What Remains (11 page)

No surprise to me, it doesn't look like my body is fighting off Lizzie's heart. The immunosuppressants I'm on are working. I don't think Lizzie wants to go anywhere.

After my appointment, Spencer picks me up and we head over to the mall. As much as I want everything to be back to normal, I think we both get that it isn't and I don't know what to do about that, so I avoid looking at him as much as I can.

The lot is crowded with weekend shoppers and people are driving stupidly like they always do at shopping centers. We're out on the far edge of the lot and I've switched with Spencer so I'm in the driver's seat. He didn't turn the car off and I can feel it humming beneath me. It shouldn't be any different than being a passenger, but I look out at the sea of other cars and people milling around and I realize that too much pressure on the gas and I might run into one of them. Or one of them will run into us. I can picture our car, Spencer's car, his favorite thing in the world, flipping with the impact. I can actually hear the scream of the sirens burning my ears.

I know Dr. Collins wouldn't be so happy now. I've learned to recognize the telltale signs that mean my blood pressure is dangerously high. Lizzie's heart is racing and my temples are sore like a rod is being pushed from one side of my head to the other.

I don't know how long I sit there clenching the wheel and going nowhere. I'm paralyzed, dizzily watching this movie in my head of us in some terrible collision, one that Spencer can't walk away from this time, over and over. Just
like the last one, this accident is my fault too. I don't get
the car out of the way in time. Or my foot slips on the gas pedal and rams us into an oncoming truck.

There are too many things that can happen once I start moving the car. How could I not have seen that before? I have no control over this metal box at all and no one else does either. It's just random chance any of us drive a car and survive.

Spencer clears his throat and I realize I'd forgotten he was sitting next to me. He puts a hand on my arm and when he touches me, I jump so hard the only thing that keeps me in place is the seat belt.

“It's okay. We can do this another day,” he says, trying to be comforting. But it doesn't matter if it's tomorrow or next week or even a month from now; nothing is going to be different next time I get behind the wheel.

I get out of the car on shaking legs and we switch seats. I shiver a little and strap myself in. For the first time I can ever remember, we don't talk all the way back to my house.

In fact, I don't even realize when we get there. Just suddenly, I'm aware that we aren't moving anymore.

“Thanks anyhow,” I say to Spencer as I get out of the car.

The house looks like the only safe place for me. Solid. Unmoving. I bolt up to the door and stumble on the top step. Somehow Spencer is next to me, grabbing my arm to stop me from falling headfirst into the rose bushes Mom had put in last week. He trails behind me as I head to my room and stands there as I collapse down onto the bed.

“Do you still have that psychologist's card?” he asks.

I nod, but don't remember telling him about that. When I look up, he confesses. “Your mom told me. She wanted to know if I thought you needed to talk to someone.”

I laugh even though nothing is funny. I can't believe that everyone has been talking behind my back about the fact that I seem to be cracking up. Even so, I'm actually relieved that Spencer is here, so I guess I can't really complain.

The bed dips as he sits down next to me and pulls out his phone.

“I'll make the appointment for you,” he says. “I'll even go with you if it will help. I'll do whatever you want except sit here and watch you try to deal with all of this on your own.”

“I'm not on my own,” I protest. Even with all the weird shit going on, one thing Spencer Yeats has never made me feel is that I'm dealing with things on my own.

I won't leave you alone, either.

I'm not sure whether to smile or cry. Lizzie has gotten nicer since the accident, softer somehow. I want to reach
out and hug her and inhale the turpentine in her hair.
Instead I just wrap my arms around myself and glance up at Spencer. He's sitting next to me with his phone in his hand and a steely expression on his face.

“Cal.” Spencer's voice is firm, waiting. He isn't going to let this go and I'm not sure I really want him to. Not anymore. Hearing Lizzie's voice is one thing. But last night … it can't happen again. And I can't stand the way I feel like I'm on the edge of something, waiting for a strong wind to push me over. I can't stand the worried look on Spencer's face. I'm tired of hurting the people I love the most.

