by Jeff Zentner
“When Mom and Dad get home from work, you’re explaining all this to them. You are aware of this, right?”
I nod. “Thanks, Georgia.”
“I’m taking you to your appointment. I want to say hi to Dr. Mendez.”
“Okay.”
She drives off and I trudge up the path to my house. Inside, it’s tomblike. I hate the stillness of home-alone-when-you’re-not-supposed-to-be. Everything sounds way too loud. The refrigerator clicking on and off. Clocks ticking. The clink of glasses as you remove them from the cupboard. Heartbeats. The rush of blood in your ears.
And that’s under normal circumstances. Now, silences feel like absences. Absences feel like loss. Loss feels like grief. Grief triggers guilt. Guilt is a scarlet anguish.
I sit in my room, listening to the house creak and pop, when the overwhelming urge to not be so alone sets in.
I have a text to Jesmyn halfway composed when I remember: You have very bad luck when you text people at inopportune occasions. It does not turn out well for the people you are texting. And so instead I lie on my bed with a bag of frozen peas over my eyebrow and stare at the ceiling for a while. That turns out to be less fun than you might imagine.
I sit at my desk and wake up my laptop. Maybe I can at least be productive on my college admission essay. Maybe that will assuage my guilt over sitting at home on the first day of school. I lean forward in my chair and start typing.
Ever since I was young, I wanted to be a writer.
Okay. Not particularly original or interesting. But a start.
The possibility of creating new worlds and people fascinated me.
This blows.
Just as this essay is probably fascinating you already. Hey, another kid who wants to go to college and has been fascinated by [insert interest that would sound attractive to college admissions board] since he [insert age or formative experience engaging in said interest that suggests that the interest is genuine and not a contrivance to impress a college admissions board]. But guess where my love of writing took me. One day I wrote a text message that killed my three best friends. Now do I have your attention? Sure, I’ve written a few stories here and there, but my masterwork was a two-sentence-long text message that ended three stories. I’m the only writer in the world who makes stories disappear by writing. And who wouldn’t want to have such a unique and beautiful creature at their institution of higher learning, eh? So let me into your college and I promise to try not to kill anybody else with my writing. That’s assuming, of course, that I’m not in prison by this time next year.
It’s probably not the best idea, while you’re feeling lower than hammered dog turds, to try to write the essay that’s supposed to sell you to a college.
I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to rest. I’m restless, but I’m too tired to do anything about it. I want to forfeit these hours of my life and make this day be over.
I’m lying on my bed, reading, when my phone buzzes. That’s a much rarer occurrence now than it used to be. I jump up, making black spots appear in my field of vision, and grab my phone. It’s Jesmyn.
How are you?
Super embarrassed. Sorry.
No need to apologize.
I glance at the clock. Lunch should be about ending. I hope you didn’t have to sit alone at lunch.
No, Alex Bishop invited me to sit with him and his friends.
My innards clench. Of course. Alex Bishop. If you had asked me to imagine a worst-case scenario for the first day of school, it would have gone in roughly this order: (1) I have a panic attack in front of everyone, including Adair, and make a jackass of myself; thus leaving (2) Alex Bishop to try to worm his way in with Jesmyn on her first day there. Alex is a dancer who’s cut a fair swath through the female student body at Nashville Arts, including Adair, as it happens. I am not an Alex fan. Eli hated him. He would have loathed the idea of Jesmyn sitting down at a cafeteria table with Alex. I hate it on Eli’s behalf.
Be careful of Alex.
Haha, he seemed nice.
“Seemed” = operative word.
Well you ditched out on me.
Not by choice.
I know. JK.
BTW, I left my blazer in your truck.
No prob, I can swing it by tonight after practicing.
You wanna hang out for a while when you do?
Sure. Sweat Crew represent.
For a fleeting moment, this exchange makes me feel normal again. As if I lead a rich life full of friendship and possibility. The feeling quickly dissipates and my mind returns to thoughts of prison and Judge Edwards, panic attacks and Adair.
