The Silver Linings Playbook(22)

He nods back wisely and winks, making me feel like I passed the test.

We talk a little more about how I made it through a whole week without having an episode, which is evidence that the drugs are working, according to Cliff—because he doesn’t know I spit at least half of the pills into the toilet—and when it is time for me to go, Cliff says, “I just have one more thing to say to you.”

“What?”

He shocks me by jumping to his feet, throwing both hands in the air, and yelling “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

So I jump to my feet, throw both hands in the air, and yell “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” too.

“E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!” we chant in unison, spelling the letters with our arms and legs, and suddenly I am so happy.

Cliff predicts a 21–14 Eagles victory as he walks me out of his office, and after I agree with his prognosis, we enter the waiting room and my mother says, “Were you two just doing the Eagles chant?”

Cliff raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders at my mother, but when he turns to walk back into his office, he begins whistling “Fly, Eagles, Fly,” at which point I know that I am seeing the best therapist in the entire world.

On the drive home, my mother asks me if Cliff and I talked about anything other than Eagles football during the therapy session, and instead of answering her question, I say, “Do you think that Dad will start talking to me at night if the Eagles beat the Giants?”

Mom frowns, grips the steering wheel a little harder. “The sad reality is he might, Pat. He really might,” she says, and I start to get my hopes up.





Tiffany’s Head Floating over the Waves





When Ronnie picks me up in his minivan—which has three rows of seats—Tiffany is already buckled in next to Emily’s car seat, so I climb into the very back, carrying the football and the bag my mother packed me, which contains a towel, a change of clothes, and a bagged lunch, even though I told Mom that Ronnie was bringing hoagies from the local deli.

Of course my mother feels the need to stand on the front porch and wave, as if I were five years old. Veronica, who is riding in the front passenger’s seat, leans over Ronnie and yells to my mother. “Thanks for the wine and flowers!” My mother takes this as an invitation to walk to the minivan and have a conversation.

“How do you like the outfit I bought for Pat?” my mom says when she reaches Ronnie’s window. She ducks down and takes a long look at Tiffany, but Tiffany has already turned her head away from my mother and is looking out the window at the house across the street.

The outfit I am wearing is ridiculous: a bright orange polo shirt, bright green swimming shorts, and flip-flops. I did not want to wear any of this, but I knew Veronica was likely to make a fuss if I wore one of my cutoff T-shirts and a pair of workout shorts. Since Veronica and my mother have pretty much the same taste, I allowed my mother to dress me—plus, it makes Mom really happy.

“He looks great, Mrs. Peoples,” Veronica says, and Ronnie nods in agreement.

“Hello, Tiffany,” my mother says, sticking her head into the car a little more, but Tiffany ignores her.

“Tiffany?” Veronica says, but Tiffany continues to stare out the window.

“Have you met Emily yet?” Ronnie asks, and then he is out of the car and Emily is unbuckled from her car seat and placed in my mother’s arms. Mom’s voice gets all funny as she talks to Emily, and standing next to Mom, Veronica and Ronnie are all smiles.

This goes on for a few minutes, until Tiffany turns her head and says, “I thought we were going to the beach today.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Peoples,” Veronica says. “My sister can be a little blunt sometimes, but we probably should get going so we can have lunch on the beach.”

My mother quickly nods and says, “Have a good time, Pat,” as Ronnie buckles Emily back into her car seat. Again I feel like I am five.

On the way to the shore, Ronnie and Veronica talk to Tiffany and me the same way they talk to Emily—as if they are not really expecting a response, saying things that really don’t need to be said at all. “Can’t wait to get on the beach.” “We’re going to have such a good time.” “What should we do first—swim, walk the beach, or throw the football?” “Such a nice day.” “Are you guys having fun?” “Can’t wait to eat those hoagies!”

After twenty minutes of non-talk, Tiffany says, “Can we please have some quiet time?” and we ride the rest of the way listening to the yelling noises Emily makes—what her parents claim is singing.

We drive through Ocean City and over a bridge to a beach I do not know. “Little less crowded down here,” Ronnie explains.

When we park, Emily is put into what looks like a cross between a stroller and a 4×4 vehicle, which Veronica pushes. Tiffany carries the umbrella. Ronnie and I carry the cooler, each of us grabbing a handle. We take a wooden walkway over a sand dune covered with sea oats and find that we have the beach all to ourselves.

Not another person anywhere to be seen.

After a brief discussion about whether the tide is coming in or out, Veronica picks a dry patch and tries to spread out the blanket while Ronnie begins digging the umbrella spike into the sand. But there is a breeze, and Veronica has some trouble, as the wind keeps folding the blanket over.