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  “So, Mira, how are you feeling today?”

  Dr. Walsh sits on an avocado green loveseat with her legs crossed at the knee. She’s wearing blue slacks and a nautical-style blouse. Perched on her lap is the familiar clipboard.

  “Better, I guess.” I take a seat on the matching sofa. My hands, still sheathed in the surgical gloves from Mama’s room, are tucked in my pockets. On the wall above Dr. Walsh’s head hangs a large canvas smothered in brown and yellow brush strokes. It looks like an overripe banana.

  “Were you able to sleep last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s your wrist?”

  “Fine.”

  We stare at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds before she speaks again. She leans forward and searches my eyes. “Are you ready to talk about what happened?”

  “Not really.”

  Trying unsuccessfully to mask her sigh, she leans back in her chair. “All right.” She offers me a nod, pressing her pen into the metal clip at the top of her clipboard. “It’s your nickel, she adds with a little laugh. “What I mean is, it’s your hour. I’d like to discuss why you ended up in the hospital, but that’s really up to you.”

  I gaze at the banana painting, the clock on the wall, the trophy on the bookshelf—all of it is unsettlingly familiar.

  “It’s for bowling,” says Dr. Walsh, proudly.

  “What?”

  She nods at the shelf. “The trophy. My team won first place last Saturday.”

  It’s a gaudy, cheap looking thing with a gold-toned bowling ball cradled by a pair of angel’s wings. The whole thing is mounted on a thick, dark green marble slab. Hideous.

  “Nice,” I tell her. This is going to be a very long hour. If I don’t say something soon, she just might tell me more about it, so I speak up. “You really want to know why I tried to kill myself?”

  Do I really want to do this? I mean, she is paid to listen to other people’s problems and all, but this is well beyond the normal stretch of the human imagination. Then again, what have I got to lose? I’m already here in a shrink’s office. How much worse could it get?

  “In the ER you mentioned your boyfriend,” says Dr. Walsh. “Why don’t you start by telling me about him?”

  How much worse? I could get locked away in some institution for the mentally insane. And this time they might not let me out.

  “It started a couple of months ago, around the first week of May,” I begin. “I had spent a week home in bed—sick. I’d been back for a few days, but was trying to stay away from everyone. Keeping to myself. Craig got mad. Accused me of avoiding him, and I guess in a way I was. He tried to kiss me, but I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t mean to embarrass him or make him angry. But he grabbed me, saying he was going to kiss me whether I wanted him to or not. And then he did.”

  My voice sounds so thin and weak. I try to keep the memories of that day—mine and his—pushed down deep, but they force themselves to the surface, elbowing for room in my already overcrowded brain.

  I continue.

  “When Craig kissed me, I saw him.”

  I look at Dr. Walsh hoping for some hint of comprehension. Instead her eyebrows press together, forming tight lines above the bridge of her nose. “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, I saw how he really feels about me,” I try my best to explain. “He never really loved me. It was—I don’t know—horrible? But that was just a sliver of everything, one moment out of millions. He wanted to dump me. I took some pills to save him the trouble. When that didn’t work, I tried something more drastic.”

  When I stop talking, Dr. Walsh just looks at me. Her eyes are narrowed and intense, like she’s studying something written on my face. After a few moments, she clears her throat.

  “Let me see if I understand what you’re telling me,” she begins slowly. “You didn’t want your boyfriend to kiss you, and that’s why you attempted suicide. Seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

  “It wasn’t just because of that,” I tell her, my frustration mounting. “It was how I knew…what I saw. You see, when people touch me—”

  I stop talking. This is all too crazy. If I can hardly believe it, how can I expect Dr. Walsh to? But what choice do I have?

  “When people touch me,” I start again, “I know things about them.”

  “You know things about them.” The sound of Dr. Walsh’s pen scratching across the clipboard tears at my brain. “Like what?”

  “Everything.”

  The scratching stops. “You know, Mira, unrealistic perceptions of one’s abilities can be a sign of a chemical imbalance in the brain, a symptom of one of several types of disorders.”

