“You wouldn’t mind if your dad and I went to see him while he’s here?” Jane asked cautiously.
His head jerked up, his throat thick with betrayal. They wanted to see David, when he couldn’t? That was unfair. That was so unfair…. “Do whatever the fuck you like,” he said coldly.
“Zachary,” Richard said reprovingly, “don’t swear at your mother.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing in on himself. “That was inappropriate.”
“No, I think that was important,” Dr. Barrett said thoughtfully. “Jane, Richard, one of the things that we’ve discussed in these sessions is that you don’t feel that Zach expresses his emotions in a healthy way. He’s never sworn before in any of these sessions. Does he swear outside them?”
“No, of course not,” Jane said hurriedly. “Zach is always polite. It’s just… just that he’s stressed out because of David. You know, Doctor, you know how he hates and fears David.”
“Do you hate and fear David, Zach?” the therapist asked curiously.
“No,” Zach said.
“What do you feel for him, then?”
So not going there, Zach thought, and just shook his head.
“Would you like to see him again?”
“No.” The answer was quick and sure. A knot of nausea soured his stomach at the thought of seeing David. “I don’t hate him,” he said dully. “I just can’t see him, that’s all. I don’t care if you see him”—he glanced at his parents—“or anything; it’s okay. I mean Annie sees him, right? I don’t, like, freak out over her, do I?”
“Annie is not your mother,” Richard said carefully. “Do you feel like we would be betraying you if we chose to be friends with David?”
“No.” Zach shook his head. “I used to be friends with him myself.”
“Would it hurt you if they did?” the doctor asked.
“No.” That was a lie, but it didn’t matter. He sat through these sessions for his parents, not for him. They thought they did some good, helped him reintegrate or whatever the current catchphrase was for trying to get a crazy person back among the sane. He thought it was rather pointless, but if it made them feel better, put him that much further from the loony bin, he’d play their games. It didn’t mean he had to be honest. Just careful. He’d had a shock when Jane had brought up David, but he was back in control now. He smiled at the therapist. “I don’t expect Mom and Dad to be friends with all of my friends, so why should I object to who they want to be friends with?”
“Do you have friends, Zach?”
He gave the shrink that careful false smile again. “Of course I have friends. I go out. I don’t sit in my room and rock, you know.”
“Where do you go?”
“A couple places in town.” Zach shrugged. “I play pool, have a few drinks, same thing everyone else does when they go out.”
“Do you have a boyfriend, or anyone special you go out with?”
“No. Just a bunch of people.”
“Why don’t you invite them over sometime, honey?” Jane asked with a smile.
He gave her the same smile back. “I don’t think so. They’re not that kind of people.”
Her smile faded. His didn’t. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.
“They’re just not,” he said dismissively. “They’re club people, not home people. Just because they’re my friends doesn’t mean I want them involved in every aspect of my life. They’re not that important.”
“Friends are important,” Richard said.
“Not these.” Zach shook his head. “It’s okay. I’ve only been home ten months—”
“Nine,” Jane said softly.
“—and I haven’t had time to build any relationships, okay?” Not any that mattered. “It’s okay, really. I’m finding my way. It takes time, okay?”
“Of course it’s okay, honey,” Jane said.
Yeah, of course it was okay. Everything he did and said was okay, wasn’t it? His jaw was starting to ache from the fake smile. He wondered if they’d be okay with what really went on when he went out at night, went to the clubs with the convenient little rooms and the convenient guys that went with them. It would make them sick. Hell, it made him sick. He said again, “I’m just finding my way.”
“I just wish—” Jane started, then stopped.
“Wish what?” Dr. Barrett asked.
“That I would do something constructive,” Zach said. “Like go to school. What about it, Mom? Should I sign up for art lessons at Wesley?”
She flinched, but said only, “If that’s what you want, honey, of course.”
“Or maybe go to work for Dad,” Zach said, still smiling. “I’m a shitty programmer, but hey, if the boss’s kid can’t get a job at the company, who can?”
