My therapist, Dr. Blake, has an office filled with toys that are way too young for me. She wears glasses and a gypsy skirt and a huge sweater that must belong to her husband. I think she’s been a hippie most of her life. I’m supposed to call her April, not Dr. Blake.
“Can you tell me about your friend who died?” asks April. She adjusts her glasses and smiles.
I’m fiddling with the clay she gave me, pushing it into a pot, then flattening it out and starting over again. I don’t really like talking about Lark, but she keeps trying to force me.
“How did you know her?” she tries again.
“She lived down the street,” I say.
“What was she like?” she asks.
She’s persistent; I’ll say that for her. She’s not about to stop asking me questions. My mom says I’ve got to try to say what I’m feeling, only I’m not feeling anything, except sort of jumpy at night when I think Lark might be coming.
“She used to babysit me. After my father left. But then she stopped and then she died.”
I’ve formed the clay into a perfect little pinch pot. If I had a bird, I’d put the bowl in its cage for water.
“Tell me about your father,” she says.
“My father doesn’t live with us anymore,” I answer. “He lives with Hallie.”
It’s much easier to talk about my father than Lark, so I tell April the whole story—how Hallie used to work for my dad at the museum, how they fell in love, how my dad left my mom and moved in with Hallie and her sons. Their names are Anders and Zeke. They’re twins. Age eight. Noisy. Sometimes I run into my dad and the twins when I’m out with my mom. They play football in the park and buy rockets at the hobby store. Zeke’s hair is so curly, it bounces.
“And how does it make you feel?” asks April. “Seeing your dad playing with the boys? Knowing he left to go live with another family?”
I smash the bowl with my fingers.
“Well . . . ,” I start. I decide to speak with long pauses between all the important words, which is what some grown-ups do when they’re angry. April leans forward to encourage me. Her big hippie skirt has spread to a half circle on the floor.
“I used . . . to feel . . . sad. But now . . . I don’t . . . care.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s better if people are happy. If Hallie makes my dad happy, then he should be with her. Then he will be a better father for me.”
“That sounds like a thought, not a feeling.”
“I like thoughts. They’re better than feelings.”
This ends up being a stupid thing to admit. April takes a few notes on her yellow pad, which is a sign that she’s about to zero in on something.
She puts her pencil down. “All right then. Thoughts it is. I want to get back to Lark before we have to go. Where do you think she is?”
“She’s not really anywhere,” I answer. “She’s dead.”
“Your mom tells me you talk to her sometimes.”
I’m peering down at my clay, studying how it captures my fingerprints. I’m going to let this one pass.
“Do you believe in an afterlife?” April asks.
I believe in trees, I think. But I would never say this out loud. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell April about trees unless she specifically asks, which she never will. How many people know about dead girls and trees?
I decide not to talk for the rest of the session. Instead I play with the clay.
The clock ticks. Dr. Blake watches me but doesn’t ask any more questions.
“All right then,” she says finally. “See you next week.”