This Might Hurt a Bit

by Doogie Horner

Dad looks up from the paper as I walk in. “It lives!” he says.

  “Ha-ha.” I open the fridge. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but an escape pod or a fireman’s pole that leads to the center of the Earth would be nice.

  “How’s it going?” Dad asks seriously.

  I give him a dirty look over my shoulder. How’s it going? “What is that, a joke?”

  Dad folds the paper shut and holds a hand up in truce. “Hey, sorry. Sorry I’m trying to be nice.”

  “If you were trying to be nice, you’d give me my fucking notebook back.”

  Mom drops a dish into the sink with a splash, and bubbles fly everywhere. She looks at me angrily. “Excuse me?!”

  Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we just not, right now? It’s a little early.” He gives me a stern look that’s meant to end the conversation, but then I can see it turn to concern as he notices how bad I look. He seems about to ask if I’m okay but stops himself. Probably because he knows I’ll yell, Am I okay? Are you kidding me?!

  Mom gives a little yelp of alarm. “What happened to your hand?”

  Shit. I forgot about my hand already. It’s in clear view, grabbing the fridge handle, and I stare at it like it belongs to someone else. “Oh, that? Uh, I hit it. Accidentally.”

  Mom strips off her sudsy gloves to examine my knuckles, still scraped and red.

  “You hit it?” she repeats doubtfully.

  Dad peers across the top of the island, a soldier peeking above the trenches.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I hit it on the wall. Accidentally.”

  I’m sure Mom thinks I punched the wall because I got mad or something. Good. Better than her thinking I punched a farmer after fleeing a crime scene.

  I turn my attention back to the chilly sanctuary of the fridge. “Where’s the soy milk?” I’m lactose intolerant, so regular milk makes me explode.

  Mom allows me to change the subject. “Sorry, honey, we’re all out. I’ll pick some up later today. But your breakfast is on the table.”

  “Can I take it with me? Can you make it into a sandwich?”

  Mom looks at me, confused. “I don’t understand why you never eat breakfast.”

  Dad’s reading the paper again. “You’ve gotta eat, bud. You’re a growing boy.” He seems to remember something and puts the paper down. “Oh, by the way, Kirby, have you been taking rocks out of the flower garden?”

  “What? No . . . Rocks?”

  Dad looks doubtful.

  I push my case. “Why would I take rocks?”

  Dad shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  Mom says, “You promise if I make you a sandwich, you’ll eat it on the bus?”

  “I will. I will. I’m just not hungry right now.” I hope she can’t hear my stomach rumbling.

  “Okay.” Mom sighs. She pops two slices of bread into the toaster to make the sandwich. I lean against the counter and stare at the china cabinet, filled with plates that are too nice to use, the rising sun reflected in its glass.

  “While you’re waiting for your sandwich,” Mom asks, “would you like a banana smoothie?”

  — — —

  Sometimes I wish my parents were more neglectful. Is that a weird thing to wish for? If they smoked a ton of weed, or were absinthe connoisseurs, that would be perfect. I’d like them to be lazy enough to forget about me every now and then. Give me a little space. Not ransack my room searching for private notebooks.

  I just want a little privacy, but they always have to pry. They even sent me to a psychologist one time, to get him to pump me for information.

  My first day back at school after Melanie died I got a little overwhelmed. All her friends kept telling me how sorry they were, looking at me with sad puppy-dog eyes, trying to hug me. One girl gave me a framed photo of Melanie! What the fuck?! You think I don’t remember what she looked like? I threw it in the trash in front of her.

  Halfway through the day I hid under a table in English class, and when a kid asked me what I was doing, I screamed in his face.

  I’m pretty sure one of my teachers—or a couple—called my parents and told them what happened, and the next evening they made me go to an interrogator—I’m sorry, psychologist.

