “A life full of color,” I said, looking up.

  “Exactly.”

  I got it. I got the whole thing – the concept, the symbolism, everything. Maybe that’s why the tattoo was so beautiful to me. It wasn’t meant to erase the past or pretend the black and grey never happened, but to show that beautiful things could still grow from dark roots.

  “Can I come?” I asked.

  Kellen’s eyes lit up. “Of course.” He started to crawl out of our blanket fort. “We just have to make one quick stop first.”

  I followed Kellen, excited to see tattooing in action.

  “Wait a minute,” I said as I stood up. “You pay for a little leaf every month?”

  “Nope,” Kellen said, taking my hand and pulling me towards the door. “That’s why we have to make a stop first.”

  Chapter 37

  Inked Hearts

  Ink darts

  Thrown at inked hearts

  Bursts of color

  Igniting sparks

  A little black

  A speck of blue

  Falling fast

  I’m starting to

  I wanted to know what was in the bag, but I also didn’t want to know what was in the bag. I hoped what was in the bag couldn’t get us thrown in jail. If it could I wondered if it was better for me to know or not know.

  After we left my house on our bikes, Kellen had led the way to a fast food place. He ran inside and then came out with a brown bag. Now, when your boyfriend tells you that he’s not paying for a tattoo and that he has to make a stop, and then he comes out of a greasy looking hamburger joint carrying a brown bag, you might think something shady is going down. You’d probably be crazy or completely oblivious to the goings-on of the world to not think something shady was going down.

  And I’d totally thought out of the two of us I’d be the one to get Kellen and I arrested.

  “Are you gonna tell me what’s in the bag?” I finally asked as Kellen turned his bike into a parking lot. I decided that I’d rather know beforehand if we could potentially get busted for a drug exchange.