Heinz. H-E-I-N-Z. Like the ketchup.”
Casey had been saying “like the ketchup” since before he’d even learned how to write the actual letters. It was the same phrase his mother had used every time she introduced herself or gave her name over the phone—at least, back when her last name had still been Heinz. For a whisper of a moment in grade school he had abandoned the family line, as a symbol of protest against the oozy red condiment that every other child seemed to consider culinary heaven. Instead, he invoked a new twist, telling people to spell the name like Teresa Heinz Kerry. He was only eleven years old at the time, but quickly learned that he already knew more about current political events than most adults.
The woman behind the counter gave him a polite smile and promised to be back “in a jiff.”
More than a jiff passed—at least by Casey’s definition—so he took a seat in one of the fancy modern chairs in the lobby area. He remembered Ramona spinning around in one of these at the Design Within Reach studio one day. It was the kind of store that Casey would get rushed out of if he ever walked in alone, but Ramona and her friends looked like they belonged. Ramona loved walking into that store the way some people love to roam museums. She was into the whole mid-century modern vibe. More than once she said she felt like she was meant to be born earlier, back when pregnant women smoked and men drank three martinis at lunch.
What had she called this chair? A butterfly? Camel? No, it was a swan. Casey hadn’t seen the resemblance, but Ramona showed him how the lines at the edge of the seat arched backward like the angle of a swan’s neck. He reached behind him and ran both hands across the slope of the cushion, remembering Ramona spinning like a child, staring up at the ceiling to make herself dizzy.
Casey liked to pretend that he was comfortable in his own skin, able to waltz into this doctor’s office and give his name at the reception desk like he belonged, but he was relieved when he heard the door to the lobby open, followed by the entrance of his friend Brandon.
“Hey, man. You said you’d be here by eleven.” Casey had intentionally arrived five minutes late so Brandon would already be there first.
“Sorry,” Brandon said. “Subways were fucked.”
“Which line did you take?”
“The A.”
Casey had sailed to the Upper West Side without problems, but he’d taken the 1.
Brandon was offended by the cross-examination. “Damn, were you checking to see if I was lying to you?”
“No. Just, you know, wondering.” Casey had indeed been testing Brandon, but immediately let it drop. He needed to be careful not to scare Brandon away. He liked having at least one male friend on the street.
“Whatever, dude. We’re both here now. She get you hooked up yet or what?”
This office was unlike any of Casey’s previous, limited exposures to doctors. At the clinics he was used to, the lobbies were standing-room-only, for pregnant teenagers, colicky babies, and old bums two quarts shy of liver failure, all battling for a second’s attention from the gum-chewing fat ladies juggling phones behind the desk. This place felt more like a living room, with its designer chairs, fireplace, and piped-in classical music.
Casey would live here if given the chance.
“All right, Casey. The doctor’s ready for you now.”
Casey looked at Brandon, who had already settled into the next chair with a copy of Sports Illustrated like a waiting father. This was their sixth visit to this office, but Casey still wasn’t comfortable with the entire setup. “You sure you can’t come with me? Maybe it’s, like, more efficient or something for him to meet with us together.”
“No way, dude. The doctor will just kick me out if we try that. Just do like I said. Like you’ve been doing every time, man.” Brandon lowered his voice and held the magazine up to hide his lips from the receptionist’s view. “Answer all his questions with half the truth, but really exaggerated—like you’re totally bummed out or majorly psyched. And maybe remember to add the thing about touching the phone booths. Every single one. And if you try to pass one, you wind up circling back. Try to get that in there somehow. But, with each visit, tone it down a little. Not as much today as last time.”
As Casey followed the receptionist to the heavy oak door at the end of the hallway, he felt a little guilty that he allowed Brandon to believe he was still playing games with the doctor. Brandon had his own agenda and was the one to first bring Casey here, nearly two months ago, but Casey hadn’t been able to go along with it. Maybe they’d wind up messing up this doctor by pretending to be something they weren’t. Or maybe there were side effects or something that could screw his brain up.
But Casey hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, either. Even now, he was still excited to be here. Sure, he’d been sent to “counselors” before, but that had been in Iowa. And they’d all been hell-bent on fixing his supposed delusions. There was usually a lot of prayer involved. They weren’t real doctors like this guy, let alone successful city psychiatrists. As much as Casey liked to tell himself he was fine—it was other people in the world who had a problem—he had to wonder if maybe a nineteen-year-old living on the streets for the last two years might be in legitimate need of some fine-tuning in the head department.
He glimpsed back one more time at Brandon, who mouthed an urgent command to “go on.”
As he let the doctor’s office door close behind him, Casey reminded himself of the vow he’d taken on that first visit, a promise not to waste this opportunity. The chance to have a real, honest one-on-one with a legit top-notch shrink was more important than the plan that had originally brought him here. When the doctor had begun asking him the usual questions, Casey had answered them—not as Brandon had coached, but in his own way. He answered truthfully. He told the doctor everything.
Forty-five minutes later, he exited the office. Brandon was still in the lobby but now had the sleeves of his sweater hitched up to his biceps, a cotton swab taped over a vein near the crook of his left arm. He cradled a Ziploc baggie filled with pills in his lap and looked at Casey with anticipation.
“Dude, what took so fucking long? It’s usually takes me, like, ten minutes.”
Casey flashed him a quick thumbs-up, and Brandon broke out into a broad grin. Two minutes later, after a quick blood draw, Casey had an identical Ziploc bag and a hundred bucks in his back pocket. But he was even happier about having someone he could talk to.