  The shrink’s office was decorated like a swanky bachelor pad. He was lounging in a chair made of bent wood and leather that probably cost more than a TV. He looked like someone who went to smooth jazz festivals. He stood up and shook my hand and looked right into my eyes, which made me uncomfortable. His hand was soft, his eyes deeply calm. I assume his serenity was supposed to put me at ease, but instead it bugged me. People are coming to you because they’re upset. Could you not look so super not-upset? There was a box of tissues on the low-slung coffee table between our chairs, which I thought was presumptuous.

  He closed the door behind me, and as soon as he lowered himself into his Norwegian chair and crossed his legs, I told him right off the bat, “Look, asshole, I don’t have anything to say to you. I’m only here because my parents are forcing me.”

  I was hoping to rattle him, but it didn’t work. He spread his hands calmly and purred in his deep NPR voice, “That’s fine. I totally understand how you feel. But I want you to understand, even though your parents are the ones who brought you here, this session is just between you and me. Anything you tell me in this room stays in this room.”

  I was not impressed. “Well, that will be easy, because I’m not going to say anything to you in this room. So, you know, you can just, uh . . .” I realized I didn’t have anything else to say and that I was already talking more than I had intended, so I just trailed off.

  He gave me a small smile like I had complimented his sweater instead of telling him to fuck off. “Okay. If you don’t want to talk, we don’t have to. You can just wait here in my office until your parents pick you back up.”

  He pulled a deck of cards out of a small drawer in the low coffee table between us and placed them in the center. “Would you like to play, or would you prefer we just stare at each other?”

  We played poker for the rest of the hour. I tried to get him to play for money “just to make things interesting,” but he said he’d get in trouble. You’re damn right you’d get in trouble, I thought. I’ll take you to the cleaners. Come on, dude, bet me a couple of those phony diplomas on your wall.

  The next week my parents forced me to go back to the psychologist again. When I stomped into his office, he already had the deck of cards out on the coffee table, shuffled and ready to play. He didn’t ask me about Melanie or anything else. The only question he asked before we spent the next hour playing poker in silence was “Would you like to cut the deck?”

  Every now and then he’d glance at me with those deeply calm eyes and give me a tepid smile, like he was the one whose parents were forcing him to be there. It kind of drove me crazy. His face was so hard to read, I could never tell if he was bluffing. I guess it makes sense that a psychologist would have a good poker face. Their whole job is keeping a straight face while clients tell them insane bullshit.

  The third week when I came back, we played cards again, but after a couple hands I was so bored I mumbled, “I don’t even know why I’m here. My dumb parents think I’m crazy or something.”

  The psychologist put his cards down very carefully, like they were made of glass. Then he leaned back in his chair and regarded me seriously.

  “Why do you think they think that?”

  And just like that, my resistance crumbled. I started talking, a little at first, but more and more as we continued to meet, because it felt so good. Sometimes I’d even tell him things I didn’t realize I was thinking until I heard myself say them. God, it was such a relief.

  After a couple of weeks I even worked up the courage to tell him about my notebook and the experiment I was doing with it. This was the secret I was most nervous to tell him. I know that when someone dies, it’s normal to be sad and to miss them. But what I was doing with my notebook . . . Well, I wasn’t sure if i
t was normal.

  I was starting to like Mr. Smooth Jazz, and I was worried that when I told him about my nightly ritual, his poker face would crack just a little, and beneath it I’d see what he really thought of me. That I was crazy. Or maybe just stupid. He might even laugh at me.

  Luckily, he didn’t do any of those things, and when he didn’t, when he simply asked, Why do you think you’re doing that? I was so relieved that I couldn’t even answer him. I just cried. It wasn’t sad crying. They were tears of pure relief.

  He waited while I wiped my face on my sleeve, then asked again.

  Why do you think you’re doing that?

  It was the only time I asked him to pull the cards out again. “C’mon, Doc,” I said. “Let’s make it interesting. I’ll bet you my mom’s car, and you can bet me that chair.”

  — — —

  I was blindsided when, a month or so later, he began our meeting by quietly announcing, “Well, Kirby, this is our last session.”

  I didn’t realize how much I had come to enjoy our weekly talks until he told me they were stopping. Maybe this was some kind of reverse psychology trick to get me to tell him some really deep stuff ?

