WHEN I WASN’T LOOKING for Schrödinger I spent the rest of the holidays in my room, curled up under my mom’s afghan, breathing in her molecules. It felt so cozy and warm under there that I would often fall asleep and dream about her. She would come to me and hold me to her and whisper into my ear. I could never remember what she’d said, but I always woke up feeling happy—until I remembered where I was.
I think my dad was worried because he made an emergency appointment for me with Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich.
As per usual, Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich did an excellent job of helping me put my feelings into words. I told her that losing Schrödinger made me feel almost as bereft as I had when my mom died, which seemed completely cuckoo.
But Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich didn’t think it was cuckoo. “You suffered a huge loss when your mom died. Schrödinger could never replace your mother, but he filled in a tiny bit of the hole that was left. Now that he’s disappeared, the hole’s expanded again. It reawakens the pain of losing your mother. You have every right to grieve, Stewart. You’re grieving for Schrödinger, but you’re also grieving for your mom.”
Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich is very good at what she does.
What I didn’t tell Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich is that on top of feeling depressed, I am also feeling a lot of anger. Especially toward Ashley.
Albert Einstein once said, “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the universe.” Ashley’s stupidity is infinite. She came into my room on the weekend. I think she was trying to cheer me up. “If Shock Plug doesn’t come back, we can go to the SPCA and get you a new cat,” she said.
I wanted to throw something at her head. “His name is Schrödinger. And I don’t want a new cat.”
“But we could find you a really cute one this time—”
“Shut up, Ashley.”
Suddenly she was tugging at my afghan. “C’mon, Stewart. Get out from under that stupid blanket. All this moping is getting you nowhere, it’s a mute point—”
“Moot point. Not mute point! You call my afghan stupid? My afghan is a genius compared to you! None of this, none of this, would have happened if you hadn’t been such a complete and utter moron!”
Her eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t done. “Not only are you dumb as a post, you’re mean. You’re so worried about yourself and your image you don’t care what happens to other people. Even your own dad!”
“That’s not true,” she started, but I cut her off.
“And to think I was excited to move in with you. All you do is mock me. You call me a nerd, a freakazoid, just because I don’t worry constantly about what other people might think of me, just because I’m smart. If that’s what being a nerd means, then fine. I’d rather be a nerd than a coward.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“You are the Webster’s dictionary definition of a coward,” I said. “I can’t believe I ever wanted you for a sister. Now please—just leave.”
She left. And I crawled back under the afghan.