The Tragedy of Dane Riley

by Kat Spears

  “Quiet,” Mom says. “She’ll hear you.”

  “I’m just saying, I don’t see why we have to go to a kid therapist,” I say. “I’m not a kid.”

  “You’re acting like a kid right now.”

  At the top of the stairs we are the only people in the waiting area because there is no receptionist. Mom instinctively checks her watch to confirm we are on time as we take a seat, then puts her phone on vibrate and drops it into her Kate Spade purse. Mom owns a lot of purses. Kate Spade, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior. Names that, at once, mean something, and nothing at all. It seems insane to me that anyone could need so many purses, but here we are, getting mental help for me, not her.

  The interior temperature of the therapist’s office, like all doctors’ offices, is a stable seventy degrees, which makes it cold in the winter, and hot in the summer, uncomfortable no matter the season—just like life.

  Mom settles in with a copy of Architectural Digest and crosses her legs, giving the impression she has been waiting patiently for a while.

  I sit with my hands on my knees and study the room. There’s a low table in one corner with a basket full of Highlights and coloring books, the kind that are supposed to be educational, the kind a kid would never choose on their own. There are dolls and toys spilling out of a trunk that is painted to look like a pirate’s treasure chest.

  One wall is lined with three plain white doors without names or numbers on them. It reminds me of a game show—we, the contestants, waiting to see which door will reveal a doctor. Mom and I have visited so many therapists over the years that, whichever door reveals one, I am not expecting any surprises.

  After a few minutes, about the time Mom starts fidgeting over whether we should knock on one of the doors (it’s a new car!), the center door opens and out walks a middle-aged lady with a smile that doesn’t reveal any teeth.

  She greets Mom first, who is, after all, paying the bill, and then invites us into her office. The doctor directs us to a couch and two chairs and lets us choose where we sit. Mom hesitates, as if it is some kind of test, then chooses the couch.

  We have a lot of experience with therapy and Mom is on her guard to carefully portray all signs of normalcy. I know that Mom has taken the seat on the couch assuming I will sit next to her. Then we will appear as a family should, with mother and son wanting, or at least willing, to sit together on the same piece of furniture. Instead of sitting next to Mom on the couch, I take one of the chairs. By choosing the chair and sitting apart from Mom, it gives our new therapist the impression we aren’t close, have intimacy issues. I’m probably qualified to be a therapist myself by now after so many sessions.

  Instead of taking the other chair, Dr. Lineberger sits on the couch near Mom. It’s an unexpected move and I don’t know how to interpret it. Despite the Botox, I can tell Mom is surprised, too.

  Now that she is sitting across from me, and she has done something unexpected, I take the time to study Dr. Lineberger more closely. She’s older than Mom, with highlighted blond hair that disguises her gray hair instead of covering it. She wears a neatly tailored suit that makes her figure ageless. Her face is unlined and serene.

  Most people will say that they don’t judge others based on their looks. And most people are liars. My dad was a good-looking guy and—not to sound like some kind of perv—my mom is really beautiful. People always used to comment on how striking my parents were as a couple. Most of the time people don’t believe Mom is in her late forties, and I’m used to hearing them tell her how young and beautiful she looks. Her response is always a small smile, just enough to show polite thanks, not enough to make it obvious that she agrees with her admirers.

  Inevitably, someone who was overwhelmed by my parents’ beauty would turn to include me in the conversation and find me lacking by almost every measurable marker. I was living, or at least breathing, evidence that the prom queen and the quarterback do not automatically win the gene-pool lottery when it comes to procreation.

  Mom once said to me that getting older is harder on good-looking people than it is on ugly people. Her theory is that because ugly people have always been ugly, getting older doesn’t bother them as much as it bothers beautiful people. All that really means is that my mom is kind of a narcissist, though never formally diagnosed.

  “So, Dane,” Dr. Lineberger says, as though there is nothing weird about her sitting on a relatively small couch with a stranger, “your mother tells me you’re a senior in high school. Are you looking forward to graduating?”

