Lakewood(14)

“I can turn the fountain off if the sound is too annoying. What’s your favorite thing to eat?”

“This is cheesy, but I think it’s anything that someone who really loves me has made for me.”

“What is the most unattractive thing a person can do?”

“Pick their nose in public. Or maybe be one of those people who tries too hard to be smart on social media.” Lena relaxed, slouched a little in the chair.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“Something with art, hopefully.”

The room smelled like orange peel today.

“Do you think you could give your life for anyone?”

“Dr. Lisa, are you going to kill me?”

The doctor didn’t laugh.

Lena cleared her throat and sat up straighter, with considerably less enthusiasm. “For my mom, definitely. Maybe for someone I didn’t know if the situation was right.”

“What do you mean, the right situation?”

“Like everything you asked me earlier yesterday.”

The other woman smiled. The fountain started to whirr again as if the motor was dying.

“The questions are a little repetitive.”

“Why are they so murdery?”

The doctor shrugged. She reached into her desk and pulled out a folder.

“Let’s get more specific.”

“Okay.”

“In your school files, it says when you were in fifth grade you were suspended. You picked up your Social Studies textbook and hit a boy in the face.”

“Yes, that did happen.” Lena leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the papers.

Dr. Lisa pulled them closer to her. “Why did you do that?”

“That was around the time my mom was really sick. She needed to regularly use a wheelchair. She had a seizure in the grocery store. Some of the kids at school saw it. So, they started calling her the ‘R’ word. Or started asking me questions like ‘Why aren’t you an “R” like your mom?’ Gross shit like that.” It was more than a decade ago, but Lena’s fists tightened.

“What do you mean, the ‘R’ word?”

“Come on.”

It was the first time Lena’s voice was at its usual register, lower. Every time she had spoken so far—Lena realized only when she had stopped doing it—her voice was slightly higher than usual, a tone meant to please.

Dr. Lisa paused. “Oh. Why do you call it that?”

“Because it’s rude and hurtful.” All of Lena’s willpower went into not rolling her eyes as she spoke.

“Back to your story.”

“One day, we had a substitute teacher. We were watching a movie and that boy turned around and said, ‘My dad said if he had a kid who was “R,” he would kill them.’ And then he said something worse that I can’t remember because the first thing he said broke my brain. I just picked up my book and slapped him with it.”

“Why your textbook?”

“I don’t know. I was mad.” Lena crossed her arms. She looked down at her gray slippers. “I’m sorry that I hurt someone. I feel gross over it. But it’s complicated because I’m also glad I did it. Most of the other kids called me Psycho for the rest of the year, but they stopped talking about my mom.”

Dr. Lisa scribbled on her notepad. Lena shut her eyes.

“Is it possible for me to talk to my mom while I’m here?”

“No. We’re texting her for you.”

Lena nodded. “But you would tell me if there was an emergency?”

“Probably. Have you had other violent reactions?”

That’s a really melodramatic way of putting it, Lena thought. She adjusted her posture, sat up straight, shoulders back. “I poured a drink on a boy who grabbed my ass at a party.”

“Did you pretend it was an accident?”

“No. I turned around and poured it on his sneakers. But I was drunk. I’m sure I would’ve tried to reason it away if I had been sober.”

The doctor nodded. “What makes you angry?”

“Entitled people. That song about happiness. Whenever someone is being treated unfairly for reasons beyond their control—race, gender, sexuality. You know. Sometimes I get deeply pissed off on crowded buses for no reason. The bus can be quiet and no one is sitting next to me, but I just get mad. I think it’s like an animal instinct. When white people use the words ‘fly’ or ‘fresh.’ Sometimes when I hear the word ‘cancer.’ When people make an of-course face when they find out I’ve never met my dad.” She took a breath.

“You could probably do this for another ten minutes, huh?”

“Yeah. I haven’t touched internet hates. Or food.”

“You can stop here,” the doctor said, still writing. “One more question. When I say the word Mom, who do you automatically think of?”

“Grandma.”

Dr. Maggie started the next session by handing Lena two pills. In her hand, they were shiny and black as night. Held up to the light, they were forest green. She washed both down with a full glass of water. They tasted like nothing.

“Your mouth might feel a little curdled around an hour after taking these.”

“That sounds disgusting.”