I lean over the side of the bed, pull out my mitt, and hand him the card.

Fourteen

I curl the edges of the business card in my hand, wishing I hadn't promised Spencer that I'd go through with meeting Dr. Reynolds. I feel kind of stupid just standing outside the door, checking and rechecking the address. I'm balancing the pluses and minuses of either going through with the appointment or leaving and having to figure out how to face Spencer.

I mean, if all it took to be okay was to talk about things, I would talk to Spencer. Or even my mom if I was
really
desperate. So I wonder what type of miracle worker this guy is meant to be. Maybe he'll try to hypnotize me or just tell me that I'm acting like a dumb little kid who can't get over things and move on. Maybe he'll even call my parents and tell them not to ever let me drive again. And maybe I'd deserve that. Maybe I'd even thank him for it at this point.

When I finally go in, Dr. Reynolds' office is exactly what I was afraid a therapist's office would be. The waiting room has a few tables with a bunch of boring three-month-old magazines on them. There are a couple of uncomfortable, slightly stained couches pushed up against the wall and a few bookcases filled with dusty old books you couldn't pay me to read. I expect a secretary, but there's no one else here. Maybe that's a shrink thing. I'm kind of relieved, though. My mom already gave him all of our insurance info over the phone. The fewer people who know I'm here, the better.

By the time he comes out to call me in for my appointment, I'm just this side of a panic attack. I mean, the thing that scares me the most is not being able to prepare myself in advance and here I am getting ready to open myself up to someone I've never met, agreeing to answer questions that would have made Lizzie's look like a game.

As I debate whether to bolt or not, a girl bursts out of the door behind him. She looks like she was the practice subject for someone learning body piercing. Her eyes dare me to get out of the way so she can leave.

I move and seriously consider following her out, but curiosity gets the best of me and I look at Dr. Reynolds instead.

He's younger than I expected. Probably my parents' age and dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. He looks like someone I'd see at a ball game, not like someone about to torture me with invasive questions I don't know how to answer.

“Cal?” he asks. “Having second thoughts?”

Or third, or fourth?

Lizzie wouldn't have seen a shrink. She wouldn't even see the counselors at school. The only person she ever talked to, aside from me and Spencer, was Mr. Brooks.

That's because he's hot
.

I'm not even going to try to figure out if Mr. Brooks is hot or not. Besides, I know that isn't the real reason Lizzie felt like she could talk to him.

Dr. Reynolds is still waiting and this is my chance to bail. Being here isn't required; I've asked for this appointment. But I'm surprised to find that he looks so reasonable and relaxed. And whether I want to or not, I suppose I need to talk to someone besides Mom and Dad, who are already worried enough, and Spencer, who thinks he isn't doing enough to help me himself, and really, things with him are complicated enough.

“No,” I say in a delayed response to his question, but somehow the word comes out in three syllables.

“Then come on in,” he says with a smile, standing halfway inside his office, waiting for me to follow. I remind myself again I can leave at any time if I want to. Mom will pay for this regardless; she'll get it if I say it isn't for me. At least I think she will.

I follow him into his office and look suspiciously at the two chairs placed next to a small table. On the table are some sort of plant, a box of Kleenex, and two bottles of water. I do a quick sweep of the room and see he has the same calendar I do, the one with the '68 Tigers team on it.

“Lolich or McLain?” I ask as I walk over. The 1968 Tigers not only won the World Series but saved Detroit, which was in the middle of a series of race riots that year, from totally self-destructing. My dad bought me a set of DVDs that tell the story of what was going on during that time and it has all the series games on it.

That year, the Tigers had two pitchers who couldn't be more different. Mickey Lolich was the MVP of the series and not only allowed just five runs in three complete games, all of which he won, but hit the only home run of his sixteen-year career to win game two.

