“MO is my roommate?” I launch myself through Richard Fisher’s doorway like my heels are on fire. When Mo found out we were roommates, he HUGGED me. It was all I could do not to punch him right then and there. At group this morning, he kept calling me “Roomie,” and I’m 99.9% sure this is all Richard Fisher’s doing.
“Good morning to you, too,” Richard says coolly. He gestures for me to take a seat, but I refuse.
“Don’t even try to tell me this isn’t part of your plan!” I growl, hovering over Richard’s desk.
His mouth twitches slightly. “My plan?”
“Yeah, your plan! What is this—Sneaky Shrink 101? Put the kid who can’t deal with his feelings with a roommate who can’t NOT deal with them? You think that’s going to make me talk? If anything, it’s pissing me off!”
Richard peers at me over the upper rim of his reading glasses. “Can we ditch the paranoid conspiracy theories, please? No one’s trying to make you talk. This isn’t an interrogation.”
“It sure as hell feels like one!” I drop onto the worn-out old couch, immediately arching back up because the frame pokes me in the ribs. “All anybody’s done since I got here is ask me what I think and how I feel. I’m over it already. You said I have to do the work so I can get better, but all this talking makes me want to do is use.”
The words stain the floor in front of me like blood spray from a punch in the nose. I’ve never said out loud that I want to use, not to anyone, not even Chase. I wait for Richard’s A-ha! I told you so! But he gives me a soft smile instead. “That’s called avoidance, Eli. Any idea why you avoid talking about your feelings?”
Here we go with the program-ese. I brush off the question, follow it with a question of my own. “You got kids?”
Richard Fisher blinks. “A son.”
“Do you analyze him all the time or is that a special skill you reserve for your rehab captives?”
Richard Fisher folds his thick arms across his t-shirt, one of those Coexist jobbies, like the bumper stickers on the backs of Volkswagens. I take in his charcoal hair, the leather jacket slung on the tilting coat rack behind his desk, and wonder if he’s got grandkids, and what his son thinks of this obvious midlife crisis thing Richard’s got going on.
“What about your wife?” I press. “Does she let you screw around inside her head whenever you feel like it?”
A tight ball forms at the base of Richard Fisher’s jaw, and for a second, I almost regret running my mouth. But then he clears his throat and leans back in his chair. “How about it’s my turn to ask the questions, okay?”
“Hey, man, I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“Are you?” Richard Fisher asks. “Or are you avoiding my question?”
“You’re the shrink,” I snap. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Richard Fisher takes off his glasses, wipes them on the corner of his shirt. “Let’s get something straight—first of all, I am not a shrink. I’m a board-certified substance abuse counselor, which is different. Second of all, I can’t tell you why you’re afraid to face your feelings. Only you can figure that out. What I can tell you, and I’m speaking from personal experience here, is that feelings are like zits. They usually show up when you least want them to, but you can’t ignore them, and you can’t cover them up. The deeper they are, the more they hurt, but one way or the other, they have to come out.”
I wonder if Richard can even remember being a teenager, or if this acne analogy came right out of the latest edition of Counseling Teens for Dummies. “Wow,” I seethe, sarcasm sizzling like raindrops on a hot sidewalk, “those most be some deep, dark issues you got there. What happened, Mr. Fisher? Your wife leave you?”
Fisher flinches, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. I press harder. “Did you fuck an intern or something? Or did your wife get sick of you shrinking her head all the time?”
“My wife left shortly after our son passed away. He was three.”
“Jesus,” I inhale, suddenly feeling like a first-class asshole.
Richard Fisher’s tone is flat and emotionless, like he’s telling someone else’s story, reading it from one of those beige folders in the messy stack that hangs over the edge of his desk. “Viral meningitis. He was in a coma for two weeks.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, my anger doused like water over sizzling coals.
Richard waves my apology away. “You haven’t cornered the market on pain, Eli. Everybody suffers. It’s how you deal with your pain that matters. Honesty, open-mindedness, and willingness, remember?”
I stare down at my empty hands; the cuffs of my hoodie are dingy, and I rub at a spot that’s darker than the others.
