Authors: Ellen Hopkins
She’s good. She’s very good. “Come
on, Martha. Why ask questions you
already know the answer to? Besides
our resident Bohemian woods dwellers,
Cottage Grove is a relatively conservative
community. All those factory workers
may love their weed and claim to be all
about equal rights, but let’s face it.
We’re eighty percent white-bread here,
and don’t much talk about which way we
lean, and if you figure high school jocks
into that mix, this wasn’t a great place
for Luke to come into the world gay,
you know? Man, I begged him to play
straight, and he acted the part pretty
well. Whatever his attraction, it’s not like
he was out cruising for boy dates anyway.
He was too young to have the first idea how
to go about such a thing. But then the wrong
person overheard the wrong conversation,
and that person, well, as I’m sure you’ve
already intuited, he was supposed to be
my friend, but that’s how the whole thing
got started and . . .” Vince and I were
pretty great friends growing up, in fact.
We ran in a pack—Marshall, Vince, Doug,
and me. Luke always wanted to tag along,
which would have been okay had I been
in charge. But the other guys didn’t think
he could keep up and were mortified
to have a little kid attached like a tail
whenever there were girls around,
especially since most females found
Luke just “so darn adorable.” Then, as
we got older, my buddies and I were doing
things no younger brother should witness.
“Yeah, I was defriended because of Luke.
Obviously they weren’t very good friends.”
Only Marshall didn’t blink an eye,
mostly because, big confession, his favorite
uncle is gay:
Big effing deal. Why should
I care if Uncle Ken is in love with a dude?
It’s not like he gives me all the filthy
details. And man, can that Taylor cook!
Tell Luke to be sure and find someone
who knows how to make homemade
pizza.
See, that is why I love Marshall.
But I leave that off the table. “Anyway,”
I tell Martha, “I still have decent friends,
not to mention a girlfriend to die for.”
Tongue Slips
Are making this conversation
so tiresome. Martha stares at me
quizzically. “Not literally expire
for. Man, can’t I use a colloquialism
without inspiring paranoia?”
No comment. Instead, she asks,
What about your nightmares?
I could lie, but what’s the point
of therapy if I don’t admit, “I still
have them from time to time. But
not nearly as often as I used to.”
She looks unconvinced.
When
was the last time you had one?
Confession, I’ve heard, is good
for the soul. And that’s why I’m here,
isn’t it? “A couple of days ago.”
Her gray head nods expectation.
Did something specific trigger it?
Just hours ago I was dying—er,
I mean, anxious—to discuss Hayden
with an impartial third party. Yet, now
reluctance forms like a big glob
of phlegm in my throat. “I—uh—I’m
not sure. Maybe it’s because . . .”
Oh, what the hell? “I think it had
something to do with Hayden. We got
into a couple of arguments and I started
thinking about losing her. I don’t know
if I could handle losing someone else.”
I hate to point this out, but loss
is inevitable. You’re young and . . .
Even as my mouth spills the words
“I know,” my head swivels side to
side in the negative. “Okay, I know
we’re young. But why does that have
to mean we can’t last? Some people
who fall in love in high school stay
together for the rest of their lives.
Why couldn’t that be Hayden and me?
I hate how people make promises,
then turn around and break them.
I hate how everything good turns
to shit eventually. I hate when . . .”
I’m Panting Anxiety
Wheezing air like I just completed
a dozen wind sprints, Dad yelling
at me to
hurry. Move it. Why can’t you
run like your brother?
Yeah, Dad.
Luke outran me all the way to hell,
which is about the time I started getting
mild anxiety attacks. Guess I’ll have to
catch up to him there. Martha sighs.
Deep breaths, Matt. In.
Pause.
Out.
Pause.
Remember what I showed
you last time.
She lifts her hands,
rotates her palms upward for in. Pause.
Turns them toward the floor for down.
Directing my breathing like a symphony.
It’s fascinating to watch, and without
really thinking about it, I collect myself—
oxygen intake and blood pressure start
to normalize, and I can breathe comfortably
again. “Man. You are really good.
Do you come in a portable model?”
She grins.
The whole point of therapy
is giving you the necessary tools to use
on your own, so a portable me is
unnecessary. You should be practicing
this exercise at home. Proper oxygen
intake always makes a person process better.
I almost hesitate to return to our earlier
discussion, but why are you worried
about losing Hayden? You obviously
care very much about her. Do you not
think she feels the same way about you?
She sits patiently while I consider
the straightforward question. “I do,
at least most of the time. But lately
we seem to argue a lot, and since I know
you’ll ask, over ludicrous stuff like jealousy.”