This was in contrast to Denny McLain, who went 31-6 with a 1.96 ERA and was the last pitcher to win more than thirty games in a season. He was named to the American League All Star team, and won the Cy Young Award for best pitching as well as the American League's MVP award. After, he fell apart in a series of gambling and organized crime allegations, which landed him in jail and by the time he was twenty-nine, he was out of baseball.

He was one hell of a player, but tried to live the life of a rock star and it backfired.

There's no right or wrong answer to my question, but if this guy is a fan, I need to know something about where he stands. He's about to learn a whole lot about me and I feel like I need to even the score.

“Does it have to be either/or?” Dr. Reynolds asks as he shuffles himself into a seat.

I keep staring at the calendar like it's the key to the universe. I'm tired. I want to sit down too, but I'm a bundle of nervous energy, a mess.

“No,” I say. “But everyone seems to have a position.” I walk around the small office feeling trapped by his lack of a definitive answer.

Still, I take a deep breath and force myself into the leather chair and distract myself by wondering about the girl I saw leave the office earlier and what her issues are.

“I like McLain,” Dr. Reynolds says. “What he did in his personal life had nothing to do with how he pitched that year.”

Hmmm … I nod. That's pretty much my thinking too. My dad discounts all of McLain's pitching accomplishments just because he was a screw-up off the field, but that never made sense to me. It wasn't like he took steroids or did anything that really gave him an edge in the game. One thing didn't have anything to do with the other. It was kind of like Lizzie's art. Some people didn't take her seriously because they thought she was strange and mouthy and not a great student. But really, she was so talented, they just couldn't see it.

“Cal, I know you have a lot going on, but you requested an appointment. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind, and we'll go from there.”

I'm not prepared for him to be so open-ended. I was expecting an interrogation, so I hadn't planned anyplace to start.

Oh, Cal hasn't planned it all out. That's a first.

I shake my head and try to ignore her. “You know, right?” I ask Dr. Reynolds. “About the accident and all that?”

“Yes,” he says. “And I'm sure you know
this
, but I want to be clear that anything you tell me is just between us. It doesn't matter who is paying your bills or who gave you my name. What's said in here stays here.”

I nod. I know that from all the shows on TV, but it kind of helps to hear it. Still, my mind is a jumble of words and voices: mine, Lizzie's, even Spencer's. It's starting to get difficult for me to isolate which one is really mine. And even though I've been dreading his questions, I wish Dr. Reynolds would shoot some my way instead of putting all the pressure on me to figure out what to say.

“Do you know about Lizzie?” I ask.

“I know she was your friend. I know that she and your other friend … ” He looks down at the stack of papers on his lap. “Spencer, were close as well. I know she donated her heart to you. Is that what you mean?”

“Yeah, kinda,” I say. “I mean, Spencer and I used to … I mean, Lizzie … she had this really screwed-up family, and we would look out for her. Ever since we were kids and no one really got it … not our parents or anyone or … ” Suddenly, I'm breathing fast, and I can't seem to sort out my thoughts. I can feel Lizzie's heart beating
double-time. I don't know if she wants me to talk or stay quiet, but I need to put everything in order and I can't do that on my own. She has to understand that. She just has to.

“Cal?” Dr. Reynolds says, and I realize he's been calling my name for a while and that I've been zoning out.

“Sorry,” I say, staring at the floor. The carpet has these tiny brown and pink flowers on it that remind me of Lizzie. I take a deep breath and hold it in until my lungs hurt. The burning sensation feels better than the pain of missing her.

“That's okay. Slow down. Just tell me what you're thinking.” His sincere expression makes it easy to believe he really gives a damn. He reminds me a little of Spencer and I figure, what the hell. I mean, what's the worst that can happen at this point?

“Lizzie had it really rough at home,” I say, trying hard to streamline it all. “Spencer and I used to try to help her when we could.”

He nods and somehow takes notes without looking down at his paper. “How old were you when you started helping her?”

I think back to the first time we'd gone over to her house to try to help her. “Nine or ten, I think.”

A grimace crosses his face as he writes, but then his expression clears again. “And this continued until?”

