The number is from Florida, according to caller ID. There’s only one person I know who lives in Florida, and I’m not sure I want to talk to him. I hold the phone in my hand and let it vibrate once, twice, three times. Before it shunts the call to voicemail, I thumb-swipe to answer.
And I pretend.
I’m so good at pretending.
After brief hellos, Dr. Kennedy says, “I’m going to be in town this weekend. Do you think you have time to let an old man buy you a Coke?”
This is what he always says when he’s coming to town. Dr. Kennedy was my therapist for most of my life—I literally cannot remember a time when I didn’t speak to him regularly. About a year ago, he retired and moved to Florida—“Because this is what old people do,” he said, somewhat gravely. By then, I was officially done with my therapy, but I still saw him once a month or so. “Just to keep up,” he would say.
He moved, but he still comes back to Brookdale two or three times a year, usually in the spring or summer, and each time, he calls me and offers to buy me a Coke. Each time, I tell myself I won’t go, that there’s no need to. And then that, okay, I’ll go, but I won’t talk about anything that matters. And each time, he manages to wrangle me into talking about important things, about things that matter, about things that are buried deep—like in a memory hole—and leaves me thinking it was somehow my idea.
He came to Brookdale over the summer, and I genuinely couldn’t meet him for that famed Coke; I was too busy with the YouTube channel, and that seems so ridiculous now.
A month ago. And now he’s back already.
“This is quite a coincidence,” I say casually.
“Not a coincidence at all. I spoke to some people at your school today.”
Dr. Kennedy is not a bullshitter or one to conceal. He’s bluntly honest, sort of the polar opposite of every psychiatrist on TV and in movies. Popular culture woefully underprepares us for actual therapy. He has never once asked me, “How does that make you feel?” or “What do you think that means?” He’s more likely to tell me what I feel or what something means.
“You don’t have to come up here because of that,” I tell him.
“At my age, there aren’t many things I do have to do. This is something I want to do.”
“Come on…”
“I didn’t get to see you last time I was in town. I keep up with very, very few of my former patients, Sebastian. Did you ever stop to think that I regretted missing you last time, and I’m happy for this opportunity?”
The truth is: No. No, I never stopped to think any of that. Dr. Kennedy has a way of saying something nice that makes me feel guilty, anyway.
“I want us to revisit the question of hypnotherapy.”
So. He’s definitely spoken to Ms. de la Rosa.
“We’ve been through it before, Dr. Kennedy.”
And we have. So many times. If you could remember, it might help you get past it.
And I countered: Isn’t it just as likely that not being able to remember is my way of getting past it?
That would be true. If. If you were truly past it. And I don’t believe you are.
“You’ve refused in the past for very good reasons,” he says, “reasons I understand and respect. But I’d like to discuss it again. Can you do me a favor and be prepared to talk about this again, with an open mind?”
And of course I can. Because for Dr. Kennedy I can and would do anything. I promise him to be prepared, to discuss the issue with an open mind, and I hang up and I know it doesn’t matter what I’ve promised because I will not live to have the conversation in the first place.
I’m so good at pretending.
I’m a liar.
To every person in my life, to everyone I know.
I’ve never told the truth. I’ve lied to them all.
To my mom. To Evan. To Dr. Kennedy. To Aneesa.
Everyone keeps saying that if I could remember, it would help. That’s what they’ve said all along.