In Sight of Stars(38)

Day 8—Afternoon

“What about you, Martin?”

Sarah is gone.

My mother is gone.

Dr. Alvarez is gone.

I’m sitting in group therapy with Sabrina and Martin.

I’m not sure how I got myself to come here, but I know this: If I’m going to get better, and get out, I need to step things up around here.

In addition to the group leader, Dr. Howe, there’s me, Martin and Sabrina, and one other kid about my age. He looks older, but I’m pretty sure this place only goes to eighteen. Maybe it’s the shaved head that makes him seem older. He’s big, too, like a weightlifter. A tattoo of a swastika sticks out from his T-shirt’s white sleeve.

Great. Just great. These are my people now. These are the assholes I’m here with.

His name tag—there was one waiting for me, too, when Nurse Carole walked me down—reads EUGENE in perfect block letters. He’s taken a marker and crossed out EU, leaving just GENE. Hard to blame him. Who gives you a name like Eugene?

Eugene. He must be the one Martin called Euclid. No wonder Martin got it confused.

Gene sits with his chair tipped, teetering on its back two legs, hands clasped behind his head. He wears a look that makes it clear he’s not all that interested in talking to anyone. I’m with him, but still.

I move my eyes away when he glares at me, glance down at my own name tag, staring at the stupid way I wrote the phonetic CLAY above the typed KLEE when I walked in. I wonder if it makes me seem like a tool.

Dr. Howe clears her throat, and I think for a second maybe she asked me something when I wasn’t paying attention. But she’s looking at Martin, not me.

“So, did you want to share anything today?”

Dr. Howe has a soft voice and casual appearance. Short brown hair, no makeup. She looks thirty, at most, maybe younger, wears jeans and a white Henley, and Nike running shoes. If it weren’t for the “PhD” after her name, I’d think she was one of us.

“Not really,” Martin says, and Dr. Howe shifts. “How come it’s always about me in here? How come I’m always the only one who has to talk?”

Sabrina casts me a look. “Maybe because you like to talk?” she says.

“Not true! Not always,” Martin protests. “Not when I’m in a crap mood.”

“Are you? In a crap mood today, Martin? Do you want to talk about why?”

He does seem different today, sullen. Not like the kid in the dining hall who can’t stop chatting about everything. It’s weird to see him deflect. Up till now, he always seems like he likes it to be about him.

“You don’t have to,” Dr. Howe, says, “but Sabrina spoke last during yesterday’s session, and Gene led us in the mindfulness portion, and Klee is new here, so I thought we’d give him time to warm up. And, we haven’t heard from you yet.” My eyes shift to Gene again. I’m stuck on the mindfulness thing. Hard to picture the dude leading that. “It can be something simple. Like, how was your weekend? Did you have any visitors? Whatever you might be willing to share.”

Martin stares down at his feet.

“I did,” I pipe up. I feel bad for the kid. If he isn’t talking, he must really not want to.

“My mother came to see me Saturday morning. I wasn’t really that nice. I said she could come back this morning, and that didn’t go much better.”

Dr. Howe nods, making me feel okay about chiming in. Not that I want to continue now that I’ve started. She shifts her chair to face me better and says, “I’m glad you spoke up, Klee. Do you want to talk a little more about that?”

“Not really,” I say. “I was just trying to help Martin.” Martin laughs, and I see the corners of Sabrina’s mouth curl up, too. I avoid looking at Gene, finding one of Dr. Alvarez’s stress balls in my sweatshirt pocket. I squeeze it hard, the Adler quote coming partly back to me. Something about being too cautious, taking too many precautions in life.

“I know I need to deal with it, talk to her. It’s just … I’m not ready. Some things have happened and I’ve been kind of emotional.” As soon as I say it, I realize how dumb it sounds. Of course I’m emotional. Why else would I be in here? Still, Dr. Howe nods. I squeeze the stress ball harder. “My mother … is not. Not emotional, I mean. She’s the opposite. After my father died…” I stop. Take a deep breath. “Let’s just say she’s one of those people who is always glued together. Perfect. Fine. No matter what happens. It’s so fucking irritating…”

My voice trails off. My mother’s coldness isn’t the problem, not even the tip of iceberg. But it’s all I’m willing to share. Especially with some doctor I don’t know and some twelve-year-old. Not to mention a psycho with a Nazi tattoo on his arm.

Besides, my mother is who she is. And from the looks of it, she’s way better off how she is, than I am.

“I know it’s all for show. I’m not an idiot. I’m sure she’s the farthest thing from always perfect and calm. It’s the show that I hate. It makes her superior. But it also makes her a liar and a fraud.”

All four of them are looking at me now.

Fuck. What made me think I wanted to go there?

I shut up, shove both hands deeper into my pockets, and squeeze the ball. I need to breathe. I need to not get choked up. Not in front of Swastika Gene.