I wonder if my life’s center of gravity will ever shift back to where tiny moments of forgetting aren’t lavish gifts.
I’m not crazy about the idea of telling my parents, but I do. They’re going to find out eventually now that doctors are in the mix. They seem relieved that Georgia finally prevailed upon me to seek professional help. My mom isn’t even mad that Georgia impersonated her to make the appointment. “Dr. Mendez was wonderful for Georgia,” she says. I have all the parents-telling behind me when the doorbell finally rings. I run to answer.
Jesmyn half smiles when she sees me. “Hey.” Then her eyes stray to the lump on my head and her smile fades. “Oh, dude,” she murmurs.
My fingers go to it. “I kept most of the swelling down by icing it. Come in.”
“Oh, here’s your blazer.”
“Thanks.”
I lead her back and peek into the kitchen, where my parents are cooking dinner and listening to NPR. “Hey, Mom and Dad, this is my friend Jesmyn. She just moved to Nashville and we go to school together. We met through Eli.” That last part sounds strange to say out loud. Hey, Jesmyn, meet Carver. Carver, Jesmyn. Okay, I’m just going to die and let you two hang out.
My mom wipes her hands on a dishrag and shakes Jesmyn’s hand. “Hi, Jesmyn. Welcome to Nashville. Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“Oh, thanks, but my parents are planning on me.”
“All right.”
My dad waves from where he’s chopping carrots. “Hi, Jesmyn.”
She waves. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
I wish Georgia were here to meet Jesmyn. After the day I’ve had, I could use some cool-older-sister cred.
We return to the living room. “Want to go for a quick walk? I’m in the mood for walking and talking,” I say.
“Sure. I gotta be home soon, though.”
“Don’t mind getting all sweaty?”
“We’re not the Sweat Crew for nothing.”
We do start sweating the moment we hit the muggy early-dusk heat. By halfway down the block, my shirt is plastered to my torso. The hazy air is fragrant with grilling hamburgers and cut grass.
“Your dad has a cool accent,” Jesmyn says.
“Apparently it was way thicker when he and my mom met. It’s faded over time.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah. It used to kind of embarrass me when I was little.”
Jesmyn looks aghast. “What? That’s like the sexiest accent.”
“Aggggh! Every girl!”
“Just being honest.”
“Just grossing me out.” I wipe away a drip of sweat before it can get in my eye.
“You wish you were as cool as your dad.”
“I wish I had his accent, for sure. So, not that I wouldn’t love to talk all day about how sexy my dad is, but how was practicing?”
Her eyes brighten. “Awesome. The school has a Steinway concert grand. It sounded unreal. I mean, the action on that piano is, like, orgasmic. How do I settle for my piano at home now?”
Hey, I understand what that’s like—to go from an awesome situation to a far less awesome one. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “That piano’s action is the best. They say playing it is like dipping your fingers in warm butter.”
“Smartass. That is what it’s like. Speaking of playing, how was playing hooky?”
“It blew. Georgia was
basically like ‘I told you so,’ and I tried to work on my college admission essay instead of sitting around, but I froze up. What did you think of NAA?”
“It was cool but scary. At my old school, I was definitely the best musician. Here, I’m a lot more average. I was listening to some of the others play and they’re amazing. But I guess it’s good practice for if I get into Juilliard. Everybody was supernice, at least.”
“Yeah, how was lunch with Alex Bishop? Did he share his, like, wolf-semen shake or whatever he eats for lunch?” I try to sound light and nonirritated.
Jesmyn gives a little squeal of disgust, giggles, and covers her mouth. “That’s nasty.”
I seize my opening, doing an infomercial-guy voice. “Wolfseed. The only energy shake containing real, one-hundred-percent wolf sperm harvested from organic, free-range wolves. Guaranteed to endow you with vim and vigor so you can dance all day and night. Order now and receive a container of our shark-penis protein powder…absolutely free.”
She giggles harder and tries to cover my mouth with her hands. “Stop. You’re going to make me barf.”