  “But wait. I’ve got more to tell you,” I bluffed. “I’ve got some really crazy shit in my brain that I haven’t told you about.”

  He shook his head. “Kirby, all the feelings you’ve told me about are completely normal. You’re grieving, and that’s good. The business with your notebook.” He shrugged. “I think you know why you’re doing it, even if you’re not ready to admit it. And someday soon, I hope, you will be ready.”

  That sounded like good news to me, so I couldn’t figure out why he was looking at me so seriously. “So . . . I’m cured? You’ll tell my parents I’m not crazy?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell your parents you’re not crazy.” He hated that word, and spit it out with a hint of disgust. “But as for the rest of the things you and I discussed . . . I told you the first day we met, everything you’ve told me in this room will stay in this room.”

  He was still giving me that significant look, but I wasn’t following him. “Oookay, sooo . . .”

  “So you need to talk to your parents. This whole time you and I have been talking, how many of the things you’ve told me have you also told your parents?”

  I was beginning to think I might not miss him so much after all. I looked down at my shoes and tried to ignore him, but the office carpet was the same cool gray as his eyes.

  “You don’t mind talking to me because I’m nobody,” he continued. “This room is nowhere. It’s just more words written in a notebook that nobody will ever see. And it’s fine. In fact, it’s healthy—for now. But this isn’t the end of your therapy, Kirby. It’s the beginning.” He gave an embarrassed smile. “This is going to sound cheesy, but it’s also true: Today is the beginning of the rest of your life, and you need to start living it. It’s the only way forward.”

  — — —

  Mom met me in the waiting room and talked to the psychologist a little bit by the reception desk. I couldn’t hear what they said, but when she walked over to me, she looked hopeful.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, she tried to hide her optimism as she asked me, “So . . . what did the psychologist say?”

  “Nothing much.” I looked out the car window at the cookie-cutter houses passing by. “He said you guys were wrong. I’m not crazy, so there’s no point in me going to therapy anymore.”

  It was not the answer Mom wanted.

  We drove the rest of the way home in silence.

  — — —

  A year after Melanie’s death, my parents are still trying to do the same thing that psychologist did. Just wait me out. They think that if they’re patient, eventually I’ll cheer up. Or open up. Or something—honestly, I don’t know what they want from me.

  But I know they’re gonna be waiting a long time.

  I’m plenty cheery now, and also I don’t have anything to talk about.

  If there’s one thing I learned from that psychologist, it’s how to keep a good poker face.

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  MOM ALWAYS WRAPS MY EGG sandwich in tinfoil. I slide it into my left front jacket pocket as I walk out of the house onto our front porch, the hot little bundle pleasantly warm against my stomach. I hope I actually get to eat it today.

  It’s not as cold as it was last night, but it’s still cold enough that I have to zip up my jacket. The sun peeks over the Blue Mountain ridge, painting the treetops orange and green above the sleepy blue foothills. The field across the road lies in the mountain’s shadow, a dark plain under the lightening sky.

  I put down my book bag and stoop to pick a few rocks out of Mom’s currently dead flower garden. I put the biggest rocks I can find into my right front pocket, leaving it unzipped for easy access, then spread the remaining gravel around with my toe.

  Right before I left the house, Mom gave me a significant look and said, “We’ll see you after school,” as though warning me not to leave the state between now and then. The thought has certainly crossed my mind. If I had a passport and a false mustache, I probably would.

  I shoulder my book bag, walk down our driveway, and turn right, following the same path I took last night, sneaking toward the circle and the bus stop that cruel fate has placed on the corner directly across the street from the horse dogs’ farm.

  This is my life.

  This. Is. Sparta!

  I hate sneaking to the bus stop every morning. It’s a nerve-racking process that I’ve broken down into five levels of ascending danger, much like the US military’s DEFCON system.