  “I don’t have a disorder.” The clipped words come out more harsh than I intended, but I need her to understand. “It started the week after my birthday—some vague impressions popped into my head when people touched me. I thought it was just some bizarre déjà vu thing, but it got stronger as the weeks passed. I saw—I knew what people were thinking and feeling, though it was kind of muddled…unclear. Then the memory thing hit just before summer break.”

  “Memory thing?”

  “Yeah. The first time it happened it freaked me out. I was in Trigonometry and my friend, Krista, leaned over my desk to tell me something. I didn’t hear a word she said because her lip brushed against my ear, and suddenly it was like her entire life got dumped into my brain, a million fragments of memory all jumbled up. Throwing snowballs at her brother when she was three; her dad calling her stupid because she couldn’t remember seven times nine; her first kiss. And what was especially weird was that they weren’t her memories. They were my memories, as if all of those experiences had happened to me. I left school that day, went home and curled up in my bed. I stayed there for a week before Mama finally coaxed me into coming out.

  “Then the thing with Craig happened. It’s impossible to explain, but it’s horrible. I do everything I can to stay away from other people, to avoid contact. I can’t stand it, Dr. Walsh. Sometimes I’d rather be dead.”

  Then, just like that, I’m done. I hadn’t realized how revved up I was getting. It is the first time I’ve actually articulated any of this to anyone. I mean, I tried to explain it to Mama, but how can you really put something like this into words?

  “I know you think I’m crazy,” I add quickly, shifting uneasily in my seat. “Dr. Jansen didn’t believe me either. You both think I’m nuts. But if I were, that would make things a lot simpler, wouldn’t it? All the Gaudium I’ve been given would have made this go away. But it hasn’t.”

  What have I done? I’ve just proven myself to be a certifiable loon.

  “I gotta go.” I jump up from the couch and make a beeline for the door.

  “You’re not crazy, Mira.”

  My hand pauses on the door knob. Her calm, sure words send a flitter of excitement through my body. I glance up at the banana painting and back to Dr. Walsh. She’s watching me intently.

  “You believe me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I believe you?” Picking up the clipboard, she flips over the first page. “I admit it all sounds a little…far-fetched. But from what your mother told me about you, you’re a model student. You’ve never been in any trouble, nor have you given your parents any cause for concern—until recently. Taking everything into consideration, and the fact that you knew about my mother’s perfume,” she adds, with a half grin, “I don’t see any reason why I should doubt you. Now, why don’t you come sit back down, and let’s talk about it.”

  To have someone, anyone, believe me is like having a stack of bricks lifted off my chest. For the rest of the hour I tell her as much about my life as I can. I tell her how I was adopted at birth because my parents couldn’t have any kids of their own, and how even though they’re great, being the daughter of someone famous sucks sometimes.

  I talk about Mama and all the plays we’ve been to, and our secret burger runs. I tell her about how Krista finally stopped texting me altogeth
er after days of my ignoring her, how quickly she managed to find a new best friend, and how much that hurt. And I tell her about Papa, how so far he’s the only person I can’t see when I touch him, but I wouldn’t want to anyway.

  When my hour is over, we schedule a follow-up appointment for next week. Leaving Dr. Walsh’s office I feel lighter somehow, actually relaxed. Maybe she can help me. Maybe there is hope for me after all.

  After closing the door to Dr. Walsh’s office I step into the waiting room, a claustrophobic space not much bigger than my walk-in closet at home. A half dozen brown faux leather chairs sit against the walls, with an oval glass coffee table in the center covered with old magazines. A massive fish tank overwhelms the far wall. In it, the entire cast of “Finding Nemo” swim around a forest of pink plastic coral. My mind is not on the fish, but on the fact that Jordan is probably outside, waiting impatiently for me.