I notice how crooked her fingers are; how they would only look right curled on piano keys. They’re beautiful.
“But seriously,” I say.
“Alex was nice, but he has a shirtless picture of himself as his phone’s home screen. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
“Eli hated Alex.”
Jesmyn’s smile dissolves. “Why?”
“Because Adair dated him and he dumped her about a week after she lost her virginity to him.”
“Ouch.”
“Everyone called them ‘the ABs.’ Alex Bishop; Adair Bauer. And also because they both have insane dancer abs. They were an NAA celebrity couple briefly.”
“That would explain why Adair kept looking at me like she wanted to sever my jugular with toenail clippers. I thought it was because you and I had been hanging out.”
“I’m sure that too. You did not earn any points with Adair today.”
“Because I had so many to begin with. She’s always been weird to me. Like I was sucking up too much of Eli’s life or something.”
“She and I were never best friends or anything, but we used to be friends.”
Our conversation sputters out as we walk the last few hundred yards to the gates of Percy Warner Park. So we stroll quietly under the thickening forest canopy covering the road, the leaves filtering the sunlight to a pale emerald.
Jesmyn starts to say something but stops herself. I look over at her. She’s staring straight ahead. Finally: “Today, when I was practicing, I started crying. Randomly. Like I wasn’t remembering Eli at that moment or anything. It’s just—like what I was playing unlocked another door in me and stuff came rushing out. Grief is weird. It seems to come in these waves out of nowhere. One minute I’m standing in the ocean, fine. The next minute I’m drowning.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“I noticed.”
I blush. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“If you didn’t feel their loss, what kind of person would you be?”
“The kind who has a shirtless picture of himself as his phone’s home screen and drinks wolfseed?”
“Exactly.” And then under her breath: “You are determined to make me yak.”
What I’m determined to do is keep making her laugh, because her laughing makes me forget for at least a moment.
I stop and turn to her. “I like talking to you.”
“Same,” she says, facing me.
“I’m going to miss some of tomorrow too because I’m going to this therapist my sister used to see. Apparently he’s good.”
“Smart idea,” she says.
“Do I seem that crazy?”
“No more than I do for randomly crying while practicing. But you seem like you’re hurting.”
“I am.”
“We both are.”
We walk to a nearby fallen log and sit down.
“I want to hear you play the piano,” I say.
“Okay. As long as you let me read some of your writing.”
“If I’m ever able to write anything again.”
“You will. But I’ll accept old stuff until then.”
“Okay. When we get back, I’ll give you something.”
We watch some deer appear from the woods and begin to nuzzle around the margins of the meadow, cautiously approaching the middle to feed and sniffing the air.
“You’re the best thing in my life right now,” I say softly, so as not to scare the deer. “I’m glad we’re friends.”
Jesmyn shifts position on the log, making herself comfortable and—maybe it’s my imagination—sitting closer to me in the process. “Me too.”
The waiting room to Dr. Mendez’s office is filled with sleek, modern furniture that still seems somehow organic and welcoming. Copies of the Atlantic, the New Yorker, and the Economist sit on the tables between chairs. Everything is in comforting hues of brown and gray. Nothing looks thoughtless or haphazard.
Georgia sits beside me, texting.
A door opens and out walks a slim man who looks to be in his midforties, wearing a well-tailored beige linen suit with no tie. His tidy beard is gray and his hair is graying at the temples. He’s wearing rectangular tortoiseshell glasses.
He glows when he spots Georgia. “There’s a familiar face!”
Georgia leaps from her chair. “Can I give you a hug since I’m not your patient anymore?”
Dr. Mendez gestures broadly. “Come here!” After they break the hug, he assesses her. “You look healthy and happy.” He has the faintest hint of an accent.
“I am both of those things. How are Steven and your kids?”
“Well, Aurelia is starting her first year at Harding Academy and Ruben starts at Stanford in a few days. And as for Steven…” Dr. Mendez holds up his left hand to show Georgia a silver ring.