“Tell you what . . .” Richard swivels around in his chair and slides open a creaky metal desk drawer. He pulls out a purple spiral bound notebook, like the one I’d seen in Libby’s arms. “You don’t have to talk about your feelings until you’re ready,” he says. “But I do want you to start acknowledging them.” He hands me the notebook. “Write them down. When you’re in group, when you’re doing your step work, even when you’re at meals if you have to. Write it all down. And if something comes up that you want to talk about, that’s what I’m here for.”
I stare down at the notebook in my hand, flip through the stark white paper. Like Howard, the empty pages ask me to share my story, only this time without an audience. No one to listen. No one to judge.
I think about the notebook Benny’s teacher gave him over spring break, the crayoned pages filled with pictures of Disney. Maybe I’ll make up a story for Benny, My Week at Disney Camp. Bitterness burns the back of my throat like acid. The Story of My Break(down).
I toss the notebook onto the couch beside me. “I’ll think about it.”
Richard Fisher sighs. “That’s all I can ask. Now let’s take a look at your step work.”
I hand him my nearly completed Step One packet. He flips through the pages, asking me questions about my answers and taking notes.
I’d worked on it yesterday, in the crevices of time between lectures and group. Like I said, this stuff weasels into your head quick when it’s all everybody around you is talking about. Each check box I marked held a kind of subtle relief, like ripping off a bandage. After schooling Will in Ping-Pong last night, I’d left the rec room to finish. It hadn’t been until the section titled Family, that I quit.
“Why did you stop here?” Richard asks. He’s pointing to a section that wanted me to write about the way using has affected my relationship with my family.
I shrug. “You can’t affect a relationship you don’t have. My mom’s always busy with my brother, and my stepdad doesn’t give a shit.”
“Your stepdad doesn’t give a shit, but he puts you in rehab to keep you out of jail? Your mom spends three days by your hospital bed, and you think she’s not affected by your choices?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “It’s complicated.”
“We shrinks like to think of the ‘complicated stuff’ as gold.”
“I thought you said you weren’t a shrink,” I shoot back.
Richard ignores the jab. “What about your father?”
Here we go. It’s taken Richard Fisher all of thirty minutes to start asking questions about my dead dad. Figures. “He died when I was ten. Motorcycle accident.”
“That’s terrible,” Fisher says. “It must’ve been very hard to lose a parent when you were so young.”
I pick at the edges of a fresh scab on my wrist as memories of the funeral pour in. The closed casket so glossy I could almost see my reflection. The chill of the cold wood against my cheek and the overpowering smell of lilies. Mom’s hand in mine, pulling me away.
“I survived,” I say. Bright red blood oozes from the scab; I lick my thumb and swipe away the blood. “I don’t really like talking about it.”
“I see.” Richard Fisher leans back in his chair, tucks his hands behind his head. “Tell you what—I’m going to give you a homework assignment for tonight. Finish up the packet, but when you’re done,” he gestures to the purple notebook on the couch beside me, “I want you to write about the worst thing that has ever happened to you. Write about it in detail and try to fully explore every feeling that comes up.”
I scowl at him. “Do you actually get paid to torture people like this?”
Richard’s mouth presses into a thin smile. “I know it hurts, but if you want to figure out why you’re making the choices you are, the darkest places in your mind usually hold the most answers.”
I let out a groan. “I don’t write.”
“Well, now’s a good time to start.” Richard glances up at the clock on the wall behind me. “Better get going. You’ve got art in five minutes.”
The art room is a wide, window-lit space with walls made almost entirely of glass. The trees that border LakeShore provide a view that could almost make you forget you’re stuck here. Almost.
A circle of easels outlines the hardwood floor, supporting canvases in various stages of production. People move in slow motion around here—they trickle through the door, gradually find their places behind canvases, choose brushes, and leisurely mix paint.
One painting grabs my attention. It’s a person, I guess, but freakishly asymmetrical, its face and body parts composed of sharp, angular shapes and glaring colors. One eye is open, the other closed—the mouth a fractured line, almost like a zipper. But the most disturbing part is the arms. Composed of haphazard shapes, the arms are bent in several places at unnatural angles, giving the distinct impression of shattered bones.