  All of a sudden my right foot catches on something, and I tumble forward, my face careening toward the carpet. But my fall is cut short. I’m suspended midair above the floor by something pressing into my chest. I look down and see five fingers spread out across the front of my hoodie. Five slim, strong fingers. And then it hits me—some guy’s got his hand between my breasts!

  I roll away, and as my shoulder hits the floor I see a pair of orange and lime green checkered Vans at the end of a pair of denim clad legs—the culprits responsible for my unladylike entrance. I scramble awkwardly to my feet, preparing to give the owner of those Vans a piece of my mind.

  “I am so sorry about that,” he stammers.

  The guy is a little older than me, maybe eighteen, with a head of moppy brown curls—the same color as his eyes, which I admit are rather striking.

  “Are you all right, Mira?” he asks.

  “I’m fine. Fine,” I say, twisting away from him. Then I stop and turn back. “Do I know you?”

  Three other patients witness our awkward collision: an old man wearing a U.S. Navy baseball cap, and two middle-aged women, one with blue hair and one without any hair at all.

  “This is really embarrassing,” the guy who tripped me says, lowering his eyes to the floor.

  “For who?” I ask quietly to avoid even more unwanted attention. “I’m the one who got groped in public.”

  For a second, he raises his gaze and looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Then, realization hits, and every drop of blood in his veins races to his cheeks.

  His words come quick. “I am so, so sorry. I was trying to break your fall. I didn’t mean to—I really am sorry.”

  “You said that.”

  “But I am!” He clears his throat—loudly. “I’m David.”

  Pausing, he waits for me to respond. He does look a little familiar, but I can’t place him.

  “David Valdez?” he adds hopefully. “I used to go to your school. Graduated last year.”

  A vague memory coalesces in my mind. I think he was a senior, though I only saw him at a distance from time to time. As a tenth grader last year I was too involved in my own world to pay much attention to the ‘untouchables’.

  “Yeah. I remember you.” I smile back to be polite then glance at my watch, certain Jordan’s outside looking at his too. I just want out of here, but the guy, David, stands between me and my escape.

  “Anyway, I’m really sorry about tripping you,” he adds, as the color begins to fade from his skin. “I shouldn’t have been on the floor.”

  “What were you doing on the floor?”

  “Looking for Charlie.”

  “Who’s Charlie?”

  Lifting his hand to eye level, something gray and glossy looks up at me and blinks. I let out a shriek and leap backwards. My legs collide with the coffee table, and once again I lose my war with gravity. Toppling over, I land butt first on the floor.

  When I open my eyes, I see the huge gray lizard perched on the guy’s arm peering at me from between my legs, which are sticking straight up like two Florida palm trees. And that guy—THAT GUY—stands over me with his hand out, presumably trying to help me up. Only he’s got this indecisive look in eyes, like he’d rather I didn’t take him up on the offer. He probably thinks with my grasp of balance I could take him and his lizard out.

  The others in the room steal furtive glances as I somehow manage to untangle myself. Ignoring David’s hand, I get to my feet for the second time in the last two minutes.

  David starts to apologize, but I hold up my hand to stop him. “It’s good,” I tell him. “It’s all good.” Then, without another word, I throw open the office door, step out into the hall, and shut it firmly behind me.

  So far this day is not going well.

  “Blue or red?”

  In one hand, Mama holds up a blue satin floor-length dress, a sleeveless number with a simple bow at the shoulder. In the other hand, she holds up a burgundy crushed velvet dress, knee length, form hugging, and strapless.

  “How about purple flannel?” I flop down on my bed, bunching my favorite PJs under my head for a pillow. “I don’t want to go to some stupid fundraiser.”

  “I don’t know,” Mama says, tilting her towel-turbaned head to one side. “I kind of like the blue. It brings out your eyes.”

  “Red.” Papa passes by my bedroom door with a cursory glance. “Definitely the red.”

  “Papa!” I toss my pillow in his direction. “Dr. Walsh said I should be resting.”

  “Getting out of the house will be good for you,” Papa shouts from down the hall.

