Chapter Fourteen
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Iverson
After dropping Maple off at her hotel last night, I immediately went home to research the best ways to deep dive into one’s own mind. The internet unanimously agreed that what I need is A: Therapy, B: Meditation, or C: Both.
I’m taking door B.
I’m not against therapy as a concept, but I don’t have the time to do a proper search and trial phase for a therapist right now.
I need results quickly. Which is why, after sending Ivory instructions to find me a therapist for long-term growth, I booked a “thought room” for my brother and myself at a wellness center in downtown Vexillum.
The room isn’t so bad, truly, if a bit uncomfortable.
The lights are dim, and curtains cover every wall in swaths of deep green and purple.
Seating options consist entirely of thin, circular mats, where we were instructed upon entering to sit criss-cross as we “clear our minds of all the rubble and riffraff this world has filled them with.” When the worker left us here, they turned on soft music to fill the air with tanging melodies.
It’s all very relaxing, I bet, for people who aren’t worried about the results of their time spent here potentially changing the fate of their relationship with their one true love.
“Want to get ice cream now?” Malcolm asks, a knife to my introspective thoughts—or lack thereof.
With effort, I keep my eyes closed and my shoulders loose.
“No. I’m very busy exploring the depths of my mind right now.
” Or, you know, banging against the walls enclosing said depths and making an infuriating lack of progress.
Truthfully, most of the past half hour spent in this room has been taken up with me wondering why I would ever trust anything the internet says, particularly when it is so clearly a hoax.
Come, Iverson, sit in a room with music a step away from what they play in elevators.
Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Soon, you shall know the key to happiness.
Soon, I shall know the answer to why people jump off the top of tall buildings.
This endeavor is hopeless, and fruitless, and stupid.
Relatable.
I should give it five more minutes.
“My mind must be more like a kiddie pool than I thought,” Malcolm comments.
I open one eye to glare at my shallow companion and find him on his phone. Playing a block game. As I watch, he has the audacity to win the level he’s on.
My second eye opens so that I might stare in disgust. “We’re supposed to be reflecting,” I remind him.
“I reflected.” He starts a new level. “I’ve obtained inner peace, while you seem to be steadily dropping into further inner anarchy.”
“I’m not dropping anywhere.” If I reach the top of the building, I will jump. Much different. “Unrelated, how long would you say it took you to find inner peace, and how many stone walls did you have to crumble to get there?”
He hums. “First, I assessed my interpersonal relationships with the people I hold dear—you, Azalea, Birch, our parents. I identified ways I show affection, and the ways I could better communicate love in my life. I’m here, with you, right now, so that’s one relationship nurtured already.
Next, I moved on to consider my moral compass—non-existent.
I asked whether I was content with that, and I was, so I proceeded to analyze my position in the world and whether I use my status to positively or negatively impact others.
Then, however, I remembered the far more important question of do I care?
The answer to that was no, so I downloaded this app.
And now I’m on level thirty-two.” A moment passes while I stare at him, gobsmacked. Malcolm says, “Thirty-three.”
Oh my gosh, he’s useless.
“None of that is helpful,” I tell him. “None of it. Where’s the growth?
Where’s the proving that you’re trustworthy?
” I twist, slamming my hands on the ground between us as I lean toward him.
“Where’s the… where’s the part where you learn why you do the things that you do?
The part where you can explain that why to the people you love? ”
Staring dead into my eyes, he says, “I don’t need to prove that I’m trustworthy if I’ve made peace with the fact I’m not.
I also don’t need to learn why I do the things that I do if I already know.
I am here because I love you. Because I will always be there for you.
Because you shouldn’t have to feel alone in moments like these.
” He abandons his phone to sink his fingers into my hair and smile.
“Are there any other whys you’d like me to demystify, brother dear? ”
I would like to hit him as much as I would like to hug him.
“I believe Maple wants me to figure out my whys myself,” I grumble.
“But I appreciate your willingness and your support. I apologize for my poor attitude toward you when you’re only showing me love.
It’s not your fault that the love of my life expects a more emotionally mature husband than what Azalea is willing to settle for.
” I sniff. “Some women like the shallow end, and some prefer deeper waters, I suppose.”
“Out of the kindness of my emotionally immature heart, I’ll not inform you that you tend to hide your insecurities beneath the acidity of your character.” He returns to his game. “Perhaps add deciphering why I lash out to your ever-growing depths.”
“Perhaps I will discuss that with the therapist Ivory finds me,” I allow.
“Currently, my priorities lie elsewhere.” I turn, resuming the meditative stance—legs crossed, arms relaxed, eyes closed.
“I’ll give this a few more minutes,” I say.
“Then we can go get ice cream, but only if you take me to the place with the big chunks of cookie dough. I’m not wasting my time on stingy desserts. ”
“Whatever helps you heal,” he says, tone benevolent and smiling.
I grunt, a paragon of healing.
Then, twenty minutes later—after the scam that is meditation has decidedly not worked—I stab at my consolation ice cream as Malcolm beats his forty-eighth level.
“If at first you don’t succeed, use a Time Freeze when you try again.”
“If at first you don’t succeed, use a Time Freeze when you try again,” I mock, then angrily shove a large chunk of cookie dough into my mouth. “I hope you get stuck on a level and run out of power ups, you content-with-yourself oaf.”
Malcolm lifts a finger, pointedly addressing me. “I’m not just content with myself. My wife is also content with me. Ipso facto, she’s been researching therapists for you and has yet to ask me if I also want one.”
I have nothing kind to say to that, so I pout instead of replying.
Malcolm doesn’t mind. He merely smiles and goes back to his phone. A simple game. A simple man.
I stick my tongue out at him.
“Very mature.” Not taking his eyes off of his game, he reaches a hand to ruffle my hair.
“It’s all my depths,” I grouse.
“Very depths. Much emotional,” he concurs.
So depth. Very emotional. That’s me. Iverson Swallow, emotional S.C.U.B.A.
I sigh.
Then, like any smart man would, I shove an extra-large chunk of chocolate chip cookie dough into my mouth, and kick my brother under the table as he tries to make his final block move.
He loses his level, and I don’t necessarily feel better, but I don’t feel worse, either, and that’s just the sort of morale I’m willing to take today.