“What do you think?”
I swing around. Libby’s got a fresh palette in one hand, the other hand on her hip. She wears a black tank top under a paint-smattered apron. Her white blonde hair is piled into a messy bun held in place by a paintbrush. Her milky arms are bare, and two thick rows of jingly bracelets cover the places where I know there are scars.
She chews on the skin around her thumbnail. “If you’re going to ogle my painting, the least you can do is give me your opinion.”
I’m a mute idiot, with words like mush in my mouth. Her painting is freaky as shit, but the last thing I want to do is insult her again. “It’s uh . . . nice,” I say. “I like your use of, um . . . color and . . . line?” The words come out as a question, since I’m not entirely sure I’m even speaking English.
Libby giggles, and I realize that she’s baited me, and like an idiot I fell for it. The laughter makes her cheeks flush pale pink, and she reaches a bangled wrist to sweep her hair from her eyes. Something about the gesture is so natural, so unprotected, that I feel myself relax.
“I don’t know anything about art,” I admit.
She flashes me a smile. “It’s okay. It’s supposed to be dark.” Libby gazes at her painting like it’s an actual person staring back at her. “She’s broken.”
“Who is she?” I blurt.
Libby’s face tightens. “Do you ever not put your foot in your mouth?”
Not around you. I give her a sheepish grin. “It’s a condition. Try not to judge.”
Libby laughs out loud, and the sound is infectious. “You should do that more,” I say. “Laugh, I mean.”
Libby’s gaze drops to her palette. She reaches for a plastic knife that she uses to mix the crimson and orange until it’s the color of a burning sunset. Her eyes dart toward the instructor, who’s hovering over someone else’s canvas. “You should go.”
It stings, this subtle rejection, but I nod and head off the instructor who greets me with a wide smile. “You must be Eli,” she says, in a voice like warm milk with honey. Her nose ring sparkles in the light from the windows, and she’s tatted up from elbows to wrists.
I nod, and she places a thin hand on my arm. “I’ve got a spot set up for you over here.” I let her guide me to an unoccupied easel with a dauntingly bare canvas. “Right now, we’re working on self-portraits.”
I give a low whistle. “I think I’m in the wrong place,” I whisper, leaning in so nobody else hears. “I can’t even draw a stick-figure.”
The instructor tips her head, flashing me the kind of smile that makes you think you can do anything. “That’s the beautiful thing about art,” she says. “There’s no one right way to do it. Your self-portrait doesn’t need to look anything like you. It’s simply an invitation to explore the way you view yourself.”
She shows me to the shelves at the back of the room where I can pick my paint and brushes and then hands me a plastic palette to fill. “Choose any colors you like, and then let your heart guide you.”
It takes every muscle in my face not to roll my eyes at her.
“I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
“Yeah, that makes two of us,” I say, but I don’t think she hears me. She’s already moved on to someone else, leaving the subtle scent of patchouli behind her.
I stare at the empty palette and the sea of paint choices, wondering how the hell I’m going to pick colors that are supposed to describe me. I choose red, black and yellow—LionsHeart colors. The paint squishes from the tube like shiny toothpaste. I want to paint a guy who’s cool under pressure and fierce on the lax field. I want to paint the guy I’m supposed to be, the one Savannah deserves.
But that’s not the real me. I know I don’t deserve the things I have. If it wasn’t for Steven’s money, I’d never have set foot in LionsHeart. I’d never have been made captain of the lacrosse team. I’d never have met Savannah. Inside, I’m still the same stoner freshmen with a dead dad. The last three years might as well have been a dream.
With a plastic palette knife, I push the red and yellow into the black, add more for good measure, and swirl the colors until they look like tar, like doubt and secrets. As I walk back to my easel, I spot Libby at the front of the room, only partially visible behind her canvas. Light spills through the windows beside her and pools around her feet. Her face is fixed in concentration, and her painting arm moves across the canvas like she’s dancing. I think of the broken girl splayed across her painting, and I know that’s how she sees herself.
I wonder how she sees me.