Gone, Gone, Gone(9)

Her name is Adelle. We’ve been meeting for two months now, so, in therapist-time, we’re basically best friends. She’s not so hard to talk to, probably because I know she can’t get bored of me and walk away. She doesn’t care that there isn’t much to me. She still gets paid.

So today I tell her about Craig, and looking for the animals, and kissing him. She says she didn’t know I was gay. I say that’s pretty stupid, since I’ve definitely mentioned my Gerard Butler dreams, and did she think those were purely metaphorical?

“I was practically there when that man got shot,” I say.

“Really. In Glenmont today?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting,” she says, and then doesn’t speak for a minute. “So, do you feel like you escaped something?”

“Not really. Why would someone kill me?”

“I don’t know,” she says, in this way like she’s leading me, but what else am I supposed to feel? I’m not going to walk around worrying that someone’s going to shoot me.

She lets us sit there in silence for a minute. Then she says, “So how do you feel about kissing Craig?”

I chew on my fingernails. No words are coming to me.

“Are you interested in him?” she asks.

This is a euphemism. Do you like him? was the euphemism in grade school. Now it’s Are you interested in him?

I’m interested in Craig because Craig is interesting. He’ll talk forever, and he never worries about saying something stupid. I once heard him have an entire conversation with himself about whether he should bring his biology book to history or come back and grab it between classes. He didn’t know I was listening, but once he realized I was there, he wasn’t embarrassed. He went right back into his conversation, his head, his world. Seriously, five minutes on whether to bring his biology book.

He’s unscared and he’s interesting. He has a menagerie and funny clothes and a good sense of humor.

That’s not what Adelle wants to know. She wants to know if I’m interested in Craig.

I shrug. Yes.

I like him.

I want to share my lunch with him. As long as we’re talking grade school, this is how I feel.

Back when we used to IM all the time, before I met him, he told me this, in a series of messages—so just so you know, im not really a fifty-eight-year-old fat guy or anything, but i thought you should know, in case my appearance was of any consequence to you, that im not exceptionally gorgeous or anything and i really couldnt win people’s sexiest man alive, no matter what that cashier at the supermarket said. youre probably straight, so i doubt this is real important to you, but i kinda thought you should know, just in case you thought the school chose me as an ambassador for my eight-pack or golden blond hair or something.

So I said okay. But then I saw him. His hair might not be golden blond—he’s black, so that would be a little weird—but his eyes kind of are. That zip-up red hoodie he wears makes him look like he just got back from apple picking. And God I need to shut up because I might be growing a vagina.

Adelle says, “Lio?”

“I’m listening,” I say. But she isn’t saying anything.

She laughs a little. “That’s not exactly how this is supposed to work.”

Sometimes I hate therapy.

I pick up the Play-Doh and start building a snowman. Therapist’s offices always come equipped with things to do besides pay attention.

“Looking forward to the holidays?” she asks, watching me.

That’s sort of a stretch. Snowmen are really easy to make out of Play-Doh. “I’m Jewish.”

“I didn’t say Christmas.”

That’s true. Damn.

“I don’t care,” I say.

This is a bad session, and it’s my fault. I try very hard to use my therapy time well. That’s why it’s all the more depressing that I still need it.

Get better. Get better. Everyone wants you to get better.

“Do you want to talk about the shootings?” Adelle asks.

“Two random shootings.”

“If you think they’re stupid, why did you bring them up?”

“Thought you’d be interested.”

“Why?”

I pull my snowman into pieces. “It’s the kind of thing people always care about. I almost had a near-death experience.”

“And?”

She has me talking and she knows it.

I say. “Almost having a near-death experience is the next best thing to actually having one. If you want to be interesting.”

“And having a near-death experience is the next best thing to actually dying?”

I shrug.

Adelle makes a note on her pad. It looks like a check mark. She says, “So do you feel like it was a near-death experience?”


What? “No.” I step on my shoelace and pull it out of its bow. “But . . .”

“Talk.”

“Just . . . I didn’t almost die in nine eleven.”

“Yes?”

“Neither did my friends. But . . . for a long time, we kept comparing. Who was closer to almost dying. Closer to the towers. Trying to beat each other.”

“And you didn’t like that?”

“Proximity isn’t a merit badge. It doesn’t actually mean anything.” I put my snowman back together. This time, I give him a hat.