One thing.
When Cecil gave me this notebook, he told me that if I was having a lousy day – especially if I was having a lousy day – I should always try to write one thing in my journal.
For once, I took his advice.
4:00 p.m. EST/1:00 p.m. PST
I’m on the plane. Heading home. Alone.
Things did not go as planned.
Wednesday started well. Mom and I drove to Kingston at around ten in the morning. She’d washed her hair and put on a clean sweater, and I think she was even wearing a bit of makeup. It was a beautiful day – clear blue skies and a fresh dusting of snow. We took the Glenora Ferry again, which dropped us in Adolphustown, which does not deserve to be called a town. It should be called Adolphushamlet.
The countryside is pretty. Not better than BC, just different. We drove through Bath, and I couldn’t help thinking that if Jesse was with us, I would have said, And boy do you need one!
As we neared Kingston, we drove past the Collins Bay Institution. Weird as it sounds, I love that prison. I remember, on one of our visits to Pop-Pop and Grams when Jesse was still alive, the two of us gaped at the huge stone fortress with its towering red roof from the backseat of the car, and Jesse said, “I want to live there.”
And all the adults laughed and laughed, and Grams said, “Well, kiddo, let’s hope you never, ever have to!”
Which is kind of funny when you think about it because if he’d survived, he would have wound up living in a prison.
Our first few hours in Kingston were great. Mom took me to Cooke’s Fine Foods and Coffee, which is only my favorite store. It’s been around since the olden days. It’s dark and big, with high ceilings and wood floors, and it smells delicious. Mom bought me a piece of Brighton Rock.
Then we had lunch at Chez Piggy, which not only has the best name ever, it has the best food ever. We talked a lot, and Mom even joked with our waiter. For one brief hour, it was almost like IT had never happened.
Then we went to Dr. Dumbass’s office.
That is my new name for Dr. Dumas. This guy makes Cecil look like a genius.
Dr. Dumbass works out of the hospital with a few other psychiatrists, so we sat in a waiting room with a handful of people who looked completely mental. One guy, with long scraggly hair, kept talking to himself and laughing quietly, and there was an old woman with no teeth, who just stared into space. I’m pretty sure she was seriously medicated. Compared to them, my mom looked one hundred percent normal!! No wonder I felt so optimistic.
Then Mom went into Dr. Dumbass’s office for her appointment. The idea was that she would come and get me for the last fifteen minutes, so I’d have a chance to meet him. For forty-five minutes, I had to sit there pretending to read three-year-old issues of Better Homes and Gardens and Reader’s Digest (YAWN), while the guy with long scraggly hair kept staring at me and laughing, which gave me the creeps.
Finally the door to Dr. Dumbass’s office opened, and he stepped out. He’s super-tall – like, six feet six inches – skinny, with blond, thinning hair. He has a face that reveals nothing, which is probably good if you’re a psychiatrist, but equally good if you’re a serial killer.
Anyway, he smiled at me with his lips only and shook my hand. Dad thinks you can tell a lot about a man’s character by the way he shakes hands. Dr. Dumbass’s handshake was limp.
“You must be Henry,” he said. I glanced at the other two nutbars in the waiting room and thought, No shit, Sherlock. “Come on in.”
I followed him into his office. It was much bigger and cleaner and tidier than Cecil’s office. He had a lot of framed degrees hanging on his wall. Mom sat in one of two armchairs across from his desk. I plopped into the other one. “Your mother talks about you a lot,” he said.
Then he tried to ask me how I was coping, and I said, “Fine.”
And he said, “This is a safe place, Henry. You can talk openly about your feelings.”
And I said, “I have my own doctor to do that with, thanks.”
“Well, what would you like to talk about?” he asked.
“My mom seems to be doing really well,” I said.
He smiled at my mom. “She is indeed.”
“I think it’s time for her to come home.” I turned to my mom. “You could fly home with me this Friday. Or, if that’s too soon, you could come out next week.”
The room went dead quiet. Mom and Dr. Dumbass shared a look.
“Henry,” the doctor started, “your mom is making great progress –”
“Yes, and we have you to thank.”
“But I feel it’s in her best interest to continue her sessions with me for a while longer.”
I turned to Mom and placed her hand in mine. “Well, it’s not really up to you, is it?” I said to Dr. Dumbass.
Mom looked down at my hand. “Henry, you know how much I love you.… ”
“Which is why you need to come home.”
“Which is why I can’t. Not yet.”
This wasn’t how I’d rehearsed it in my head. “C’mon, Mom. This whole nervous breakdown thing is getting a little old.”
Dead silence. “A little old?” Dr. Dumbass said. “That implies some form of intention on your mother’s part.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “There are good doctors in Vancouver, too,” I told Mom. “You could see my psychologist, Cecil. He’s no rocket scientist, but he’s okay.”
“You don’t understand,” Mom said. “I’m not ready. I’ve already let one child down.… ”
“You didn’t let Jesse down! What Jesse did was not your fault.” I looked at Dr. Dumbass. “You’ve told her what happened isn’t her fault, right?”
“Yes. But your mother needs to get to that place on her own, Henry. And we’ve been making great strides, but we’re not there yet.”
“Mom, please. You can’t blame yourself.”
“But I do. And I need to be able to forgive myself.” She paused for a moment. “I need to be able to forgive your father.”
I didn’t like where this was headed at all. “It wasn’t his fault, either.”
“It was his gun. I told him I didn’t want any kind of weapon in the house, I told him to get rid of it –”
“He couldn’t know. He stored it properly, even the police said so.”
“We had a child in crisis. There should not have been a gun in the house.” She was getting angry now.