“You know it’s not just programming,” Richard said carefully. “There are other parts of the company that you’d enjoy working at.”
“Thanks,” Zach said gently. Careful. They were oh, so careful. Like handling a bomb. Not sure if it was armed, not sure if it was going to explode in their faces. So careful.
“But as long as you’re going out and socializing, making friends….” Jane began.
Fuck it. Still in that gentle tone, Zach said, “They aren’t really so much friends, Mom. Just people I fuck.”
There was dead silence in the room. Then Jane said, “You are being safe, though, right?”
He stared at her a long moment, then started to laugh. Somewhere the laughter turned into tears, and he leaned his head down on his arm and cried. Jane went to her knees beside him and stroked his hair; Richard came around behind the wicker armchair and rubbed his T-shirted back. Finally, he raised his head to take the tissue his mother handed him and blow his nose. “Sorry about that,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to go all stupid. Guess I kind of over-shared.”
“That’s the whole point of these sessions, Zach,” the shrink said. “To share. I think this is a good step, because this is obviously an emotional issue for you.”
“Ya think?” Zach said dryly.
“If this isn’t a comfortable subject to discuss with your parents present, we can talk about it later, if you like.”
Zach said, “It’s not a comfortable subject, period. I’m not….” He shook his head. “It doesn’t…. It isn’t something I want to talk about.”
Richard said, “It’s usually the ones you don’t want to talk about that you need to talk about. Trust me, I know.” He rubbed Zach’s shoulder again. “But if you don’t want to talk about it with your mom and me here, that’s okay. We’re good with that, you know.”
“I know. I appreciate it.”
“We went through a lot of therapy when you were gone; we know the rules.” Richard took Jane’s hand and raised her to her feet, then led them back to the loveseat. Once they were seated, he gave Zach a long, steady look, and then said, “I’m just glad that you’re… I don’t know… exploring your sexuality, after what happened. We’ve been worried about that. It’s an important part of life and relationships, and we were afraid you would end up cutting yourself off from that.”
Zach returned his look with an “I-don’t-believe-you-said-that” one of his own, then said to Dr. Barrett, “Do all your patients have ex-hippie parents that talk like this?”
Barrett laughed. “Some of them do. Does it embarrass you?”
“It’s not comfortable,” he said. “It doesn’t….”
“Doesn’t what?”
“Doesn’t help. Doesn’t make things easier.” He turned and said to his parents, “I appreciate your trying to help. To let me know you care. I know you care. But in the end it doesn’t matter. I mean, not that your caring doesn’t matter, because it does, I know. But this”—he waved his hand—“it’s not real, you know. It’s like I’m still dreaming. Everything is nice and sweet and happy and I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m dreaming.”
“You’re not dreaming, Zach,” Richard said fiercely. “This is reality
. This isn’t perfect; it’s not, as much as we want to make it so. We’re not trying to cut you off from life or anything. We haven’t locked you up here; you go out, and we don’t even ask you where. We’re trying to let you build your life again, however you want to do it, but we also want to support you. To be here for you. Damn it, Zach, why won’t you ask us for anything? We’re here trying to guess what you want, what will make you happy, but you don’t ask. You don’t give us a clue.”
“I don’t want a fucking thing!” Zach shouted. “I live in your house, you feed me, clothe me, practically wipe my ass for me, and you want me to ask for more? Jesus, Dick, I’m enough of a fucking parasite!”
“You are not a fucking parasite, you’re our son, God damn it!” Richard yelled back.
Zach barked at him.
Richard nearly hit him, but froze with his fist an inch away from Zach’s face. “Go ahead!” Zach yelled. “Hit me! You know you want to! You want to, go ahead!”
His father lowered his hand, flexing the fingers. “God damn you, Zach,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t know what the hell you want.”
“Sometimes,” Zach said, “I want the cage.” With that admission, he got up and walked out onto the patio, staring down into the pool. He heard the shrink talking in an undertone, and his mother crying. Good job, asshole, he told himself viciously. Good way to alienate the only people in the world who give a shit about you. How the hell had this gone so quickly downhill? Their therapy sessions had never exploded like this one before.
