by Kat Spears
In the end I am suspended for three days without ever opening my mouth to defend myself. I wonder if Eric will end up suing Mom and me for his medical costs as well as pain and suffering. Though I am pretty sure you have to prove human suffering to get an award from a judge and jury and, as a non-human, Eric doesn’t qualify.
As Mom and I leave school she’s on the phone with Dr. Lineberger to schedule an emergency meeting. Dr. Lineberger agrees to see us and we drive straight to her office.
“Dane,” Mom says. “What is going on with you?”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask without looking away from the window.
“This is serious,” Mom says. “It’s a miracle you weren’t expelled right before graduation.”
“Oh, enough with the graduation,” I say, irritated now that she is interrupting my thoughts about Ophelia. “Who cares about graduating high school?”
* * *
This time Mom and Dr. Lineberger both sit in the chairs while I stand at the window looking out at the parking lot. There is nothing interesting to look at, but I don’t want to see their faces as they talk about me. I am too busy replaying my conversation with Ophelia over in my mind and wondering where she is now and if she’s thinking about me.
“Dane,” Dr. Lineberger says, “would you like to explain your side of things?”
“Eric is evil and he needed to be stopped. He thinks he can act any way he wants just because he’s rich and good-looking. I’m sick of it.”
“That’s no reason to attack him,” Mom says.
“I was protecting Ophelia. He took her to that party, tried to take advantage of her.”
“Well, that’s something for her father to worry about,” Mom says, the volume of her voice rising to fill the office. “You can’t just go attacking people because you’ve got a crush on some girl.”
“She’s not just some girl. She’s the love of my life.”
Mom laughs, just a short burst, like she can’t stop herself, but she immediately looks apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know you like her. This is what I’m talking about, though. You let your emotions control everything. You don’t think.”
“Oh, what do you know about it? All you care about is your new life with your new boyfriend and I’m just a major inconvenience for everyone.”
“That’s so unfair,” Mom says. “I have every right to be worried about you. You’re going out to parties and doing God only knows what, drinking and getting high. Now you’re fighting at school. At some point you have to become a functioning member of society. You’re eighteen. Not a kid. What am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” I say as I look out the window again, the only way to get any privacy with both of them staring at me.
Dr. Lineberger encourages Mom to go sit in the reception area so she and I can have a chance to talk privately. Once Mom is gone, Dr. Lineberger sits back in her chair and waits for me to talk.
I end up telling Dr. Lineberger the whole story about what caused my fight with Eric. I explain to her about Ophelia’s theory of romantic relationships. Dr. Lineberger is skeptical of the plan.
“So, you set the date to break up ahead of time?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “It’s pretty brilliant, if you think about it.”
“I’m not sure,” Dr. Lineberger says. “It’s kind of … lazy.”
“How so?”
“Well, it’s like saying that you can have a relationship, you just agree that you aren’t going to do anything to make it work. And that’s what relationships are. Work. Like your relationship with your mom. You have to keep talking, keep communicating, keep trying to see things from the other person’s perspective.”
“Your kind of relationship doesn’t sound very appealing.”
She smiles at that. “I’m afraid that’s the only kind of relationships there are. Everything else is just for movies. They’re make-believe.”
“I guess,” I say, noncommittal. “But it’s not as if a girl like Ophelia is going to want to be in a relationship with me long-term. I’ve got nothing to offer.”
“What things do you like about Ophelia?”
“She’s smart. And she’s funny, when she’s not making fun of me. And I don’t think she cares what anyone thinks of her. I mean, she started a coed a cappella group at our school. They’re called Unaccompanied Minors and she’s really into it. You couldn’t really come up with anything dorkier than that if you were actually trying to be dorky. But that doesn’t bother her. I don’t know. She’s just fierce.”
“That’s interesting,” Dr. Lineberger says, putting a finger to her lower lip. I imagine she usually does it with her pen, but since the time I told her to stop writing during our sessions she has left the notebook and pen untouched on her desk. “You didn’t even mention how she looks.”
“Oh, well, she’s beautiful. But with Ophelia it’s almost beside the point. I think I would love her no matter what.”
“I suppose that’s easy to say when someone is beautiful,” Dr. Lineberger says, and arches her eyebrows wryly.
“True.”
“And what do you think she likes about you?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
“Maybe you should ask her.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” I say.
“So, you love her, and you want her to be your girlfriend, but you can’t ask her a simple question like that?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you see why that could be a problem for a long-term relationship?”
“Of course,” I say with a nod. “That’s what I’m telling you. We’re intentionally planning to not have a long-term relationship. Why does that seem so crazy? Other people who get together and say, ‘This is it, we’re in this until the day we die’—now that’s crazy.”
“I suppose,” Dr. Lineberger says, though she’s noncommittal. “But is it terrible to want that?”
“I just don’t want Ophelia, or any girl, to feel like I expect too much out of her. I can’t ask someone to make that kind of commitment to me.”
“To you, in particular? You can’t ask anyone to make that commitment to you, but it would be okay for someone else to ask a girl for that kind of commitment?”
