Joy’s tall. She has short red hair and glasses and this very intense gaze. She can look right into my eyes, and I start spilling everything like a total goober. I can’t help it, I really can’t. It’s almost like she hypnotizes me. And I guess that’s what you want in a therapist, someone you can really spill your guts to, let it all hang out there. But she seems to care about what I have to say and doesn’t judge me. For instance, I could tell her, “You know, I killed a few people and buried their bodies in the backyard,” and she’d just look at me and say, “But how do you feel about that?”
I told her about feeling like I have no control over anything. These major things have been happening in my life, and there’s nothing I can do about it, so it makes me feel like: “Why bother? What’s the difference? Crappy stuff is just going to keep happening anyway, so what difference does it make if I care or get happy or excited about things?” I just feel flat and numb. I feel like that line on those hospital machines when someone dies and it just goes “beeeeeeeeeeeeep.”
Joy looked at me with those intense, green eyes of hers and gave a little speech about control.
“Stacy, it’s true, there are many things in life over which we have absolutely no control. We can’t control the weather; we can’t control freak things that happen every day. You had no control over whether your father lived or died. That’s true. And you had no control over Becca’s mental illness or what happened to Bobby.”
I sat there, nodding.
“Okay? So what we need to focus on are the things you do have control over, like the choices you make in life. Everything in life is about choices and that little voice in the back of your head that tells you what the right choice is, the little alarm bells that go off when you’re in a bad situation. Everything in life is about the choices you make.”
She was right. I kept nodding and listening to her steady, calm voice.
“Listen,” she said, “people disappoint. Teachers disappoint, family disappoints, friends. Even spouses. Maybe especially spouses. You have to depend on yourself. Your happiness comes from within, Stacy, and you have to make the choice to be happy. You can’t count on other people for that.”
“Dude, that sucks!”
She laughed. I laughed. I meant it to be funny. I mean, everything we were talking about was so heavy, I couldn’t help myself.
“You’re going to be just fine,” she said, gazing deep into my eyes with her intense laser beams.
The two of us talked about everything—my life plans (which really just consist of me getting through my first year of high school), and my social life (what little there is of one), and I told her how I’ve pretty much blown off my friends, and how I’ve been sleepwalking through life for the past few days.
“Stacy, you need to have some fun. Go out with your friends. Have a sleepover. Just do something to remind yourself that life is good. Remember that you’re fifteen years old. And I’ll see you next week. Okay?”
Yeah, I have to remember that life is good, because if I don’t, then I might as well check myself into Brookside and sit in a corner crocheting those heinous afghan blankets and scarves that’ll end up in the back of someone’s closet.
When the session was over, I found Mom in the waiting room reading a magazine. She looked over at me with a smile. A hopeful smile, like she was hoping I’d be all right, like I was before. I gave her a little smile back and tried not to notice how she looked like she hadn’t slept for a week. She had dark circles under her eyes, and I know it was because she was thinking that her youngest was on the verge of raiding the medicine cabinets at home (which don’t have anything in them since she already cleaned them out when Becca started going sideways).
“Wanna stop and get a pizza on the way home?” she asked.
I didn’t want to disappoint her again, so I made an effort.
“Sure, Mom. Sounds great.” And I put my arm around her for a second, and we got a pepperoni for her and Jill and me, and a small veggie for Becca and Roman.
January 3 -
Frozen Yogurt
On A Cold Day
When Rose called and asked if I wanted to go to the mall with her and Bethany, I thought about what Joy told me about getting out with my friends and remembering that life is still good, so instead of telling her no, which was my first impulse, I did the opposite: I said yes.
I didn’t tell them about Bobby, because that just felt weird. But it also felt weird not telling them. It’s this secret I have from everyone, except for my family and Joy and Roman and Sylvia. Okay, so a few people knew, but none of my friends, and it felt like I was holding back. And I guess I was.
Even though it was freezing outside, I sat with Bethany and Rose in the mall, eating frozen yogurt, trying not to seem all sad and depressed, even though there was no New York cheesecake flavor. Rose, sitting there in her great new black trench coat, was giving me this look.
“Stacy? I just asked you, what kind of boots should I get, short or long?”
“Um, short? Long ones are tight on the calf sometimes.” I said, distracted.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked. “You’ve been staring at your frozen yogurt for five minutes.”
“I really wanted cheesecake.”
The two of them were animated, chatty, planning how to spend what was left of their Christmas/Hanukkah cash while I was in a funk over yogurt.