He knew what it was. He’d let David in.
Dropping to his knees, he dipped his hand in the pool and rubbed the water over his face, trying to cool himself down. He was still kneeling when he felt someone behind him and knew it was his father. “Yeah, I know,” he said dully. “I upset Mom. I’ll apologize.” He sat back on his heels, still gazing down at the water. His father’s silhouette quivered in the little wavelets from Zach’s hand.
“I’m the one apologizing,” Richard said wearily. “To you. I’m sorry, Zach. I didn’t mean to go off on you like that. I’m just….”
“Yeah,” Zach said. “I know. Frustrated. I don’t blame you.”
“You’ve got a lot of anger bottled up inside you, Zach. Well, so do I. I know you think we’re being all patient and crap, but I’m not patient. I’ve never been patient.” He sat down cross-legged on the edge of the pool beside Zach. “I hate this crap,” he said savagely. “I hate that you lost so much of your life. I hate that I lost so much of your life. I hate the therapy. I hate not being able to talk to you the way we used to. I hate what happened to you and knowing that I probably don’t know the half of it. I hate that you’ve shut us out. I hate that you can even say what you just said and mean it, because I know you do. It breaks my fucking heart, Zach. And I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”
“I think, sometimes,” Zach said, sighing, “that maybe I need to be gone. That maybe I shouldn’t have come back. Not that I mean I should have stayed in Venezuela, but maybe instead of coming home from the rehab center I should have just gone into, like, an institution or something.” He waited, his heart pounding.
His father’s response was instantaneous and violent. “No fucking way, Zach! You aren’t crazy, you don’t belong in an institution. Jesus Christ, Zach, why the hell would you say that? You belong here!”
Zach didn’t answer. Finally, Richard asked, “Do you want to go away?”
“No,” Zach muttered. “No.”
Richard’s hand closed around Zach’s forearm, his fingers digging into the taut muscle. “I don’t want you to go away. Neither does your mother. Yeah, it’s hard on all of us, and I know you feel guilty as hell for that. Well, we feel guilty as hell for what happened. That’s why we’re in therapy, remember?”
He ducked his head in a nod. “Yeah. I remember.”
Richard released his arm, but not before giving it a good solid rub. “Forest service says the last of the snowpack’s melting and they’re opening the trails around the Peak. You want to go hiking this weekend?”
Zach was quiet a moment, then said, “Maybe a short one. It’s been a long time.”
“You need to add some aerobic exercise to your weights program. You should start using the gym at the office instead of just the one here—it’s got a track….”
“No, I can’t,” Zach said. “I can’t work out in public yet.” He rubbed the base of his throat, where the scar tissue circled his neck. “Not yet. It’s not like we don’t have a pool, you know.”
“You should use it more.” Richard stood, and ruffled Zach’s hair—or rubbed his head, since it was cropped way too short to ruffle. “That’s what it’s there for.”
“Sure, Dad,” Zach said.
“IF YOU were a guy, I’d marry you,” David said.
“Alex would have something to say about that,” Maggie retorted. “So, you likee?”
“I likee,” David replied, running his hand over the doorframe. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“It’s not new—it’s a 2004, but it’s the old version of the Saturn before GM completely took over, so it’s a fiberglass body—no rust. And those old Saturns lasted forever. I know someone who’s got a ’93 that has almost 500,000 miles on it, and it’s still running.” Maggie patted the car’s roof. “She’s got about seventy-five thousand miles on her, but Alex made sure she was maintained well, so she’s just a baby, engine-wise. I’ve hardly driven her at all since we bought the urban assault vehicle—it’s just a little awkward getting the mondo car seat in the back. I think the damn car seat is bigger than the car.” She patted the roof again. “I’m just glad she’s going to a good home. Now if we can only find you a good home, we’ll be set.”