“I’m not speaking generally. I mean I can’t ask Ophelia for that kind of commitment. I have nothing to offer her. And her parents are both a disaster, in their own way. She’s had it rough.”
“You’ve had it rough, too.”
“Not really. I mean, I lost my dad. Yeah. That’s hard. But I’ve never been poor, never had to worry about where my next meal is coming from. Ophelia’s mom is crazy. Bipolar, I mean.”
“That is tough,” Dr. Lineberger says with an eager nod. “It’s hard for a child not to associate their parents’ shortcomings with their own behavior. Somehow make it their own fault.”
“I don’t do that,” I say with certainty. “I don’t think I caused any of my mom’s failings.”
“And what do you see as your mom’s failings?”
“She’s shallow. Disloyal. Selfish. You heard her. She said that if my dad hadn’t died they’d probably have gotten divorced. Him dying saved her a whole lot of trouble.”
“Do you really believe that?”
I think about her question. Really think about it. “Maybe” is the only answer I have.
“Did you ever think, Dane, that maybe the reason you have such a problem with your mom being with Chuck isn’t because she’s being disloyal to your dad, or to his memory, but that you see it as her being somehow disloyal to you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” And honestly, I really don’t.
“I mean, when you’re still growing emotionally and intellectually, and learning to be independent, it’s hard to think of your parents as their own people, with feelings of their own. And, I think, if you see your mom moving forward in her own life after the death of your father, and you hear her say things like your parents’ marriage was in trouble even before your fa
ther died, then that’s not just disloyal to your dad, it’s disloyal to you. Because half of you is your dad. And, maybe, by her taking up a relationship with Chuck, she’s rejecting not just her marriage to your dad, but also being your mother.”
“I do fear rejection. It’s true.”
“And it’s hard for you to articulate why anyone should love you. I ask you why you think this girl, Ophelia, likes you, and you can’t give me a single reason.”
That one stings, because it’s true, and I turn my head to the side and stare hard out the window as I feel the pinprick of hot tears behind my eyelids.
Dr. Lineberger seems to sense that I can’t talk at the moment, because if I do, I’ll start to cry. She gives me some time and space by talking, so I don’t have to. “It’s normal for your mom to want to have a companion. Just because Chuck is part of her life, that will never replace what you are to her. You’re her only child. She loves you. She only wants you to be happy. And as long as you remain unhappy, you are able to deny her any happiness for herself.”
“I never tried to make her unhappy,” I say, and my voice is tight with the tears I’m holding back.
“Maybe not intentionally,” Dr. Lineberger says, “but as long as you stay angry with her, as long as you aren’t willing to accept her relationship with Chuck, or her right to be her own person, you’re both going to be miserable. Her relationship with Chuck, it doesn’t take anything away from how she feels about you. Do you see that?”
I nod, because now I’m really crying and there’s no way to open my mouth without a big sob filling the space between us.
When it becomes obvious that I won’t, can’t, say anything else, Dr. Lineberger takes pity on me and cuts our session short. “Why don’t we stop for now, give you some time to think about this conversation. We can pick it up again next week.”
I nod again, still not trusting my ability to speak, and leave without saying goodbye.
* * *
On the drive home Mom asks if I’m hungry and if I want to stop at the Lebanese Taverna. We haven’t eaten at the Taverna since my dad died, but when he was alive we ate there whenever we went out for a meal as a family. I agree, thinking maybe it will be nice to spend some time in a place where Dad was so familiar, even if I have to be with Mom to be there.
The owner of the Lebanese Taverna is sitting at the bar in the small dining room reading the paper when we arrive. He recognizes Mom right away and comes to greet us and personally show us to a table near the window.
Mom and the owner spend a few minutes chatting, catching up, and he doesn’t ask why he hasn’t seen us in a while. He knows about Dad, catered his funeral, which is a pretty high compliment, I guess.
He doesn’t leave us with menus, instead insisting that he will serve us a sample of our favorites. Once he’s gone from the table Mom starts talking to me. Just idle chitchat, gossiping about friends and people in the neighborhood who don’t matter to me.
I’m not really listening to her, and I’m not even sure what she’s saying when I interrupt her to say, “Where are all of my toys from when I was little? The ones you made me pack away?”
“Wh-what?” Mom asks. My question is unexpected and I can see her trying to connect the dots.
“You made me pack away my old toys when I was a kid,” I remind her. “You said they were going into the attic to save until I had kids of my own.”
“Oh, Dane,” Mom says with a half-hearted smile. “You got so upset when I wanted to clean out your room. You always wanted to hold on to everything, but you never played with half of your toys. I said that so we could get rid of them without you getting so upset.”
“So, there are no toys in the attic? What did you do with them?”
“I—I think I dropped them at the Goodwill or something. I don’t really remember.”
“But you lied? You lied to me about what was going to happen to them?” I’m stating it like a question, forcing her to admit the truth.