She squeals and claps her hands to her mouth. “Get out. Congratulations! When?”
He beams. “June, in Sonoma, near where Steven grew up. Georgia, it was beautiful. Even my very Catholic madrecita was there, and I caught her shedding a tear.”
“I could not be happier for you two.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you.” His eyes fall on me. “Now, who have you brought me?”
“This is my brother, Carver.”
Dr. Mendez extends a hand. “Carver, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” His handshake is firm, warm, and generous.
“Good to meet you, Dr. Mendez.”
He gestures into his room. “Shall we? Without further ado?”
I walk in. Behind me, Dr. Mendez says to Georgia, “Are you staying? If so, we won’t bother with goodbyes yet.”
Georgia says she’s waiting until we’re done.
I look around. More sleek, modern furniture, mixed with antiques. On the walls are framed vintage maps and old botanical prints. It smells like spice and wood—warm, brown, and clean. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books. Diagnostic manuals and other tools of the trade, of course, but also books of photography and painting, fiction and poetry. Leather-bound classics. Books in Spanish and English. I’m impressed.
Dr. Mendez shuts the door and gestures toward two identical brown leather armchairs facing each other, a coffee table with a pitcher of water, glasses, and a box of tissues between the two chairs. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“I thought I was supposed to lie down on a couch.” I’m only sort of joking.
Dr. Mendez laughs. It’s a kind, warm laugh. “That’s only in the movies. Unless you really want to, and then maybe we can rig up a hammock or something.”
I make my way to a chair and sit. “No, it’s cool. Sitting upright is fun too. I enjoy sitting upright.” I talk too much when I’m apprehensive.
I balance on the edge of the chair, like I’m watching a scary movie, and try to keep my legs from bouncing. I fold my arms and then unfold them. Dr. Mendez’s hands are empty. “
Don’t you take notes?”
Dr. Mendez sits, relaxed, facing me. “I do after the session. I find that if I try to while people are talking, I don’t listen as well. Will it worry you if I don’t take notes during the session?”
“No.”
“Your sister obviously loves you very much.”
“Yeah. She’s always kinda looked out for me.”
“How so?”
“I got a lot of crap in middle school, I guess. I was way into books, which isn’t a recipe for middle school popularity. Anyway, Georgia would stick up for me.”
“I noticed you looking at my books.”
I blush. “Busted.”
He grins and waves off my concern. “Not at all. They’re there in the open for all to see. But most people don’t seem to pay them much attention. You did. You’re a big reader?”
“And writer.”
“Is that so? That’s fantastic. I have a very boring novel I’ve been working on for, oh, twenty years. At this point, I enjoy the idea of writing a novel more than I actually enjoy the writing part. What do you write?”
“Short stories. Poems. I have some ideas for novels, but I haven’t started anything.”
“I hope I haven’t dissuaded you by talking about my own struggles with finishing what I’ve started.”
“No.”
“Good. So. Let me introduce myself. My name is Raúl Mendez. I was born in Juarez, Mexico, and moved to El Paso when I was quite young. I grew up in Texas, did my undergrad at the University of Texas at Austin, before I came to Vanderbilt for graduate school and medical school. I’ve been here ever since. Now, have you ever been to a therapist before or did Georgia tell you how it works here?”
“No, not really. I mean, I guess we talk? I tell you about my mother? Find penises in Rorschach tests?” I wouldn’t normally make such a joke around an adult I had just met. But he puts me at ease and plus I don’t want to talk about heavy, serious stuff for as long as possible.
He laughs. He wags his finger and leans forward in his chair, adjusting his glasses. “Close. You talk; I listen. Sometimes I offer an insight about something you’ve said or ask you to elaborate on something. But I’m doing my job best when you’re talking and I’m listening. I’m not here to give you answers to your problems. I’m here to let you discover answers on your own. So it may be frustrating sometimes that I don’t come out and tell you what I think you should do, but I assure you that it’s part of the process. Okay?”