History Is All You Left Me(73)
I keep moving and get into the cab. I don’t turn back to look at Jackson. I lower the windows and take in the smells one final time because I will never return. Thinking about home is what helps me through the slow crawl of the airport—the faces I can turn to once I’m back, the only faces I can trust.
The plane takes off on schedule. The heights and helplessness don’t bother me this time around. There are some strong winds, and when the plane sways unexpectedly, it feels like my heart drops to my stomach. But I don’t freak out or wish Jackson or anyone is here beside me. I just stare out the window, wondering what it would be like to have this view if the plane actually crashed.
Friday, December 16th, 2016
I’m going to therapy this morning because a promise is a promise. And unlike some others, I want to honor mine. I leave my gryphon pins inside the drawer with the rest of Theo’s belongings and change into one of my own sweaters instead of his hoodie. My dad is accompanying me to my first session, to be there for me. I suspect he also wants to make sure there’s zero chance I’ll hop on a plane and never come back.
“Shotgun, Griff?” Dad asks as we get into the car.
“I’m good,” I lie. He should know better than to ask me to sit on his right on the very morning we’re going to see someone about my compulsions. He’s still angry with me, not that I blame him.
I stretch out in the backseat and cover my face with my peacoat. Theo used to get concerned whenever I slept with the comforter over my head, like I was going to suffocate by the time he woke up next to me. I didn’t get to wake up next to Theo too often—not romantically, at least, since we had plenty of sleepovers—but the times we did get to catch each other’s eyes opening were great. But I won’t dwell on them. He moved on.
I have to do the same.
Twenty minutes or so later, the car stops. I hear my dad’s seatbelt click and retreat back into its metallic reel. My jacket slides off of me. “Wake up, we’re here . . .” He looks me dead in the eye, and I turn around, hiding my face against the backrest. “Griffin, it’s okay to cry.”
I snatch my jacket back, putting it on as I get out of the car. I walk toward the boxy clinic, which looks less like a serious institution and more like a daycare for future criminals currently still in diapers—gray bricks, garden-green window frames, and a dark blue door with sunrays painted around the knob. I don’t get what they’re going for, but I wish my parents’ insurance offered more than this.
As I walk in, I determine the best spot for me in the waiting room. I go for the chair on the wall opposite the entrance because the desk clerk and offices are all to my right from this position. Spread out on the table are bullshit tabloid magazines. A mother-type sitting next to the potted plant is reading a newspaper. There were a couple of times I tried getting into the newspaper after Theo and I broke up, because of something he said while we were dating: “Some people know a lot about a little, others know a little about a lot.”
I wanted to be more like him, someone who knew a little about a lot, so our conversations would never lose steam, so we could learn what makes this universe tick together. Pointless.
Dad walks in and heads straight for the counter, glancing my way like I’m someone who cut in front of him in line. I’ve seen his frustration a lot since getting home. I keep resisting his good guy–ness because I don’t deserve it, and that pisses him off. Dad signs me in and sits quietly next to me, to my right, picking up some magazine and flipping past pages of celebrity gossip and who wore the dress better until he finds the film reviews.
“Maybe we can go see a movie this weekend? Invite Wade?”
“No thanks,” I tell Dad.
The secretary peeks over her counter. “Griffin Jennings?”
She waves me toward an open door. Thankfully Theo is no longer around, because I wouldn’t want him following me into this appointment. Therapy is supposed to be private, and it’s hard to be fully open with a stranger as it is, let alone with my ex-boyfriend watching my every move.
I let myself in, closing the door behind me. “I’m Griffin,” I say.
The doctor comes out from around the desk. He has this otherworldly, wise-man thing going for him, with the streaks of gray in his jet-black hair and sideburns. His light-orange eyeglass frames are so distracting, I’m tempted to ask him to take them off, but striking him blind won’t do me any favors this session. He’s here to listen, and he’s here to rewire me.
“Good morning, Griffin. I’m Dr. Anderson, but feel free to call me Peter.”
There are five letters in Peter. I’m going to keep it formal with him.
Dr. Anderson invites me to have a seat wherever I’m comfortable.
I’m the compass arrow, trying to find my true north. There’s a blue chair, which is inviting, as well as a deep-green couch, which was Theo’s favorite color. Dr. Anderson sits in front of his desk with excellent posture. That spot is great because I consider that direction to be true north since it’s his office. I stand between the chair and couch, torn. “I’m going to stand for a bit,” I decide.
Dr. Anderson shifts to the edge of his seat. “Perfectly fine. Should I join you?”
“No.” He’s a few inches taller than me and is intimidating enough.
“Shall we begin? Care for a glass of water?”