A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(6)

I open the apartment fridge by Judith’s desk, retrieve a water bottle, and show it to Ms. Li. She nods. There are plastic cups on the desk; I fill one halfway.

While she sips, I say, “You maybe don’t want to hear about how nice this place is, but it’s really great. I know it’s probably not as good as being at home—”

“Ha! The witch’s castle? That’s the only good to come of this!”

“What?”

“My daughter-in-law. Wretched woman. I only stayed in her castle because of Miles.”

“Who’s Miles?”

“My other son.”

“Is he—”

Her eyes shut and force two more tears down her cheeks.

I take her hand. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.”

She squeezes my fingers and holds on.

“Dad!” a muffled voice says in the hall. “Where is she?”

The door swings open—our hands let go—and someone rushes in and kneels before Ms. Li.

He looks about my age, my height, but nothing else is the same. Everything about him is sharp: his cheekbones, his nose, his chin, his shoulders; even his black hair looks like it’s usually neat but now is disheveled and spiky. It reminds me of an angry black cat. I see my hand reaching out to touch—I snatch it back.

The movement catches his eye. He does a double take when he sees my face, caught off guard somehow. He scowls.

“Are you a volunteer?” he asks in a tone that sounds like he’s really asking, Who the hell are you?

“I work here. I’m—”

“You’re not a doctor,” he says. “Or a nurse. You’re just a … just a …”

He turns back to Ms. Li and grabs her hands.

“Just leave us alone.”

I stand and set the water bottle on the desk where they can reach it. Out in the hallway, I look back inside. He’s staring at their clasped hands, whispering.

Ms. Li looks up at me with an expression I’ve seen here many times.

I nod you’re welcome and close the door.

*

After I leave Ms. Li, I get a text. From Annie. I tap the screen.

I need to swing by your

house today.

Bizarre. Must be a mistake. I saw her phone’s address book once and there was no one between Hannigan, Mel and Lewis, Connor. I consider texting Connor about it, but no. They’ll figure it out.

An hour later I find Dr. Jordan sitting by a window with a mug of coffee. The direct sun on his face makes it glow almost as white as his hair.

I sit across from him. “Hey.”

He’s a resident and wants me to call him Piers. It feels too weird, though, so I rarely call him anything directly. He’s a retired psychiatrist but won’t let me call him Dr. Jordan because he’s not my real doctor. Except he kind of is.

“How are you today?” he says.

“Are you asking, or are you asking? If you’re asking, I’m not a danger to myself or others.”

Dr. Jordan watches me over his coffee, amused.

“What?” I say.

“I do so enjoy our time together. You’re like the daughter I never had.”

“Granddaughter.”

He salutes me with his mug.

None of the other ears nearby work very well. I’m free to talk.

“I think my meds need a little adjusting.”

“Feeling mixed? For how long?”

“Today. Right now, at least. I don’t know. I’m revving up but also losing energy.”

“An off day isn’t a cocktail issue. Anything stressing you out at school, or with friends?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want it to be about any of those things. That should count for something.”

He sips his coffee.

“I know,” I say. “I can’t choose how I feel, but I can choose how I think about how I feel.”

“That’s not quite what I said, although I suppose it’s an adequate enough street version.”

I sneer.

“Seriously,” he says. “You need to talk to your doctor. About everything. Not just the meds. I’m not—”

“Not my doctor, I know.”

“I was going to say I’m not going to be around forever.”

He watches me. Usually it’s other people who get uncomfortable with how much I hold eye contact. Now I get a glimpse of how they feel.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” I say and stand up. “That would’ve been a shitty thing to say.”

In the two years I’ve worked here, first as a volunteer and now as an employee, I’ve seen half a dozen residents leave the permanent way—through the roof, as Judith says—including Grandma Cece. I miss her, of course, and all the others who’ve left through the roof, but I really don’t know what I’d do without Dr. Jordan.

I sit back down.

“Sorry.”

“You’ve come a long way, Mel. And in a very short time.”

“Thanks to you.”

“In spite of me. I promised Cece I’d help with life coaching, but we talk so much, it relieves the emotional pressure to engage with your therapist. More proof I was right to give up my practice. If I were doing this properly, I wouldn’t let sentiment and a promise to Cece stop me from cutting you off, to push you into a more productive relationship with your doctor. I shouldn’t be—”