by Tara K Ross
“Having an aunt who visited Quebec for a year doesn’t help. Especially given that she’s back in Beijing.”
“Let’s drop it, ladies. Malin trumps your French tests.” I grab Ashley with my other hand and move back into the procession of people entering the gym.
It’s rare to see the dividing walls between the three court-size gyms stacked away. The result is a soaring columned void across the front, filled only by the school podium stand and a lineup of administration. They wait, pressed single file against the cinderblock wall. The usual scent of rubber and athletic mats has been replaced by the dust hanging in the air, stirred up when the custodians pulled out the long benches for seating. We find an empty section of paint-chipped wood near the back of a bleacher just as Mrs. Henderson marches toward the microphone. She is joined by our two VPs, the head of Guidance, and a striking middle-aged man with a perfectly tailored suit. He’s familiar, like an actor from some old James Bond movie Dad forced me to watch, but I can’t place him amongst our small-town population.
“Hey, do you know who the guy in the suit is?” I ask Jade. Her father works at city hall and knows almost everyone in town.
“I think he works at the hospital, maybe on the …” She hesitates. “Maybe he’s on the board?”
Mrs. Henderson buttons her black suit jacket and tests the microphone with her acrylic nail, sending a loud thud through the gymnasium. She pauses for the grumbles to subside.
“Thank you all for joining us today,” she begins in her high-strung voice. She clears her throat. “We ask that you turn off your phones and devices and refrain from speaking to your neighbors until the end of this assembly.” Pause. “Mrs. Walters from Guidance will be sharing an update from Malin’s family.” Throat clear. “We have also invited Dr. Kowalski from the hospital’s mental health program to speak with us regarding positive grieving and early signs of mental illness.”
“That’s where I know him from.” I lean into Jade. “He works at my mom’s hospital.”
“Lucky her.” Ashley flips her hair as if the well-dressed man will notice her amongst the crowd of students. “So, what, he’s like a doctor?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, he can pick my brain apart any day.” Ashley stares him down like a cheetah ready to pounce.
A rush of laughter escapes from Jade, and I stifle my own outburst. “You are disgusting. He could be your dad,” I mumble through my covered mouth.
Mrs. Henderson clears her throat again and scans the gymnasium to hush the whispers and other inappropriate noises. I square my shoulders to show I’m now going to be serious. Ashley and Jade take the hint too.
“I know many of you have been wondering about the nature of Malin’s unfortunate passing.” Mrs. Henderson grips the microphone. “We will never know all the details of what transpired the evening of her death. However, the family does wish to share that Malin was suffering from mental illness and had been engaging in risky behavior leading up to that evening. They hope through her death, something positive can be taken and learned that will help save other students from traveling down a similar path.”
The whispers elevate to a murmur across the room.
Ashley frowns. “What does she mean by risky behavior?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Probably drugs?”
“Does it matter? She was sick and now she’s dead,” Jade says with a flat pitch.
Mrs. Walters takes over the mike and shares the family’s request for the funeral and wake the following Saturday to be attended only by family and close friends. A special commissioned performance will be held at the town theater in the spring, with proceeds going to the Mood Disorders Awareness Group. Student involvement is highly encouraged at all levels of the production.
“You guys should do that.” Jade nudges me in the shoulder. Ashley shakes her head. “Nah, I didn’t know her at all. But you should, Thea.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I don’t really hear what I’m responding to. My thoughts have left the gymnasium and are back on the conversation I had with Mom last night. It all makes sense now … the surveillance, the expedited therapist appointment. She’s worried I’m engaging in “risky behavior.” If only she knew. I am the last person to experiment with drugs or anything even close. I can’t even talk to a guy I like without wimping out most of the time. Or maybe she thinks I have a mood disorder. She must have caught me pulling my hair, and now she thinks I need professional help. I twist my hair back, wary of the row of students sitting behind us with a perfect view of my scalp.
