15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Matt
Happy isn’t the word I’d use to describe the bubbling feeling inside of me. It’s too small. Just a little thing, tiny pop pop pops of light, just warm enough to keep the chill of reality at bay.
I don’t remember if there was a word for this feeling before words got hard for me. A word for almost-happy. I wouldn’t be able to say the word even if it does exist, and I definitely wouldn’t know the sign for it, so it doesn’t matter anyway.
What matters is that I’m feeling something and it’s nice. It’s really nice. It’s music and a soft smile and an echoed, Me too. I don’t need more than that.
It lingers all day, even while Nolan stresses about Maison, and group therapy ends with Dr. Singh asking me to come see him later, and dinner is slimy, lumpy, saucy spaghetti that makes my stomach roil just at the thought of trying to slurp it into my mouth.
It even lingers as I settle on the couch of Dr. Singh’s office, which makes me reconsider just how small it could really be, because that’s like magic.
Dr. Singh offers me a drink before we start.
He uses the numbered fingers system - 1 for water, 2 for hot cocoa, 3 for tea, 4 for coffee, 5 for nothing.
I want hot cocoa, but my mamá always made hers from scratch.
Do the dry packets have any type of nut in them?
I could ask, but then he might want to talk about my allergy, and maybe that’ll lead into the night of the birthday party, and then that’ll lead to-
So no hot cocoa.
I decide on water, not sure if I have the energy to go through the different types of tea he probably has, and knowing my stomach won’t do well with coffee since I’ve barely eaten today.
It doesn’t seem like there was a right or wrong answer, Dr. Singh simply pouring the water and bringing it to me with a smile.
He goes to his desk after, grabbing a mug of something that’s still steaming and a… mailbox?
“Okay, I see you already judging me,” he says as he sits down with what is definitely a miniature mailbox in his lap. “Just hear me out, okay?”
I nod, feeling myself already approaching the urge to smile. Okay, yeah, whatever that almost-happy feeling is called, it’s definitely magic.
“Here, you can look while I explain.” He sets his mug down before leaning over to offer it to me.
I place my water down too, then take it and sit back.
It’s lighter than I expected it to be, the black-looking-metal really just plastic, same as the little red and white flags, one on each side.
“I’m going to have this installed right outside my door, unless you prefer I place it somewhere else.
It’s for you, so that’s something you can decide whenever you’re ready. ”
“We talked about too many words being overwhelming last time we met, do you remember?” I nod.
“This is going to help with that. With this mailbox, we’ll be able to talk outside of sessions, too.
It takes any pressure of time off of you.
If a question comes up during a session but you lose track and don’t manage to ask it while we’re together, or a question just comes up at any point in your day, you can write it down and put it inside here.
You can also put notes in there. Information that you want me to know before our next session or whatever else comes up. ”
He pauses, grabbing his mug and taking a sip before resting it on the knee of his leg that’s crossed over the other.
“So, the mailbox is for questions or information, basically.” Which is what I thought he’d said, but it’s good to hear it confirmed. “It’ll only be used for the two of us to communicate. No one else will put things in and no one else will read what you put in.”
I nod, understanding so far.
“I’ll also put things in here that I might want you to see before we meet next, but there is no pressure for you to see it in time. Okay? If you show up for a session and see something is waiting for you, you can grab it then. No big deal. Understood?”
I fiddle with the white flag on the mailbox.
Then I pull out my notebook and pen from my front pocket and flip to a new page. The words come easily enough, which I’m pretty sure might be from that magic feeling still, which is… too overwhelming to even think about right now.
He doesn’t make me feel rushed. In fact, when I glance up at him quickly, he’s not even paying attention to me.
He’s reading something in his journal, looking kind of goofy because he’s trying to take another sip of his drink at the same time.
His glasses look like they might fall right off of his nose and into the mug.
When I finish writing, I look the words over. They aren’t exactly what I wanted, but they should be enough. I trust him to tell me if they aren’t.