  “I suppose,” I say. The word “graduating,” taken literally, implies I am advancing to something else. But there is no else, so the end of high school isn’t really something I think about or look forward to.

  “He refuses to look at or apply to any colleges,” Mom says. She makes it sound as if I torture kittens for recreation rather than just being noncommittal about life beyond high school. “The therapist we saw this past winter adjusted Dane’s medication to a higher dosage, but it hasn’t made much difference.”

  “Dane has seen…” Dr. Lineberger pauses as she flips back through the file she has balanced on her knees. “… a lot of different therapists.”

  “Well, yes,” Mom says. She pauses, as if debating with herself whether to put the blame for that on me or her. Truth, or consequences. “We’ve had a difficult time finding a therapist who could really meet our needs. That’s why we’re here. We’ve heard you’re the best.” Mom punctuates this last statement with one of her cheerleader smiles. The smile that she uses on bank tellers and servers and store clerks when she’s bossing them around.

  The smile has no effect on Dr. Lineberger as she returns to my file. “I should say,” Dr. Lineberger says, “that I would normally be opposed to using medication for a minor patient who is going through a natural grieving process. In fact, I don’t see anything in Dane’s history that suggests he should be taking so much medication for anxiety and depression. Fifty milligrams of fluoxetine daily … that’s a very high dosage.”

  Though she hasn’t asked a question, Dr. Lineberger looks at Mom as if waiting for an answer. As a student, I know this is a tactic often used by teachers, and I always avoid volunteering information unless someone asks a direct question. But Mom, already on the defensive, dives in headfirst.

  “Dane has always been extremely sensitive,” Mom says. “When he first started going through puberty it was almost unbearable. We could never get him to join any clubs or teams.”

  “I think I can sympathize with that,” Dr. Lineberger says with a conspiratorial smile in my direction. “We’re not all joiners.”

  Mom goes on, itemizing my list of failures. “He moped around the house all through middle school and he barely came out of his room.”

  To be fair, once I discovered jerking off at age twelve, I wasn’t just moping in my room. But mothers don’t know anything about that, so I don’t have a defense.

  Dr. Lineberger takes a thoughtful breath and sits back in her seat then says, “And what about you, Dane? What are your thoughts? How often do you feel you really need medication for acute anxiety attacks?”

  “I…” I pause, because I don’t know the answer. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had an acute anxiety attack. But it sounds pretty bad.”

  “Do you ever experience shortness of breath? Racing heartbeat? Do you feel extreme terror or a sense of impending doom?”

  I laugh as she makes it all sound like something dramatic or special. “Sure,” I say as I turn to Mom for confirmation that all of these are just normal things, things everyone experiences.

  But Mom’s expression isn’t agreeing with me. Her eyes say again that I’m just confirming all of her low expectations.

  “Do you have things that you enjoy, Dane? Things that you look forward to?” Dr. Lineberger asks.

  “Are you asking me if I’m happy?” I ask, my voice rising with skepticism.

  “Sure,” Dr. Lineberger says with a facial shrug. “We can start the
re. Are you happy?”

  “Not since I found out my dad was sick, I guess.”

  Dr. Lineberger nods approvingly, like she’s glad I’m the one to bring it up. “I’m sure it was devastating to lose your father, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m sorry,” when acting together, are the two most useless words in the English language when someone is talking about death.

  Dr. Lineberger seems to sense that she has said something wrong so she quickly continues, “Obviously that’s a major issue, but talking through your grief can help.”

  “If you say so.” I drop my gaze as a rash of hot tears breaks out behind my eyelids.

  “What about school?” Dr. Lineberger asks. “Do you like school?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “No subject that interests you?”

  “I suppose history is okay. I mean, not the reading part, but the pictures—photographs and paintings and stuff.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Dr. Lineberger says. “What about girls? Do you have any romantic interests?”

  “Are you asking if I’m gay?” I pause to test the idea, but I’m pretty sure I would know by now if I was gay.