At the very least, Mom and Dad being worried about me has made them get along better. Nothing like bonding through a crisis. Last evening, they actually appeared to be tolerating each other. I think they even slept in the same room. There must have been fewer bills this week. Here’s a crazy thought: Maybe I should always appear in crisis to maintain their version of marital bliss. I can’t help but laugh at the irony of it.
Ashley jabs me in the side with her elbow. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, sorry, I … uh … Something was caught in my throat.” Lying doesn’t come easily to me, and Ashley sees straight through it.
“Uh-huh. Sure it was.”
The doctor has taken over the podium, for how long now, I couldn’t say.
Jade presses a finger to her lips. “Shh, guys. Show respect.”
We focus on Dr. Kowalski as he finishes his crash course on Suicide Prevention. “Not every young person will show the same warning signs. Some may appear more confident than usual to their friends but might be sharing plans for ending their life through social media. You may be the only person they have disclosed something to, and it could be your action that helps direct them to the appropriate resources and supports that could save their life.”
The idea that more than one person in our high school could be contemplating death doesn’t surprise me, but the fact I could have a role in their prevention is a little unnerving. What if I missed some early warning sign with Malin? What if I could have helped save her life?
A shudder rushes through me and then, out of nowhere, I am thrust back into the bright fog from two days ago. The blinding light overtakes my senses faster this time, as does the rushing noise. I grip the bag in my lap, shut out the white, and try to breathe. Although my breath enters in shivering pulses, with each exhale I feel more in control. This is just a panic attack. My muscles begin to relax like a hot shower rinsing away tension. A whisper echoes ever so quietly within the rush of sound. I am with you. The noise begins to fade. I readjust to a clarity in the gymnasium that is awe-inspiring. I search for where the whisper came from, but it didn’t sound like a regular voice. More light has filled the room, as though spotlights are shining down on groups of students. Or maybe shining up from them?
My gaze darts around the gym. I’m not concerned about what those around me might think. An unquenchable desire to understand the sudden illuminations overtakes my rational thoughts. An ache fills my chest again, just like it did with Evan. The need to rise urges my legs to engage.
“What are you doing?” Jade stares at me, her forehead wrinkled.
“Is it brighter in here?” I peer up at the ceiling, then back to the groups of students.
She tugs me down by my jeans pocket. “Um, not that I’m aware of, but you did just have your eyes closed.”
“What’s going on?” Ashley whispers.
I pan across the hundreds of students, trying to draw their attention to … something that is no longer there. I slump on the bench. “Nothing, I just thought … It’s nothing.”
Mrs. Henderson returns to the podium and clears her throat. “When the bell rings in a moment, all students will travel to their period four class, unless they would like to speak with one of the members of our support staff. We will be canceling extracurricular activities for the remainder of this week to allow teachers to be available after school for additional support.”
“Booh,” Ashley say
s under her breath, clearly faking disappointment. “I memorized my lines for scene two for nothing.”
Jade crosses her arms. “You’re still going to need to have them memorized at some point, Ash. The festival is less than two months away, right?” She turns to me, waiting for confirmation.
“Yeah, right,” I say, trusting Jade speaks the truth.
Am I psyching myself out, or did I have another experience like Monday? And there was a voice again, or at least a thought in my mind that felt so clear and important. I couldn’t have imagined it.
The bell sounds, and students begin to slowly move out of the gymnasium. Ashley stands and brushes off the back of her jeans. “If I had known practice would be canceled, I could’ve studied more for French.” She begins to daintily step down through the bleachers.
Easily skipping steps, Jade follows. “I don’t think it would have helped you. I studied most of last night and still bombed it.”
I stay seated and try to replay the previous few minutes. I heard something or thought something. Why can’t I remember it? I cover my ears with my palms to drown out the hum of conversation around me, but nothing. And the lights. Were they coming from students? My chest still thumps to a beat that I can only associate with moments of deep grief.