  DEFCON 5: I sneak behind the screen of pine trees and hide in the circle. The stop sign is out in the open, so I wait until I hear the bus coming, then dart the twenty yards to the stop sign at the last second. This works about four days a week. However, if the horse dogs see me before I reach the circle, I move up to

  DEFCON 4: Throw rocks at the dogs. This doesn’t scare or hurt them, and my aim is so bad I couldn’t hit them if I wanted to, but the dogs think it’s some kind of game and will chase the rocks like I’m throwing them a ball. I thought this was cute until I saw them pick the rocks up and crush them with their jaws.

  The rocks only work on the greyhound and the Doberman, though; the mastiff ignores the rocks and stays locked on me, so if the mastiff rounds the corner of that big gray barn, I increase the alert level to

  DEFCON 3: Throw my egg sandwich at the mastiff and hope he finds that more appetizing than my tender boy flesh.

  Luckily, DEFCON 3 is the highest alert I’ve reached, because DEFCON 2 would be fight a pack of wild dogs with my bare hands, and DEFCON 1 would be hope I give them indigestion.

  One time I made the mistake of telling Jake about my DEFCON system, and he stared at me in utter disbelief.

  “So wait,” he said. “Every day you have to avoid getting attacked by these dogs?”

  “Technically, twice a day. But yes.”

  “Just kill them,” he said.

  I was shocked. I couldn’t tell if this was a Jake joke or not. “Uh . . . I don’t think I want to do that.”

  “Okay, if you want to be a total wuss about it, you could call the cops or the SPCA or whatever. Show these fuckers who the dominant species is. Do something.”

  But we did try something.

  A couple of days after we moved in, Mom and I were pulling out of the garage in our car when the Doberman ran up our driveway and leapt directly onto the hood of the car. Claws squeaking on the metal hood, slobber flying all over our windshield, barking like a maniac.

  Mom screamed and slammed on the horn with both hands, but that just made the dog angrier, barking and biting the windshield wipers. It didn’t jump off the hood until Mom started slowly driving again, and then it hopped off and ran back to the farm across the street, disappearing into the high corn. When we got out of the car at the Shuckburgh Corner Store, we found a big dent in the h
ood.

  That afternoon Dad went over to the farm to talk to the horse dogs’ owner, although we had never seen any people across the street and the dogs’ behavior certainly didn’t indicate that they were anyone’s pets.

  Mom and I watched nervously through our front door window as Dad knocked on the trailer, a sad little pair of deer antlers nailed above its aluminum door.

  A skinny guy holding a beer answered. Dad talked to the guy for a while, but I could tell he wasn’t making any headway because he started waving his arms and poking the guy’s chest. The skinny guy didn’t seem to care. He sipped his beer and adjusted his baseball cap like Dad was selling Girl Scout cookies.

  The skinny guy said something final and closed the door. Dad stomped back over to our property, and Mom and I stepped aside hastily as he slammed the front door behind him.

  Mom asked, “Well . . . what happened?”

  Dad laughed, a tense, edgy laugh he only does when he’s trying not to flip out, like when we’re lost on a long car trip. “Well, I told that guy he needs to control his dogs. And he said . . .” Dad laughed again and shook his head. “He said no.”

  “No?” My mom repeated the word like it was in a foreign language she was trying to learn.

  “Yep,” Dad confirmed. “He said, ‘I don’t have to leash my dogs. They’re farm dogs.’ ”

  Now when the horse dogs attack the car, Mom just beeps the horn and goes “Shoo! Shoo! Scat! ” like it’s a fly on the hood and not a two-hundred-pound killer canine.

  It’s amazing how quickly people adapt to bad situations. To you it seems crazy, but to me it’s just another Friday.

  — — —

  I’m three-quarters of the way to the circle, out of sight of my house and too far to run back, when I hear a distant bark.

  I tighten the straps on my book bag in case I have to run, and I look between the branches at the big gray barn across the street. The walls are made from splintery wood that used to be painted red, maybe a hundred years ago, but since then, wind and rain have worn it to a ghostly gray with only flecks of red, like bones that have been picked clean. One of its two massive front doors rusted off the hinges and is held crooked to the other with a chain, so I can see the darkness inside. As the sun comes up, the gloom is striped with bars of light where there are gaps in the boards.