  “No,” Dr. Lineberger says, but she looks almost hopeful for a second, like within minutes she’s discovered the source of my anxiety, and has succeeded where other therapists have failed.

  “I like girls. I don’t have a girlfriend or anything. I was going to an all-boys school until last year.”

  “Yes, your mother mentioned that until the end of last year you were attending boarding school. What led to the decision for Dane to attend boarding school?” Dr. Lineberger asks, redirecting the conversation to Mom.

  Dr. Lineberger changes the script so suddenly that Mom stops—like a rabbit trying to blend in with her surroundings—and looks at both of us with the intensity of threatened prey.

  “Brandywine Academy is one of the best prep schools on the East Coast,” Mom says. “Dane really needed to be pushed, to have structure, and be in an environment where he was required to participate in organized activities.”

  Mom sounds like a brochure for Brandywine Academy, which is like a factory that takes privileged, mostly white kids and prepares them to be shipped to universities that accept privileged, mostly white kids.

  From my perspective, “organized activities” meant the ritualized torture I received in the name of school tradition. At Brandywine I spent most days being judged and abused by guys with names like Skip and Trip and Chip. Which are just made-up nicknames, by the way. They aren’t short for anything.

  “So, you came home last summer?” Dr. Lineberger asks. “Soon before your father died.”

  Mom takes a breath in, ready to breathe out one of her rehearsed answers, but Dr. Lineberger gives her a warning look to shut her down.

  “I came home at the end of the school year. My dad was already too sick to work then. He died two months later.”

  “That must have been difficult,” Dr. Lineberger says, a clear contender for the Understatement of the Year Award.

  “It was,” I say, my tone clearly implying, Of course it was, you moron.

  “Do you ever entertain thoughts of self-harm, Dane?” Dr. Lineberger asks as she shifts her pen into a ready position for noting my answer. “Or imagine doing harm to yourself?”

  “No,” I say, because that is definitely what you are supposed to say when a healthcare professional asks you that question. Just like you are supposed to say no when they ask if you smoke cigarettes, or drink more than a few alcoholic beverages per week.

  “He engages in self-destructive behavior,” Mom says quickly, as if eager to prove that I really do want to harm myself. “He drinks, and I can smell the fact that he’s using cigarettes and marijuana.” She wrinkles her nose, as if she is actually smelling them at that moment. I fight the urge to drop my nose into the neck of my shirt and take a deep whiff.

  “Well, let’s take this one step at a time,” Dr. Lineberger says. “It’s not a good idea to start making accusations and putting Dane in a defensive position.”

  As the interview wears on, it seems that although Mom and Dr. Lineberger are on the same couch, they aren’t on the same team. I think about getting up to move to the couch with Dr. Lineberger, relegating Mom to one of the armchairs. That would be funny, and I feel a smile crimping my face at the thought.

  “I know that the past year has been very hard on Dane,” Mom says, cutting in and preventing anyone from noticing my inappropriate grin.

  “Tschyeah,” I scoff. “A lot harder on me than on you, I guess.”

  “That’s not fair,” Mom snaps.

  “What do you mean, Dane?” Dr. Lineberger asks, unfazed by my outburst.

  “I mean,” I say, as I’m still deciding what I mean, “Within a month of my dad dying, his best friend was her boyfriend.”

  “Chuck is not my boyfriend,” Mom says. “Christ, I am way too old to have a boyfriend. He was Dad’s best friend. He’s been practically part of our family since before you were born. You make it sound like I went on Tinder and brought home a complete stranger.”

  “You being on Tinder would be a million times less creepy than you dating Dad’s best friend,” I say.

  “Oh, stop it, Dane,” Mom says. “What a ridiculous thing to say. What do you think I should do while you’re out partying with your friends? Sit at home and be totally alone? Even when you are home I can barely stand to be around you. You’re angry all the time. Angry at me. Angry about your dad dying. Angry at … everything.”

  Dr. Lineberger sucks in a breath, the only sound to break the silence that follows. “Dane, why don’t you try to articulate—put into words—your thoughts about your mother’s feelings.”