“It’s not really lying. It’s the kind of thing a parent tells a child to protect their feelings. Like telling a kid that the family dog that has to be put to sleep is going to live on a farm in the country.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mom’s smile is wistful now. “When I was a kid, my family had this dog. He was a stray we had taken in. He was fine with everyone in the family but he could be really aggressive toward strangers. My parents thought it was too much of a risk to keep him, so they had the animal shelter come and take him away. I was really upset, so my mom told me that they were taking the dog to the country to live on a farm, where he could run free and be much happier.”
“What happened to the dog?” I ask.
Mom’s smile fades as she realizes that I am not prepared for the ending of this story. “Well, I don’t know for sure. Maybe he did find a good home. Or maybe he had to be put to sleep. The point is, my mom said what she needed to say to protect my feelings. I didn’t realize, probably until I was about your age, that the dog might not have gone to live on a farm.”
“That’s really sad,” I say.
“I suppose it is,” Mom says, and she actually does seem sad about the dog. For once she seems human to me, no longer heartless and cruel, just somebody, like everybody, trying to make sense of the world.
“Do you ever think about that?” I ask her. “Think maybe it would have been better if your parents had told you the truth? You could have been sad for the dog. But they took that away from you.”
“I mean—no, not really. I think my parents were just trying to protect me.”
“You think so?” I ask. “It sounds like they were protecting themselves. You know? Maybe they couldn’t deal with you being upset or hating them for what they did. They did what was easiest for them at the time.”
“I suppose you could think of it that way,” she says, sounding unsure again. “As a parent you just want your kid to be happy. When your kid is unhappy, then you’re unhappy. You do what you can to make your kid happy in the moment, to spare them. And I guess, to spare yourself.”
“Maybe that’s why Dad didn’t want me to know he was sick. You think?”
“Sure. Yeah, of course. He wanted to delay you being unhappy about anything. I guess he figured, if he got better, then he would have made you unhappy for no reason. We knew, we both knew, that you weren’t really happy at Brandywine. I guess that was a mistake, too. We were unhappy in our marriage and as long as you were away at Brandywine we wouldn’t have to see all of the fighting, the anger, making you unhappy all of the time.” She laughs a little but it’s the kind of laugh you make right when you are about to start crying. “You were unhappy but we didn’t have to look at it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I tell her, confident about it.
“Oh, Dane…” she says, and her eyes are full of tears.
“I’m serious. There’s nothing wrong with me. I needed to be sad and you wouldn’t let me. You aren’t mad at me for being sad. You’re mad at yourself for making me that way and you took it out on me.”
Her hands are clasped on the table, curled in a tight ball, as one fat tear escapes her cheek and falls onto the first joint of her thumb.
“You could be right about that,” she says after she’s taken a moment to pull herself together.
“I want you to know, Mom, that I’m not mad at you anymore. I’ve been mad at you and Chuck for months and it’s making me sick. So, whatever you need to do, just do it. I’m not going to be mad anymore.”
“I appreciate that, Dane, but I’d really like for us to get to a place where we feel like we are a family. I know it’s just the two of us now, really, because long-term I don’t know what Chuck and I are planning. I don’t really want to be married again. I was married for over twenty years and I’m not sure that I want that again. I like having Chuck as a partner, someone I can rely on, but I’m not sure what the future holds.”
“You don’t have to tell
me all of this,” I say, wishing she wouldn’t.
“I know, I don’t. Talking about it with Dr. Lineberger, I realize that maybe I was a bit insensitive to you and the way you have been feeling. It’s not like I’ve ever been through something like this before. I’ve just been dealing with it the best way I knew how. Dad’s illness was so hard on me—you have to remember, that whole time you were away at school, I was here. I was watching him decline every day, going through it by myself. I guess once he was gone, I was ready to feel something else. Something better. You didn’t have the same amount of time to adjust like I did.”
We’re both quiet as the server comes to the table with our food and asks if we need anything else. Mom says no and smiles and, as soon as the server is gone, picks up the conversation.
“It’s funny, you know, though you’ll probably get mad at me for saying this, but even though you remind me of your dad sometimes, in some ways you and Chuck are so alike. You’re both so sentimental and worry about everyone’s feelings. I mean,” she says, laughing suddenly through her tears, “I was just going to cancel your dad’s phone number after he died, but Chuck insisted we hold on to it. He was so worried that some old friend would try to get in touch with Craig and he wanted to be able to respond. He didn’t want people finding out about Craig being gone the hard way.”
I have been focused on my food, serving myself from the small platters that were delivered to the table, kind of lost in my own thoughts, but when Mom mentions Dad’s phone number I freeze, the spoon halfway between a platter and my plate.
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“About what?’
“Dad’s phone number.”
“Oh, just that Chuck wanted to hold on to Craig’s number so we didn’t lose touch with any of Dad’s old friends, people who he hadn’t spoken to in a while, who might not know that Craig was gone.”
“So, who has Dad’s phone now?” I ask, though I already know the answer, and it’s making my head spin and my vison blur.
Mom shrugs as she surveys the food and takes some for her own plate. “I guess Chuck keeps it at the office or something. I gave it to him to keep since he thought it was so important.”