The Soft Chime
Of an alarm means our session
is technically over. Technically,
because Martha refuses to honor
alarms. She shuffles in her seat.
Our time’s up, I know, but
I can’t let you go without
saying that jealousy is far
from being ludicrous.
It’s the impetus for many
bad things, including breakups.
And now we slip into a short,
terse-because-we’re-already-
running-a-few-minutes-late Q & A.
Q:
Who’s jealous? You or her?
A: “Both of us, actually.”
Q:
Are the reasons real or imagined?
I almost say hers are invented,
mine one hundred percent spot-on,
but that even sounds warped to me. So,
A: “I really wish I knew.”
Beyond the Inner Sanctum Door
There is noise in the waiting room.
Martha’s next victim is also running
a little late, which gives Martha
the leeway to add,
Well, since I can’t
talk to Hayden, you’ll have to do it. Open
up. Tell her what’s bothering you,
without accusation. Discourse is a two-way
street, though. Be sure to ask what’s on
her mind, and listen without comment
until she’s finished. Communication
is the key to success in any relationship,
but you have to be forthright. Love is a fragile
thing, easily destroyed by dishonesty.
Just remember to be honest with yourself
first. Otherwise, there’s really no point.
She smiles at my obvious eye roll, stands
to let me know I have been dismissed.
All right, then. Go forth. Cause no mayhem.
Decent Session
I leave, feeling marginally better
about myself, Hayden, even my lack
of friends. They were nothing
but deserters, and who needs
traitorous pals blurring the focus
of your life? Perspective. That’s exactly
what I needed today, and Martha is great
at allowing me a broader view without
accusing me of being a freak for not
having it in the first place. She’s okay.
I wish Mom would talk to her instead
of bending her pastor’s ear, expecting
the dude to be a human conduit to
the Great Therapist in the Sky. But
my parents seem to believe therapy
is only useful when you’re young
and not quite over your brother’s
suicide. What about the self-inflicted
death of your favorite son? At least,
your favorite until it turns out he’s gay.
I Almost Call Martha Myself
When I get home and find Mom well
on her way to an alcohol-fueled meltdown,
instead of busting her butt not selling real
estate due to the economy. She’s in the den,
knees tucked beneath her on the window
seat, and the gentle light through the glass
does nothing to soften the blotchiness
of her face. She’s been crying for a while.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, certain
I don’t want to hear her answer
or jump into this conversation.
Too late.
He. Wants. To leave. Me,
Matthew.
Tobacco spices her breath,
and gin punctuates the sentence.
“Dad?” Ridiculous question, like,
duh, she means Dad. “Did he say so?”
She coughs up a laugh.
He never
says anything, does he? Not even
when Luke . . .
Fresh tears splash
from her eyes.
No, he hasn’t said
so yet. But he will. And I don’t know
what I’ll do when he finally finds
the guts to tell me that’s what he wants.
What Would Martha Say?
I draw from today’s session, put on
my best therapist face. “I have no idea
exactly what brought this on, but just
today I was informed by an expert that
communication is the key to every
relationship. Why don’t you just ask
him if that’s what he’s got on his mind?
I mean, there’s no use stressing over
something that may not happen at all.
And even if that is his plan, isn’t it
better to know for certain now, rather
than wait for him to spring it on you?”
She regards me with swollen eyes.
It isn’t real until he makes it real. Until
then, it’s better to worry in private.
I should just let it drop, but what
the hell, I’ve got a little time to kill,
and I shouldn’t be the only one forced
to regurgitate his secrets. “I’m going
to be real direct here, Mom. Seems to
me you and Dad haven’t had much
of a relationship for a long time.
Would it be the end of the world
if the two of you got a divorce?”
Her body visibly tenses.
I need
a cigarette.
She straightens her legs,
preparing to stand, but takes the time
to answer.
No, Matthew, the world
wouldn’t end. But I can’t let that
happen, because then, he’d win.
Not sure which Mom I hate seeing
more—the broken-down blubbering
one, or the steel-hearted bitch.
I watch the latter go off in search
of a nicotene fix, and as I get to my
feet, notice a newspaper Mom left
folded back to the announcements
page. My eyes skim for offending
news, settle quickly on a divorce notice:
Plaintiff Lorelei Crabtree versus
Defendant Dale Crabtree . . .
Lorelei.
Dad’s old girlfriend just became free again.
Which, to a Point
Explains Mom’s weeping jag.
But I still don’t know
if she was crying from fear
that Dad might leave her
or crying from anger because
now it might be a little easier