“Bless you, child,” David said. “Were you able to find any candidates before I got here?”
“Well, there are plenty of places where you can live,” Maggie said, and followed David back to the porch, where he’d put a couple bottles of Sam Adams on the railing. The condensation steamed gently in the late afternoon sun. “But whether you’d want to live there is another story. High concentration of new construction, you know, from the cardboard-box school of architecture….”
“Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky, little boxes on the hillside and they all look just the same….” David sang softly.
“Another hippie song from your mother’s misspent youth?” Maggie asked, and took a swig of beer.
“Of course. I was raised on hippie songs. They formed an integral part of my psychological development. That and Warner Brothers cartoons.”
“God bless Warner Brothers,” Maggie intoned, and they clicked bottles in salute. “I’ve been looking for something a little more culturally significant as a habitat for you, but so far I am failing miserably. Though, frankly, why you’d ever want to live someplace other than this, I don’t know.” She sat on the porch steps and looked off into the distance.
David watched her serene face in amusement. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yep.”
“I know. And it was hard to leave. Almost as hard as it was to come back.”
Maggie cocked her head. “Do tell.”
“Nothing to tell.” David drank some of the Sam Adams. “Got home yesterday, on schedule. Back in my old bedroom, just like always. Nothing’s really changed.”
“Nothing and everything,” Maggie said wisely. “Have you seen him?”
“Nope. And don’t plan to.”
“What is the deal with that? You never said. I mean, you guys were like best buds. He worshipped the ground upon which you tread. It wasn’t you who sent him off to hell. Unless you mean he blames you for the whole situation. But if I recall correctly, he kissed you, not the other way around. So….”
“I don’t know. I guess he must blame me. He freaked out when his parents asked him if he wanted to see me.” David swallowed the hurt, still vicious after two years, and went on. “I guess he d
oes blame me. It might not make sense to you, but you didn’t spend five years as a hostage in god-knows-what conditions.”
“No, guess I didn’t,” Maggie admitted. “Is it true he didn’t talk for months after he got back?”
“From what I hear, it’s true enough.”
They drank in silence. Finally, Maggie said, “That’s the reason for the moving out, right? So you don’t accidentally run into him again.”
David sighed. “On the one hand, I kind of wish I could get it over with. You know, have the big confrontation, screaming match, fistfight, whatever the hell it’s going to be, and be done with it. But I really don’t want that. I can’t see fighting with Zach. I still see him as this gangling little kid with big eyes and all that hair. Plus I don’t know how a fight would impact Mom and her relationship with Dick and Jane. I mean, she works for them, but they’ve been friends a hell of a lot longer than that. They gave her the job when Dad died so she wouldn’t have to go back to her family, not because she needed the money or anything. But her folks were pressuring her to move back home, and this gave her an excuse not to. Not that my grands are anything but nice, but Ohio’s not Colorado, you know?”
“I know,” Maggie said, and raised her bottle toward the mountains. “That sight gets in your blood. Which is what I suppose is the real reason you decided to come back here, all my superior blandishments aside.”
“Yeah, much as the offer of a gallery show and the job at Wesley appealed, you know it was this place that got me back here. Only place I ever lived that could compete with this was New Zealand, when I had that internship with Weta. It was fucking gorgeous. But they all talk funny there.”
“But those Maori tattoos are hot,” Maggie said.
“No question.”
“So Weta internship, ILM internship—and you still want to stick with painting over computer graphics?”
“For now. Mom said Dick asked if I was interested in coming back; if the teaching thing doesn’t work out, then maybe I’ll change my mind. I guess they’re getting into some graphic arts software-building. I like that part of it more than the actual design end, anyway. I’m doing a couple of things with that in my spare time—working with some of the new 3D technology. Did you ever notice some of the effects that Disney got with his early full-length features, using multiple layers of painted cells? You got some really artistic results with that. I’m trying to design a program that will automatically build those layers, but in a way that reflects specific artists’ styles—like Renoir, or Rembrandt, or the individual draftsman—”
Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits Page 5