“The last time was right before the SATs. Right before the accident.”

He nods again. “Were you romantically involved with her?” he asks, but I say “no” before he can even finish the sentence.

“Did you want to be?”

“Of course not,” I say, staring at my leg, which is bouncing up and down like it belongs to someone else. “She was in love with Spencer.”

“Was it mutual?”

“Yes, but … ” I hate this question. It's like when you're at the plate and waiting for a pitch; at some point you have to commit to swinging or not. You can't swing just a little. You can't unswing once you've gone for it. Once your wrist bends, that's it. You either hit the ball or you miss it, but either way you've swung the bat.

Whatever relationship Spencer and Lizzie did or didn't have isn't what I came here to talk about. And there's nothing Dr. Reynolds could say to get me to talk about the other night with Spencer. What's worse is, I'm not sure how to talk about one without the other anyway. I can't kind-of swing, so I settle for just the facts.

“He's gay. But they slept together. Once.”

Dr. Reynolds doesn't miss a beat. “Did that upset you? That they were together and you were left out?”

I groan. At some level I was hoping a shrink might understand. Hoping there was one person in the world I wouldn't need to explain how our friendships worked.

“No,” I say, “you don't get it.”

“I'm sure I don't. But I'd like you to explain it to me.”

I try to figure out how to make him understand. “See, I love both of them. I knew it really wasn't going to happen. Not really. But I actually kind of wanted them to get together. In a way, I mean.”

Me too.

Lizzie's comment makes me smile even as I wonder how true my words are. Spencer and Lizzie always fit together. I just didn't want to be left out. Not that I'd say
that
out loud. I don't need Reynolds thinking I'm a total head case right off the bat.

“Why did you want them to be together?” he asks.

“Why did I want them to be together?” I just repeat his question, wrestling with feelings I'm not sure I understand. “It was always what she wanted,” I say. “And Spencer loved her. They were good together. Good for each other.” Lizzie's crazy sense of humor and daring escapades always made me nervous, but they seemed to bring out something similar in Spencer that he enjoyed and thrived on, even if he wouldn't quickly admit it.

“But Spencer is gay,” Dr. Reynolds repeats.

“Yeah, he is. I knew they weren't going to go off and get married or anything. Lizzie knew that too, but … she … ” I can feel the sting of tears burning behind my eyes, but I don't know why. I try to remember they're just facts. It's like reciting baseball stats or science equations. Facts can't hurt you. They're just a list of the way things are.

But then I have to wonder if maybe somewhere inside me it's Lizzie who is crying out, trying to figure out why Spencer loved her yet couldn't really be with her. I got what Spencer said about nothing changing between them, but I'm not sure anymore if that's even possible.

Dr. Reynolds holds out one of the boxes of tissues, but I shake my head and take a deep breath. I can do this.

“Cal, this appointment was made on”—he looks at his sheet again—“on Saturday. What happened that day?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I know there's nothing funny about this. I may not know what I want to say, but I definitely know what I don't want to say. So I cycle through all of the issues that got me to this point. Driving and the paralyzing fear I feel when I get behind the wheel. How to deal with killing one of your best friends. Lizzie and the damned stubbornness of hers that won't let her leave me the hell alone. Spencer and … everything.

My muscles knot up at once like they do after the first real workout of the season. The funny thing is, I really don't want to leave. So even though I'm shaking, I'm also trying to hold tight on to the arms of the chair to stop myself.

Dr. Reynolds reaches out slowly and puts his hand lightly on my arm, freezing me in place.

“I promise you,” he says softly, “it will be much easier once you've said it. And there is nothing you need to be afraid to tell me.”

“You're going to think I'm crazy.” I realize as the words come out of my mouth that this is really what I'm afraid of, that he'll think I'm nuts. What scares me the most isn't that I kissed Spencer, although
that's
never going to happen again. What scares me is that it was really Lizzie who kissed him. Lizzie who died. Lizzie whose heart and who knows what else is still inside me.