  “I know what ‘articulate’ means,” I say, now directing my annoyance at Dr. Lineberger. Instantly I hate myself for saying that because it makes me sound pathetic.

  “Okay,” Dr. Lineberger says, her voice soothing, a knowing look in her eyes. Perhaps you know what “articulate” means, the look says, but you can’t suppress your anger about being reminded what it means. Poor impulse control. Her pen scratches against the notebook but her expression doesn’t reveal anything. “Then why don’t you tell us what you think about your mother’s observations—about your anger with her, your father.”

  “I’m not angry with my dad,” I say. “He was sick. He didn’t want to leave me. He didn’t want to die.”

  “I don’t think you’re angry at your dad for dying,” Mom says. “I think you’re angry that it was him instead of me.”

  Talk about your awkward silences. I don’t immediately disagree with Mom, which makes it painfully obvious that it is at least partly true. It’s like when someone gives you one of those hypothetical moral dilemmas, designed to determine whether you are a sociopath: Your parents are both trapped in a burning building and you can only save one, who do you choose?

  The moral dilemma is always presented as a black-or-white kind of choice but, either way, your answer puts you outside the range of acceptable cultural norms. Maybe your mom is a surgeon, so you decide, Mom’s life has more value because by saving her, I’m saving more lives than just hers alone.

  If I’m being completely honest, it’s an impossible choice. My dad was a divorce lawyer who negotiated child support payments and property settlements. My mom is a socialite who focuses most of her energy on power yoga and her ever-expanding purse collection. The real moral dilemma is that the collective human consciousness hasn’t benefited from either one of them being alive.

  I’m not exempting myself from that. As far as the greater human good is concerned, my life is absolutely worthless. Less than worthless, if that’s even a thing.

  “I don’t wish you were dead,” I say. “I wish you weren’t sleeping with Dad’s best friend.”

  Mom looks like she wants to slap me but Dr. Lineberger cuts her off before she blows her top.

  “Do you feel,” Dr. Lineberger says,
her words coming so slowly that Mom and I both lean toward her as she speaks, as if we can accelerate the conversation by being closer to her words, “as if your mother has betrayed your father’s memory by entering into a new romantic relationship?”

  “Seriously?” I ask, and laugh. So far, I’m the only person who has laughed during our session. That can’t be good. “That’s what I just said.”

  “Dane!”

  “Mm.” Dr. Lineberger presses her lips together as she makes a note. Mom and I both wait for her to finish scribbling. After what seems like an eternity, she says, “Trudi, I don’t want to just gloss over how you are feeling. Do you really feel that Dane wishes you had died instead of your husband?”

  “He would never say it,” Mom says. Her hands are in her lap, one hand wrapped around her other fist as she fidgets her thumbs together. “But I know it’s how he feels.”

  “If that’s what you want to believe, then fine.” My voice is tight with anger but I’m not sure why I’m angry. Shit. I pause, trying to get my voice under control so I won’t make her right about my anger issues. I have to push down the hurt, tamp it into my lower gut to keep it from spilling out of me, onto the fan of magazines on the coffee table. Suddenly, I feel like maybe I understand Suzie Landers and her vomiting issues. Vomiting probably feels good when you spend so much time holding everything inside. “I wish nobody was dead,” I say. “Okay? How about that? I wish nobody was dead.”

  “Dane,” Mom says as she leans forward, her arms pressed together from elbow to wrist and her fingers interlaced. Her fingertips bloom red as her knuckles turn white from squeezing her hands together. “I’m sorry this past year has been so hard for you. I really am. But it’s been hard on me, too. Whether you believe it or not. Your dad’s illness sucked the life out of me. I spent all of my time meeting with doctors and managing his home care and worrying about money because Dad wasn’t able to work or manage the finances the way he always had. I’m grateful for Chuck and all that he’s done to help us. If my relationship with him bothers you, then I’m sorry, but he’s really been there for me when I needed someone.”