That’s weird, too, I think. Me trusting him.
Today is… weird.
I shake the feeling off and turn the notebook to show him.
When I realize the writing might be too small, I offer it to him instead.
The movement draws his attention, but he only leans forward to read it, reading the words out loud as he does.
“For questions, notes, from you, from me, just us, no time limit.”
He smiles at me. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”
He goes on to explain the reasoning for the flags.
If I put something into the mailbox, I should also lift the red flag so he knows there’s something waiting for him.
When he takes it, he’ll put the flag down.
If mine required a response, he’ll put the response inside and lift the white flag to let me know it’s ready for me.
There’s no timeline or rush. If I show up for a session and see something was waiting for me, I shouldn’t feel bad about not seeing it sooner. No pressure.
He says that a lot - no pressure.
He smiles a lot, too.
He’s smiling again when he takes the mailbox from me and sets it aside.
I’m feeling even closer to that urge to smile back. The urge isn’t there yet, but I think if I tried hard enough, I could find it.
A weird, weird day.
“One final thing that doesn’t have to do with the mailbox, but is in the same sort of realm.
” He leans forward to place a wipe-off board on the coffee table.
It has a little plastic nub on the side where a black marker is currently cradled.
I pick it up when he gestures for me to and see that there’s another little piece of plastic that seems to have been added onto the top.
It’s barely noticeable at first, but when he tells me to rotate it, a strip of bright red slowly makes its way out and up in the air.
It’s a lot like the flag of the mailbox, just less clunky and tall.
When I put it back down without him asking, trying to figure out how that even worked, I realize it tucks against the back of the board, most of it remaining out of sight unless pulled up.
There’s a word my papá used to use whenever my mamá would bring home a new trinket or tool.
Nifty. He said it about the little clips that would keep our potato chip bags closed after first opening them, about the electric can opener, about the little porcelain doll she found at the flea market that kept opening up to reveal another doll inside the previous.
“Oh gordita, how nifty!” he’d practically croon.
Nifty.
This wipe-off board is nifty.
“Matt?” I blink, realizing I must have spaced out.
He’s smiling when I look at him, though, so I don’t apologize.
“I figured it would be good for you to have this board while we’re together.
You’ll still have your flashcards, of course, and your notebook.
We’ll often have other tools as well. You can use this whenever you want.
Some days, it’ll feel easier to write with that.
It’ll take up less paper, too - not that you have to worry about that, but still.
Plus, wipe-off boards are fun. I even have other colors for markers. ”
I must make a face because he laughs. “What, you don’t think therapy can be fun?
Therapy can totally be fun. Just you wait and see.
I might even get crazy and buy some neon-colored markers.
If you want to go really wild, I think I could even get my hands on some glitter for any art project we do in the future.
Glitter, Matt. What’s more fun than glitter? ”
He’s so genuine, like he truly believes neon markers and glitter are going to help make therapy fun. I find myself wanting to believe him. I find myself thinking that therapy might not be so bad after all.
He catches it, pointing a finger at me with a little, “Ah-ha!” that suddenly makes him seem ten years younger and a lot less serious. “I saw that. You nearly smiled there. You do believe in the power of pretty markers and glitter. I’ll remember that.”
I roll my eyes playfully, truly on the edge of a smile.
What a weird day.
He laughs again.
He has a nice laugh.
Ace’s is nicer, I can’t help but think.
Ace’s is so warm. Just like his smile. Like his eyes. His voice. He’s like the flickering flames in the fireplace when the fire is low, but not ready to burn out.
“Alright, alright, in all seriousness, though, the wipe-off board can be used however you like, or not used at all. The red flag attached is a way for you to signal to me that you want to answer my question or say something in response to whatever I just said, but you need time. It’s like you’re putting me on pause until you’re ready to continue. Does that make sense?”
Like a pause button. I nod. That makes sense.