We Are Not Ourselves(109)

“We’re almost done with this part,” Dr. Khalifa said. “One more question and then I’m going to have you do some physical things.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me something. Do you know who the current president is?”

If he wanted to insult him, this was a perfect way to do it. She almost wanted Ed to answer sarcastically or deliberately incorrectly, but she didn’t want the doctor to have the satisfaction of writing it down on that little pad of his.

Ed sat with it; maybe he was coming up with a witty riposte.

“I know it’s a Republican,” he said. “I know that.”

“Can you tell me his name?”

Ed pulled on his chin. “Reagan?” he asked. “Is it Reagan? I can see his face. It’s not Reagan, is it? This is embarrassing.”

“You know this, Ed,” she said. The doctor gave her a look; she wanted to smack his face.

“I can see him,” Ed said. “I just can’t recall the name.”

Dr. Khalifa wrote something down. She wanted to call the answer out. The whole thing was so stupid. She couldn’t believe he was letting him dangle there like this. Ed looked ruined, as if he had failed a test not merely of memory but of character.

“Give it a second,” Dr. Khalifa said. “Sometimes it’s hard to think of a given thing when you have to. Think of something else. It might come to you.”

“White elephants,” Ed said.

“Something like that.”

Ed rubbed the top of his head, as if to massage the answer from his scalp. He let out a deep sigh. “I can’t remember,” he said. “Who is it?”

“Bush,” the doctor said. “George Bush.”

“Yes! That’s it! I knew it. God, I knew it! I could see his face. Of course! His running mate. It’s easy to confuse them.”

The doctor said nothing, just continued to write on his pad.

She thought of the time she’d had to memorize the presidents and their dates of service. She remembered Sister Alberta calling them up one by one to the front of the room to answer one question each, Sister asking her which president followed Teddy Roosevelt. So many W names surrounded Roosevelt—to this day she could remember them: William McKinley, William Howard Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Warren G. Harding. Though she had memorized them conscientiously, at that moment they ran together in her mind. She was terrified of being called stupid in front of the class. Her heart began to race; then her mind went blank, so she could picture only the hazy outlines of names. “Now, Miss Tumulty,” Sister said, and when Eileen said,“William Wilson,” laughter exploded in the room.

“You’re right,” she said. “It is easy to confuse them.”

Ed looked guiltily at her, as if she were on Dr. Khalifa’s side and not his. She shifted her chair closer to him. The doctor seemed to write endlessly.

“Just one more thing I have to get down here,” he said, holding up a finger as he wrote. “Perfect. Now I’d like you to change into shorts. I’m going to have you do some exercises for me.”

They went into the next room and she helped him change. It felt like she was getting him ready for gym class. She wondered what humiliations awaited him. Dr. Khalifa came in and had him touch his toes from a standing position and rise from a seated one. He had him jog in place. He took notes throughout. Ed looked to her between exercises. She tried to give encouragement. When Dr. Khalifa told him to touch his finger to the tip of his nose, Ed had a hard time doing it.

“I’m not drunk,” he said. “I promise. Although I might get drunk after this.”





43


They were waiting for his father to pull the car up after Mass. It had snowed, and his mother didn’t want to walk in it. Another light dusting was coming down, and his mother held an umbrella over both their heads while they waited.

“You’re going nowhere with baseball. You know that.”

The comment might have stung more if Connell hadn’t known it was more about debate than baseball. His mother had been on him lately to join the debate team.

“I like baseball,” he said.

“Liking it is one thing. Spending your time doing it is another. You don’t have to like everything you do. Besides, you’d like debate. You’re naturally competitive. You get that from my side.”

“Why do you want me to do debate so badly?”

“I want you to make the most of your advantages. I want to see you use your talents wisely.”

“You want me to be a senator,” he said.

“I want you to be happy.”

“President of the United States.”

“Don’t try to make me out to be some fire-breathing dragon. So I want to push you a little. So what?”

He stood in silence, thinking about it. So what, indeed? The shoveled driveway across the street was getting recoated in a sheen of snow. It might be nice to own a house like that someday, to be able to hire someone to shovel. But he had no interest in joining the debate team. Those guys were always on the verge of cutting your throat.

“What does Dad say?”

“Your father and I both want what’s best for you.”

“What does he say?”

“What does your father say?” She laughed. “?‘Leave the kid be,’ he says. ‘Let the kid do what he wants. Let him have some happiness. Let him have some innocence while he still has time.’?” She was getting worked up. Some people walking past on the way to their car jerked up their heads. “?‘All that matters is that the kid experience joy.’ If you must know, that’s what he says. And you know what I say?” There was a fierce expression on his mother’s face. “I say give the kid a chance to make a real mark. Those debate kids are the ones who get the best grades in the school. Get him among them, is what I say. Those are the kids who go to Ivy League colleges. Let him get into a topflight school with them, become a lawyer, a politician. Those are the kids who take home awards and scholarships. What’s wrong with his being one of them? What’s wrong with his making a nice living? Being comfortable?”