Watch Over Me (4 page)

I say this quickly and try to gloss over the importance of those words and what they
do to me when I speak them aloud. Dr. Thompson isn't going to be fooled though.

"This is his fifth time in rehab, correct?"

I nod in response, the reality of just how different my life is from a year and a
half ago glaringly obvious.

"How do you feel about the fact that he wasn't able to stay sober all those times
when he got out?" she asks as she folds her hands in her lap on top of the pad of
paper with the pencil sticking up between her fingers.

"Hurt. Sad. Pissed off."

"Your mother's death hit him hard," she states.

"It hit both of us hard. It was unexpected and it shouldn't have happened like it
did. I needed him and he wasn't there for me."

Dr. Thompson unclasps her hands and writes a few things on the paper.

"Do you blame your father for your suicide attempt?"

I cringe when she says the word
suicide
. I don't want to be placed in this category of weak people who have nothing left
to live for and feel like it's their only way out. After all of the soul searching
I've been forced to do since that day at the cemetery, I've realized I don't really
want to die. I just want to feel something other than sadness. Even though I question
God every day, and no longer believe in half the things I was taught growing up in
the Catholic Church, one thing still remains with me. If I took my own life, heaven—if
there even is such a place—is not where I would wind up.

"Yes. No. I don't know, maybe." I sigh irritably in response to her question. "He
crumbled when she died. Just...faded away. It was like I lost both parents in one
day. It was too much."

"I think you have every right to be disappointed in him for his actions. You just
need to remember that he's grieving too. He lost his wife and he'll never get her
back," Dr. Thompson says softly.

"And I lost my mother. At least he can move on someday and find another wife. I'll
never have another mom."

"Meg, can you grab me a dozen of the devil's food cupcakes with the cream cheese frosting
from the back, please?" I yell to Snow's other employee as she disappears through
the swinging door behind the counter while I ring up a customer.

Meg's twenty-two, bubbly, and outgoing—the complete opposite as me, but she reminds
me so much of my old self that I was instantly drawn to her. I had met her during
my mandatory seventy-two hour psych evaluation at Metro Hospital. I still will never
understand how someone like her wound up in a place like a psych ward, which just
shows how out of touch I was with my own mental health. We met just outside the hospital
two hours after I woke up from my sedation when I was permitted five minutes of supervised
fresh air.

"White is obviously not a good color for us. My name's Meg."

She pointed to the white gauze secured around my wrist and then held up her own wrapped
arm.

"We're like the Wonder Twins. Powers activate!"

She bumped her wrist against my own and made the sound of an explosion when she moved
hers away then plopped down on the bench next to me.

"Too bad they don't have pink to match my slippers," she said dejectedly as we both
look down at the fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet.

Meg and I were in separate therapy groups while we were there, so I never found out
what the cause of her suicide attempt was, which I guess is a good thing because that
means she doesn't know my secrets either. It's easy to be friends with someone who
doesn't know about the demons chasing you.

On the day I was released, I saw Meg again outside smoking a cigarette while I waited
for a taxi to take me home. I bummed one off of her, even though I don't smoke, because
she looked like she needed some company.

As I took a drag of my first cigarette, the smoke filled my lungs too quickly and
I began heaving and coughing so hard I thought I would throw up.

"Jesus, did Bill Clinton teach you nothing? Don't inhale, dude," Meg said with a laugh
as she took the cigarette from my hand and pitched it over into the grass.

"You heading out of here today, too?" she asked when I finally managed to stop hacking
up a lung.

"Yep. Just got my walking papers and a long list of therapists I'm supposed to call
as soon as I get home," I told her as she grabbed the list from my hands and skimmed
through it.

"Judgmental, too old, chronic halitosis, don't know that one, this one tried to get
in my pants…oooooh that one is nice," Meg stated as she read each name on my list.
"I think the Wonder Twins should pick that one."

I leaned over her shoulder to see who she pointed to.

"I went to her a few years ago but had to stop when my dad's insurance changed. Now
that I have no job and no real direction in life, the state pays for my insurance
so I can go to whomever I want," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Do you need a job?"

Meg shrugged as she folded up the page of therapist names and handed it back to me.
"Money would be nice. I used to work at a daycare, but they sent me an email yesterday
telling me that I'm no longer good role model material for the children. Um, hello?
Suicidal here! That could have totally pushed me over the edge and they don't even
care," Meg said dramatically.

I didn't even hesitate before offering her a job at the bakery. Meg makes me smile
and she doesn't try to pry into my life. Aside from the day she told me she lost her
job, neither one of us has shared anything more personal with each other. Out of necessity,
I had to tell her my father was "occupied elsewhere" since technically he still owns
the business. She doesn't know that this is his fifth time in rehab or the cause for
his spiral out of control. She doesn't know that I planned on graduating from high
school, fully intent on going to college to become a writer, and I hate my father
a little more each day for forcing me to take on the responsibilities that should
have been his instead of doing something about my own dreams and aspirations. Meg
knows enough to not ask questions. It's the reason why we get along so well.

Weekdays after school lets out are always busy days at Snow's. The best part about
the shop is that it's enjoyed by young and old alike. A group of high school students
can be seen sharing a table with a married couple from the retirement home around
the corner. A mother and her newborn baby often chat and receive advice from a couple
whose son just went off to college. Today is a teacher in-service day at the high
school and it seems like the entire four grade levels of students and teachers have
been shuffling in and out of the shop since we opened at seven o'clock this morning.

Since I was a freshman in high school when my mother opened the store, I had made
the place a teenage hangout from day one. My friends thought it was the best thing
in the world that my mom would give us free snacks after school every day and let
us pretend we were cool by allowing us a cup of coffee to sip on in the mornings.
My mom was always known as the "cool" parent with all my friends, even before she
owned the bakery and the lure of chocolate and cake seduced every teenager within
a mile radius. My mom was the type of parent who would let me have parties every weekend
after the Friday night football games and allowed my friends to drink a few beers
as long as they gave her their car keys and spent the night on the living room floor.
My mom was the one who never gave me a curfew and, instead, trusted me to make the
right decisions and call her if I was ever in trouble. My friends all envied me, but
I never fully appreciated how awesome she was until I got older.

"Hey, who's the hottie that keeps checking you out?" Meg asks as she comes back out
of the kitchen with a tray of cupcakes.

I hand a customer her change and nonchalantly glance over to the corner of the shop
where Meg is looking. My eyes connect with the most piercing blue eyes I've ever seen,
and a tingle runs down my spine. His eyes never leave mine—not to check out the rest
of me like most guys do, nor to look anywhere else around the room even though chaos
surrounds him. I watch his eyes soften and the corner of his mouth start to turn up
into a smile. I feel butterflies in my stomach that I haven't felt in forever and
quickly break the eye contact when I see that he has no intention of doing so. His
blatant staring makes me uncomfortable, like he's trying to see inside me and find
out what makes me tick. I don't need anyone knowing that much about me, especially
a stranger.