“That’s so stupid –”
“Now, Henry, no feelings are stupid,” said Dr. Dumbass, totally interrupting me.
I just kept my eyes on my mom. “If you need to blame someone, blame Jesse! You can’t blame Dad. He loves you. You love him. We need you with us. We miss you like crazy!”
“But don’t you see, Henry, I’m not me, I’m a wreck –”
“So?? I’d rather have a wreck of a mother than no mother at all!”
There was a pause. I thought I’d finally gotten through to her. Then she said, “I’m sorry. I’m just not ready.”
I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. “You never would have done this to Jesse,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“If it had been me instead of him. You never would have deserted Jesse.”
“That’s unfair.”
“He was always your favorite. He’s still your favorite, even though he’s dead, even though he screwed up our lives forever!” I was shouting really loud by now. “All I’ve ever done is be normal, and this is the thanks I get.”
“Henry,” my mom said. She started to cry.
Dr. Dumbass was licking his lips, like he was actually excited. “No, no, this is good, Francine. He’s owning his feelings –”
My furies exploded. I leaped out of my chair and put my hands on his desk. I got inches from his stupid serial-killer face. “Shut the hell up!!”
He wheeled his chair back against the wall. “Henry, you need to take a deep breath.”
That’s when I started talking Robot.
“Dr. Dumbass. You. Are a Moron,” I said in my monotone voice.
“The name is Dumas.”
“Dumbass. Dumbass. Dumbass.” Then I turned to Mom. “Mother-bot. You. Are Pathetic. I Hate You. And I Hate Jesse. You Can Both. Go to Hell. Oh, Wait. Jesse Is Probably. Already There.”
Then I robot-walked out of Dr. Dumbass’s office. The scraggly-haired guy was still in the waiting room, and he laughed when he saw me.
“Stop Laughing. You Freak,” I said to him in Robot. “Freak. Crazy Man. Loon.”
It worked. He stopped laughing. He put his hands up to his face like he thought I was going to hit him, and you know what? For a split second, it gave me a total rush.
Then the rush vanished, and I felt like a total scumbag.
“I. Am Sorry,” I said to the crazy guy in Robot. “Truly. Sorry.”
Then I robot-walked out of the hospital.
Mom and I drove home in silence. She cried the whole way, which made me want to hit her. Get over yourself, I wanted to scream. You think you’re the only one who’s suffering??
But I was done. My furies were gone. I just pressed my cheek against the cold window and closed my eyes.
I spent Thursday in my room. Grams brought me food on a tray and left it outside my door. Today Pop-Pop drove me to the airport. Mom didn’t come.
Pop-Pop tried to talk to me, but I was just way too tired to answer.
“She loves you, Henry. More than anything,” he said as we stood outside the security gate.
I wouldn’t make eye contact. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders and turned to get into the security lineup.
“Aren’t you going to give your Pop-Pop a hug?”
Just before I disappeared behind the frosted glass, I turned back and saw that Pop-Pop was crying.
My stomach churns when I think about that. But Pop-Pop and Grams aren’t innocent. They are accessories to this crime. I’ve read about cases where people seek asylum in a church, like illegal immigrants or refugees who are about to be deported back to their home country. They hide in a house of worship ’cause no one can make them leave. Well, Pop-Pop and Grams are like the church. They are harboring my mother.
And it’s not fair because Dad and I are her rightful country.
5:00 p.m. EST/2:00 p.m. PST
This flight sucks. My TV is broken. And I’m stuck in a middle seat between two fatties. I know I still have some of my own wobblies, but I look like a stick compared to these two. One of them keeps trying to see what I’m writing. The fatties are traveling together, but do you think they’d sit beside each other and let me have the window or the aisle? No. They’re forcing me to stay in the middle, where I am trapped in a sea of roly-poly arms and massive jiggling thighs that spill over into my space.
I think Window Fatty saw what I wrote. She’s no longer trying to look over my shoulder, and she looks like she might cry.
As Alberta would say, Whatevs.
11:00 p.m.
Dad met me at the airport. He gave me a bear hug. “The apartment’s been way too quiet without you,” he said without letting go, and I could tell he was really happy I was back.
At least one parent loves me.
We didn’t talk much in the car. He didn’t ask me how the trip had gone or how Mom was, and that’s when I realized he already knew. He’d already spoken to Mom, and probably to Pop-Pop and Grams, too. He’d heard the gory details.
“You’re still in time for your appointment with Cecil,” he said as we neared Kitsilano. “I called him. He said he’d love to see you.”
I surprised myself because I said, “Okay.”
I told Cecil everything about my visit. I confess I cried a bit, too. He just listened. He may not be a great psychologist, but he’s a great listener.
Sitting in his dinky little office with the crappy furniture and the disgusting carpet, I realized something: I’d missed it. I’d missed Cecil.
And the best part about our session: Even though he’d tried to warn me that my trip might not go as planned? He never once said I told you so.
Dad waited outside in his truck for my entire hour-long session, just so he could drive me home. We parked at the back of the building, by the garbage and recycling bins. New signs were posted above them. I recognized the handwriting. The first one said PLEASE, DO A BETTER JOB OF SEPARATING YOUR GLASS AND PLASTIC CONTAINERS. The second one said PLEASE, QUIT BEING SO ANAL!!
“Mr. Atapattu dropped off a container of chicken curry for us this morning,” Dad told me as we entered the apartment. “He knew you were coming home tonight.”
Dad steamed some rice to go with it, and we ate in front of the TV.
“I love you, Dad,” I said, not taking my eyes off the screen.
“I love you, too, Henry.” He ruffled the top of my head. His eyes looked moist. But I think it was just the spices from the curry.