Chapter 19. Micah
MICAH
Long-distance relationships never last. First her Wi-Fi lost connection. Then her mic wouldn’t work. Now everything’s a go and Dr. Val’s putzing around while I wait for our session to start. Telehealth, my ass; more like telehell, being forced to discuss my many defects.
I reposition my laptop on the surfboard-shaped coffee table, a mid-century Scandinavian find of my grandmother’s.
After Granddad moved uptown, he’d pull me away from video games to go with him to check on this house.
I used to play in this living room, running my LEGO space rover along the table’s chevron inlay, conjuring up new worlds.
I stare at the pristine birch logs in the fireplace, same ones since my grandparents divorced, and drop a long sigh.
“Pa-tience, Mi-cah.” Dr. Val speaks slowly, pronouncing every syllable. She clears her throat and pushes up the bridge of her glasses with her bird hand.
I would never say that to her face. But her frozen hand—straight fingers fused together, bent wrist—really does remind me of a bird’s head.
She squints at her screen, smacking her lips.
She’s killing me today.
“Things cook-ing swell by you?” She grins, her eyes turned skyward.
I rub my temples, trying to stave off a headache. “I don’t appreciate the bullshit about my dad.”
“I’m not the one a-fraid to dis-a-ppoint him.”
“He likes that I’m better. Keep it at that.” I clench my teeth.
“Still the poor lit-tle eight-year-old, left to live at Grand-dad’s pent-house. Boo-hoo.”
“I don’t need this.” I slide my fingers on the touchpad.
“Don’t run a-way yet. Let’s start a-gain. What’s shak-ing?” Her bird hand moves her carrot-colored bangs out of her eyes. Those are new. She’s still getting used to them.
I sigh again, twisting my lips.
“Con-vin-cing you are not.” She juts out her bottom lip.
“Okay . . . um, the stress at work brought on some episodes.”
“How do you man-age them?”
“Taking long walks . . . using pop culture to distract myself. Getting strange looks on the street when I tell the Shadow People to back off.”
She giggles. “Lots of peo-ple in New York talk to them-selves.” Her arm jerks to the side. She pulls it back into her lap with her other hand and leans into her headrest, grinning clear up to her gums.
Behold the happiest person on the planet. I find it annoying.
“I debated telling you . . . I dreamt about killing her again.”
“Oh, boy . . . was go-ing to ask a-bout how you’re sleep-ing. Let’s hear this one.” Her eyes dance. I bet she’d rub her palms together if she could.
“We’re on a train. She’s in her usual black attire, hiding on the floor from me, surrounded by other passengers. I’m crazed, out of my head, wielding a gun. The fear in her face . . . it’s so real. Then I’m this Neo-Nazi and she—”
“Has a yel-low star on her jac-ket?” Her left eye stalls on the ceiling, the other one dips right.
“Something like that. I think the dream turned into a school shooting.”
“Watch-ing the news again. You have-n’t dreamt of your mom in a whi-le. What brought this on?”
I trace the table’s chevron pattern with my index finger. “I don’t know . . . someone new at work.”
“Ooh, do tell.”
“I won’t pursue it.”
“Ah, to give your heart a-way.”
“Nowhere close to that.” I sit back, crossing my arms. “And not the best circumstances.”
“They ne-ver are. Tell me what you like a-bout her.”
“I don’t.” The laughter on MacDougal stops me. Not long ago, I used to hide from those kitchen windows. Thought people tracked me from the street.
Dr. Val caught on after realizing I was sitting in the dark during our sessions.
Now the laughing heads poke at me, telling me I don’t belong out there with the happy and content. I’m not sure where I belong.
“Mi-cah, where did you go just now?”
“She’s a pit bull once she puts her mind to something.” I laugh, recalling her first day. “Hair like the color of the sky when I can’t sleep at night, fiery amber eyes, bow lips—”
“The fi-er-y yang to your i-cy yin?”
I shrug. “I sense she’s endured a lot.”
“Sounds like some-one I know.”
“A bit different.” I look away.
She leans into her headrest. “Tell me why.”
“I’m not right. No one needs this nightmare in their life.” I hang my head, squeezing the back of my neck.
“Your psy-cho-sis is all you got?”
“This brain controls everything, if you haven’t noticed.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.” Her words come out flat.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I just know once she finds out . . .”
“She’ll run?”
I hover my hands over the keyboard, longing to write, to be free from these incessant thoughts, if only to escape into another world like I did as a kid.
“What if this girl de-cides she likes you e-nough to stay the course?”
“What if.” I roll my eyes.
“I see. You don’t de-serve a chance at love?”
“I haven’t seen it work out for my parents, my family. Doesn’t seem realistic.”
“Nei-ther is push-ing peo-ple a-way.” She turns her wheelchair, repositioning herself.
“You should talk.”
“You think I push peo-ple a-way, Mi-cah?”
“I’ve known you for what, four years? Not once have you mentioned going out with friends or if you’re dating someone.”
“Who’s the one in ther-a-py?” Her voice jumps an octave.
I throw up my hands. “How do you go about relationships?”
“What the hell does that mean?” Her grin flatlines.
I groan and drag a hand down my face. “I meant, how do you trust?”
Her lips soften. She exhales. “It’s ei-ther that or al-i-en-a-tion . . . lone-li-ness.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The familiar ache compounds in my chest and travels down through my fingers.
“Dr. Val . . .” My voice breaks.
“Let’s start there, Mi-cah. You and me. I got you.”