“Thea?” Ashley’s muffled voice filters through my fingers. “What are you doing?” She looks at me, hands on her hip and head slightly tilted.
“I, uh, I thought I heard something.”
Jade comes back up a couple of stairs, and her dark, narrowed eyes search mine for meaning. “And?”
“And I can’t remember what it was.”
“It was probably your stomach saying feed me,” Ashley says while swiping at her phone. She’s probably more interested in Ethan’s status update than what I may have heard.
“Never mind.” They wouldn’t believe me anyway. “Forget it ever happened.”
But maybe Jade would listen. She comes closer and lowers her voice. “Are you sure? You looked pretty freaked out a minute ago.”
“Nah, I’m okay.” I muster up the most reassuring grin I can. I pick up my bag and, grasping Jade’s outstretched hand, rise from the bleachers. “I think my stomach said cookies,” I say in a Cookie-Monster voice, hoping to convince Jade I really am okay.
And to convince myself at the same time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An incandescent floor lamp casts a warm veil over the otherwise white walls. With the pairing of a comfortable micro-suede couch and a mauve rug that matches the trim on the lampshade, the attempt to provide a peaceful atmosphere is almost achieved. If not for my other senses. The smell of burnt coffee and sanitizer overpowers Mom’s body spray. And the muffled Code Blue that seems to be on repeat every two minutes takes away any chance for zen. I am in a hospital, with my very own plastic bracelet, waiting for my very own personal shrink to appear.
Across from me, Mom sits, wringing her hands. “Sweetie, he really is a wonderful and patient physician. Try not to look so distressed.”
Helpful advice, Mom.
“I know. I get why you want me to come, but I just wish I wasn’t here.” I lean my head toward the door to hear the intercom announce its latest code. “It’s awkward enough showing up for therapy, but it’s ten times worse when it’s your mom’s boss.”
She rolls her eyes. Is she mocking me? “Look, I get you’re a little embarrassed, but I’d rather you see the best than some unknown psychiatrist across town whose reputation I can’t ensure.” She crosses her arms. “And he is not my boss. We simply work in the same hospital.”
“When he comes to the ER he gives you orders, like how many drugs to pump into a patient, right?” I raise my eyebrow and wait.
Again, she mirrors my expression and says nothing. I curl my toes in my shoes. “How is he not one of your bosses?”
With a deep inhale through her nose, she employs her best therapeutic voice. “This is not about—”
“Yes, it is. I don’t need to do this.” I glare at my phone. If I make eye contact, she will bring me to tears or to screaming. This time I copy her and draw in a calm and collected breath. “I’ve already told you I’m not going to kill myself or harm myself or engage in any risky behavior or—”
“That’s not why you’re here,” Mom snaps.
“Um, yeah, I think it is. You didn’t even seem to care until Malin—”
“This has nothing to do with her.”
The door to the office clicks and fluorescent light fills the room. A tanned, middle-aged man with freshly barbered hair walks in. The same man from our assembly three days before.
“Thea, this is Dr. Kowalski.” Mom rises and gestures for me to stand as well. If he’s not a boss, she certainly holds him on some kind of pedestal. I reluctantly pull myself up and shake his hand.
“I’ll leave you two,” she says to him. “Thank you again for making time to see Thea today.” Her closed-mouth smile, the one that’s usually reserved for our ridiculously hot FedEx guy, is given in parting to Dr. Kowalski.
“It’s no problem, Vera. I’m glad to help you and your family.” He grins warmly at her while holding the door and then squeezes her shoulder as she exits.
I furrow my brow, wanting Mom to notice my perplexed reaction to this way-too-intimate exchange, but she doesn’t. Apparently, I have already been forgotten. I flop on the couch with a thud of frustration, pull out my phone, and take note of the time. One hour, Thea, you can do this. I’ve already buried my fingers into my hair in search of release.