She looked at me very seriously and asked, “You’re not still upset over Anthony, are you?”
“Ugh, why did you mention his name? I actually wasn’t thinking about him at all, but thanks for reminding me.”
Bethany shot Rose a dirty look.
It was funny, these two thinking I was still hung up on Anthony when he was, like, a lifetime ago. Way less important to me than my cup of frozen yogurt.
“It’s just I really wanted cheesecake, and this strawberry tastes like blueberry.”
Rose stared at me like I was a three year old, speaking slowly, “So…why…don’t you…change it?”
“Nah, I don’t want to make a big thing out of it.”
She grabbed my cup, and I watched as she took care of me, talking to the guy behind the counter, “My friend’s strawberry tastes like blueberry.”
He didn’t seem to care and shoved another cup over to her. “Go ahead and get another flavor.”
Rose brought me back a cup of coconut that tasted like pineapple. Either the machines were on drugs or my taste buds had all gone wrong.
“How is it?” she asked, looking all expectant.
“Perfect,” I lied. She was happy. She’d fixed me now.
“So how’s Becca?” Bethany asked, I think really trying to change the subject from the former horrible one. She looked at me with her wide, hopeful eyes, and she looked so pretty with her new hair. She’d gone copper from brown, but it wasn’t fake-looking, it was just right. Very professional. And she had it cut in a short bob-style with bangs. It suited her face, which is kind of round.
“Oh, she’s great. Everything’s good at home. She’s still Becca, but just not so much. Don’t worry about me, you guys. We should talk about important things, like, for instance, what’s going on with Darrell?”
Bethany rolled her eyes, and Rose was gone, looking starry-eyed. It was sweet.
“I seriously think I’m in love. He called me last night and asked if I want to go to his next meet!”
“Wow. Then it must be serious. Next he’ll be taking you home to meet his parents.”
She gave me a dirty look.
“I’m just kidding, Rose. You know me. Now, let’s go get some boots. Shall we?”
We finished our frozen yogurts. I ate the rest of my pineapple-which-was-supposed-to-be-coconut-but-was-really-not-too-bad and went back into the mall to look for boots. Or rather Rose looked for boots; Bethany looked for a new softball glove; I looked for a way to let go of the ache I’ve been feeling inside for so long.
January 5 -
Petty Criminals
Casually, I mentioned to the girls, “Look, Anthony’s car. I could just reach over and break off his windshield wipers.”
I wasn’t actually planning to, but you know how sometimes you just fantasize a little out loud?
Rose, the devil next to me: “Do it. Come on, Stacy!”
(It’s a little embarrassing how quickly I cave to peer pressure.)
Rose and Bethany covered me, looking around for witnesses. The coast was clear. But first I made a little speech, because Queen Stacy had returned and would not be silenced.
“This is for the girls you’ve thrown away like trash, Anthony.”
“Hurry up, Stacy!” Rose was beside herself.
“All right, all right.”
My adrenaline was pumping as I reached over—I felt my hands shake a little—and grabbed each end of the wiper blade. I bent it down as hard as I could. It was ridiculously easy.
Rose ran around to the passenger side, giggling like crazy, while Bethany and I stood lookout.
She bent it in about two seconds. My accomplice, Rose.
We walked away quickly, giggling at the floppy wiper blades, all weak and powerless. And we went through all the stages of a person who has just committed a crime:
Stage 1: Giddy excitement. Adrenaline rush.
Me: Wide eyes, breathless. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
Bethany: Giggling. “Me either.”
Rose: All powerful. “That was great. We are awesome!”
Stage 2: Reality. Worry.
Me: Eyes moving from side to side. “God, I hope we don’t get caught.”
Rose: Looking behind her. “Me too.”
Bethany: Looking at the two of us. “Why did you two do that?”
Stage 3: Regret.
Me: Eyes looking down. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that.”
Rose: Eyes looking down. “Yeah, maybe not.”
Bethany: Looking at the two of us. “I don’t know who you people are anymore.”
The bell rang, and we skulked to our classes in the guilty way that people skulk.
On the way home from school, I sat in the backseat of Roman’s car while he and Becca had a conversation up front, and I thought about what I did, kicking it around in my head, kicking myself. That wasn’t me. I’m not a defacer. I’ve never vandalized anything in my life.
Then again, I’m not sorry.
January 6 –
That Familiar Ache
At my session with Joy, I conveniently forgot to tell her about my crime. Not that she’d judge me (she’d probably say I have unresolved anger issues), but I just didn’t feel like talking about it.