  I wait for the sound of the bathroom door closing before I speak to Mama in a quiet tone.

  “I’ve only been home for a couple of days, and Dr. Walsh did tell me to rest.”

  “Rest, not hibernate,” she corrects with that comical look of hers. “This evening is very important to your father. If you don’t come, it will just confirm the media rumors.”

  “What rumors? Oh, you mean the ones about me trying to kill myself?” I pull up my sleeve, revealing my still bandaged arm.

  Mama grimaces and turns away, closely examining the stitching on the dresses. It’s too painful for her, I realize. I’ve upset her. I push my sleeve back down to my wrist.

  I sigh, defeated. “Okay. I’ll go if you really want me to.”

  Mama smiles up at me, gratitude beaming from her face. “You can borrow my cocktail gloves.” She drapes the velvet dress over my arm and brushes the ends of my hair with her fingertips. “It’s just for a few hours, Mira. Just put it on. Make your father happy.”

  As she heads out of my room she pauses, as usual, in front of the photo collage hanging beside my bedroom door. It’s got more than a dozen pictures of me when I was little. Christmas, birthdays, any event big or small that Mama thought warranted a permanent record. Mama gazes at it wistfully, then wipes a smudge from the glass with her thumb and exits the room.

  Later, standing in front of my full-length mirror with hair straightener in hand, I wonder how Mama managed to talk me into going to this fundraiser. Out in public is the last place I want to be right now, especially in a velvet gown that leaves too much of my skin exposed.

  I pop a pair of diamond studs into my earlobes and reach for the matching choker. Mama’s white silk gloves are already on, making it difficult for me to get the clasp open. I hurry down the hall to ask Mama to help.

  “That will do nicely.” Papa nods, sending me a smile of appreciation when I enter the room. I do a model’s spin for him, and he turns to his mirror to adjust his tie.

  “The gloves are perfect,” Mama says with a grin. “And I’ve got a shawl to drape over your shoulders. That way if anyone should inadvertently bump into you—”

  Papa groans. “You’re not serious, are you?” His expression shifts from pleased to irritated in a fraction of a second.

  “Beto, you know how she feels about being touched.”

  “Yes, but it’s all a bunch of—”

  “Beto!”

  “Bull,” Papa concludes. “I thou
ght you’re seeing a psychiatrist. Hasn’t that cleared things up?”

  Mama shoots me an apologetic look; when Papa sees it, he fumes even more.

  “Mama,” I speak quickly, trying to divert the topic of conversation onto some other path. “Would you mind helping me with this choker?”

  She takes the diamond-studded chain in her hand and links it at the back of my neck. She’s so careful not to touch my skin, and I silently thank her for that.

  “I sure hope the new planner I hired gets everything right. It’s a good thing you called me when you did the other day,” Mama says, her voice cheerful. She’s in good humor tonight. “That florist at the convention center didn’t know squat.”

  “Uh-huh,” answers Papa, distracted with trying to straighten his bowtie in the mirror.

  “I wish I could have called that one office assistant you had years ago. Her parents were florists, if I remember right. She always had such lovely arrangements on her desk. What was her name? Jackie, wasn’t it?”

  “What? I don’t remember.”

  “You mean to tell me that you don’t remember your own office assistant?”

  “Why should I?” Papa huffs. “I had several during my years at Rawley.”

  “Jackie Beitner. That was her name, I think. You don’t remember Jackie? You hired her through the local temp agency. I know it was a long time ago, but even I remember Jackie. She was breathtaking.”

  There is a slight pause before Papa responds, “I may recall… Yes, the young blonde from Bakersfield? Parents were florists, huh?”

  Mama laughs. She steps over to Papa and fixes his tie. “Do you think there was any chance she might have been involved?”

  He leans back, a look of confusion settling on his face. “Involved?”

  “In the Gaudium trials.”

  “What? Why would you ask that?”

  “Mira, could you grab your father’s gold cufflinks from the dresser there?” Mama says to me, sending me across the room.