“You are very fortunate to have parents who care for you so deeply.” Dr. Kowalski’s voice has changed from the authoritative presenter on Wednesday to a little too fatherly. He has positioned himself in the same armchair Mom just vacated. “Are you expecting an important message?”
“Excuse me?” I stop pulling through my curls and stare back at his attentive expression, not knowing what I should say.
“Your phone. Are you waiting for a reply?” His vowels sound like they are going to fall out of his mouth, just like Mom’s parents back in Poland.
“Um, not really.”
“Okay, great. Would you mind if we turned our phones off for the next hour then?” He takes his out and holds the power switch. I gawk at him. Don’t doctors consider their smartphones an extra appendage? “Can you do that?”
“If they need me, they know where to find me. This time is for you, so I would prefer if neither of us is competing for attention from the rest of our social and professional networks.”
“I guess.” I click my screen off and place it facedown on the arm of the chair.
He glances between me and the armrest. And waits.
I exhale loud enough for him to hear, power it off, and drop it into my purse. If I can survive entire school days without it, I guess I’ll be fine for the next hour.
He leans away to place his phone on his desk and pulls out a green file from the top drawer. I catch my name on the label. He opens it to reveal a surprisingly large stack of papers, covered in Mom’s distinctive flowing script. “Thea, your mom shared that over the past week you have appeared more tense and distant than usual.”
“Than usual?” Ugh. She must have told him about the breakfast incident. What else does this guy know about me? He probably has all kinds of embarrassing information, like how I still sleep with my stuffed gorilla and talk to my cat. Sweat begins to seep through my T-shirt, and I reflexively reach for my hair.
Through heavy-framed glasses, his gaze shifts up. I almost didn’t notice his subtle observation of my every move. I lower my hand to the base of my neck and pretend to massage out a tight muscle. He turns from my file and writes something down in a spiral-bound notebook. While his attention is diverted, I restrict access to my mass of curls with a quick bun and then confine my hands by squeezing them between my knees. He’s already figured out my nervous tell. Dang, he’s good.
I assume the book-balancing posture we practice in drama. “Is this going to w
ork if my mom can chime in about my life every time we meet?”
“I would think not.” He completes his scribbles with an enthusiastic-looking underline and then adjusts his glasses to focus back on me. “However, that will not happen. Going forward, what you say in here will be confidential. Your words will stay within these four walls unless you choose to share them with your family or your safety is at risk.”
“Good. And my safety is not at risk.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” He nods curtly. “Please be advised I am no more aware of your mother’s concerns than any other young person being seen for therapy.” He holds up the first pile of papers from the folder. “All parents of patients under eighteen years old complete a questionnaire. So, my knowledge of Vera’s concerns for you is completely separate from my work relationship with her.”
I scrunch my nose when he says Mom’s name. Is he on a first-name basis with all his patients’ mothers? He doesn’t seem to notice my reaction this time and continues.
“What I am interested in finding out today is whether you agree with your parents’ concerns.”
In an attempt to contain a more boisterous outburst, I snort in a most unattractive way. Ashley would be ashamed. “Unlikely.”
“Why do you say that?” He rests his elbow on his chair and crosses his ankle on his knee.
My palms become clammy between my legs, but I dare not release them. It’s like he’s giving me permission to go ahead and badmouth my family. He waits, fixes his glasses, and again stares back at me. Would Mom expect me to fudge the truth and preserve our family image? I don’t think so. She’s the one who wants this to happen. She must know some of our dirty laundry will get aired in these conversations. I crack my knuckles between the tension of my knees. I need to say something. She said this guy is the best, and I don’t have anyone else I trust enough to talk with about this stuff.
Despite feeling like vomit is on the verge of entering my throat, I begin to speak. “Well, they ask me questions sometimes, about how I’m feeling. But unless I give them a response that meshes with what is already in their heads, it’s like they think I’m lying. Frankly, I don’t think they even care about what’s important to me. Which would be a good first step to really understand how I feel.”