The Things We Keep(69)

At home, Mom makes her homemade mac ’n’ cheese, and she lets me eat it on the couch.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” she says, sitting beside me. “But I would really like to know what Miranda said to you.”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“Okay,” she says. “Well, is there anything you want to ask me?”

I dig my fork into my bowl. “Was Daddy a bad man?”

I don’t look at her. She is quiet for a few seconds, then I do look.

“Daddy did do some bad things,” she says finally.

“What things?” I ask.

“Well. He took other people’s money and he lied about it.”

“Oh.”

I start to look down, but Mom lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “Is that what Miranda said? That Daddy was a bad man?”

“And … other stuff.”

“What stuff?”

I push my macaroni around, say nothing.

“You don’t want to tell me?” Mom says, and I nod. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me now. But maybe later, when you’ve thought about it, you might tell me then.”

I swallow. “Yeah, maybe.”

I don’t feel like eating anymore, so Mom and I watch some TV. I don’t really pay attention. I’m thinking about what Mom said. Daddy did bad things.

Later, when we’re in bed, I’m still thinking about it. Mom falls asleep quickly and I watch her for a while. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open.

“Mom?” She doesn’t answer, so I tap her shoulder. “Mom?”

Her eyes fly open and she jerks upright. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“Miranda said Daddy killed himself.”

Mom blinks; then her eyes get wide and sad. She sits up.

“Did he?” I ask. “Kill himself?” I wait with my heart booming in my chest.

Mom tries to cuddle me, but I sit back. I need to see her face. Finally she says, “Yes, Clem. He did.” Her eyes are shiny. She reaches for me again, but I move even farther back.

He did.

Daddy killed himself. Daddy was a bad man.

I dive under the covers and cry and cry.





35

It’s hot in Dr. Felder’s office, hot enough to make me want to go back out into the rainy, horrible day. Outside, people scrunch their faces against the wind. Mom is waiting in the room outside. I had an appointment with Dr. Felder anyway, she said, but we were able to move it up, probably because I cried so much last night. Last night, I thought I might never stop crying. Then, this morning, I stopped crying all at once, like I’d suddenly run out of tears.

Dr. Felder is a therapist. She has spiky black hair and red glasses that hang on a chain around her neck. Her nails are painted red, and she has lots of silver rings on her fingers. She also has a lot of toys. A huge dollhouse with lots of rooms, and lots of dolls to go inside it.

She sits on the beanbag next to me, her hands folded in her lap.

“How are you today?” she asks.

“I’m okay.”

“Would you like to play with something?”

“No.”

“How about we just talk, then?”

I trace a line in the swirly carpet with my finger, say nothing.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about, Clementine?”

I miss you every single day. I miss the way we used to play.

“No.”

“Sometimes it can be hard to talk,” she says. “Particularly about things that are painful. But it’s important we talk about things, or they can become stuck inside us. You know that feeling people get in their bellies, when they’re feeling sad or worried about something? It can feel like butterflies or a clenched fist or sometimes it can even make you feel a little bit sick?”

I know the feeling she’s talking about. It’s the one I get when Miranda is around.

“That’s what happens when you hold feelings inside,” she says. “If you talk about what’s bothering you, sometimes that feeling won’t feel quite so bad. And sometimes, it will even go away entirely.”

“My daddy killed himself,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you miss your daddy?”

I shrug. I did miss him. Now I don’t know.

“Sometimes,” Dr. Felder says, “when you lose someone suddenly, the hardest part is not being able to say the things you need to say to them.” She looks at me. “What would you say to your daddy if he were here right now?”

“I’d tell him I was very angry with him.” I look at Dr. Felder’s face, at her funny glasses and spiky hair, and I wonder what she will think about this.

But she doesn’t seem to think anything. “What are you angry about?” she asks.

“I’m angry that he left us.”

“That’s understandable.” Dr. Felder is quiet for a bit.

“And I’m angry that he is a bad man.”

“Oh?” Dr. Felder’s eyebrows rise up. “Why is he a bad man?”

“He did bad things. With people’s money.”

She nods. “It must be hard for you to hear that your dad did bad things.”