While discussing the men in my life, she surprised me with this question, “Stacy, has it occurred to you—do you think you’re trying to find a replacement for your dad?”
She was looking at me with her laser beam eyes, boring a hole in my soul.
“No. No, I don’t.”
I mean, what a thing to say. Like I could replace my dad with some guy? (And why in psychology does everything come back to the parents?)
“I don’t think I’m trying to replace him, but I admit, I do look at older men sometimes and see my dad. Just for a second. I’m not planning to run up to one of them any time soon and ask them to adopt me though.”
I wasn’t trying to make her laugh, but I did.
“That’s not what I meant, Stacy. I get the feeling you’re a little preoccupied with boys—”
I had to cut her off there.
“Joy, I hate to tell you. I’ve been preoccupied with boys since I was in Huggies.”
Joy laughed again.
“Well, then, Stacy, how about we work on your choices in men.”
Yeah, she’s funny. Considering my track record, one snake and one mentally ill but ridiculously perfect person, Joy may have had a point, so I told her so.
“Joy, you might have something there. I will try not to be such a ridiculous goober.”
She laughed again. I’m very funny. Then she started talking about celebrity gossip—who just got arrested, and who was caught not wearing anything under their micro minidress (Doesn’t anybody wear underwear anymore?). I guess she figures that I’m a teenager, and aren’t we all obsessed with celebrity gossip? Maybe she thought it was something we could relate to together. But she was way more interested in it than I was.
After our session, when I got home, I opened up the package from Bobby that had been sitting gathering dust on the kitchen table, papers piling up on top of it.
It was a CD inside a purple jewel case with the words “Stacy’s Mix” written across the front in a black Sharpie. Also in the package was a note with these words:
To my girl Stacy. Some classics for you. Play them loud. Love, Bobby.
I fought for a second to keep control. Deep breath. I slipped it into the player. Okay, here goes.
The first track was his acoustic version of “The Wind Cries Mary” by Jimi Hendrix. (Of course it was Jimi Hendrix.) It was beautiful, his voice haunting and smooth, quiet and strong. I sat on my bed with my arms wrapped around my legs, and I rocked back and forth. He was in the room with me now. I could almost feel him there next to me. In my head, he kissed me. It was the same daydream that had been running over and over through my head. I snapped out of it, though, and just listened—I listened for clues to anything about him— trying to get inside his head, trying to figure out what happened. I listened to how his fingers moved over the guitar strings.
How cruel is it to learn about somebody after they’re gone? What good is it?
The next track was “All Apologies” by Nirvana. Bobby’s voice had a little growl, an edge to it now, more raw, and I wondered if he really felt like he had so much to apologize to everyone for. But I’ll never know.
He’s talented, or was. A great guitar player, great voice. So much potential, gone. I sat on my bed and listened to the rest of the CD, wiping the tears when they came, then put it back in its case and hid it in the bottom drawer of my dresser, all the way in the back. I didn’t want to throw it away, but I didn’t want to listen to it again. At least not for a while.
January 7 -
Meeting The Dog
Named Jimi Hendrix
I started having the craziest thought—couldn’t get it out of my head—especially going through the whole therapy process with Joy, and especially after listening to Bobby’s CD. All of it made me think about not just my life but about life in general. About people coming into your life and about goodbyes.
In all of my thinking and talking about Bobby, listening to him play his guitar and sing, one thing stayed stuck in my head, and I couldn’t get it out—his dog Jimi. I really want to meet this dog. It sounds like a ridiculous—crazy—idea, feeling like I have to meet a dog, but I can’t help it. I just want to touch him again; I want to touch Bobby, but I can’t. It’s impossible. So I thought maybe if I could just touch his dog, I’d feel some kind of connection.
I approached Mom as she sat at the kitchen table grading papers.
“Mom?”
“Yes, babe?”
“There’s this thing I want to do.”
“Okay.” (She was peering over her reading glasses at me now. Interested. Maybe worried.)
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to reassure her. (Maybe I shouldn’t have started out this way.)
Her mom alarm bells started going off. “Stacy, what is it? What’s going on?”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not a problem.”
She was trying to be patient, I could tell.
“Okay.”
I took a deep breath. “See, I really want to meet Bobby’s dog Jimi. And before you tell me what a bad idea you think it is”—because I could tell what a bad idea she thought it was by the way she was looking at me all apprehensively, raised eyebrows and all—“Before you tell me no, I’v
e thought a lot about this. And it’s something I feel like I really have to do.”
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