Wishful Thinking (10 page)

Dr. Patterson sat with her legs crossed jotting down a few things before gazing up at me. She’s way too old for me now, but I bet the good doctor was a looker in her own day. She wore a pale pink dress cinched at the waist with a black belt. Her hair was pulled up into a bun and wisps of her graying blond hair fell around her face. Good-natured wrinkles formed around her eyes and even though her mouth was surrounded by wrinkles they still maintained a lusty quality about them.
 

Summer had me wound tight if I was trying imagine Dr. Patterson younger and hotter.
 

Dr. Patterson shifted, reclining her weight on the left armrest and waited. She continued to stare at me and tap her foot and pencil in time together. I pulled at the collar of my shirt and stared at the bookcase. Most of her books were medical journals. I looked past her desk to the snow globe sitting on the edge of it acting as a paperweight.
 

After another minute of silence passed Dr. Patterson got up and dug something else out of her desk. She sat back down and placed the item on the table between us. It was a small box, definitely a jewelry box, wrapped in silver paper with a red bow. She looked at the box then at me, “My husband gave that to me this morning, what do you think is inside?”

I shrugged.

“You kids with your shoulder shrugs. That’s not an answer. You know when I was a kid adults weren’t afraid to give you a whack across your knuckles. Not that I miss that particular punishment, sadists.” She stretched out her fingers a few times before leaning forward, “If it’s store-bought jewelry I’ll be impressed.”

“Of course it’s jewelry what else could fit in a box that size?"
 

“Probably, but I’m not allowed to open it until dinner tonight. Yet he gives it to me now and tells me hold on to it, but don’t open it.”

"Why?"

“It’s my birthday today,” she said sitting back in her chair. “So why torture me on today of all days?”

"Oh," I said. "Happy birthday."
 

She waved off the well wishes and continued focusing on the box.
 

I leaned closer for a better look at it. “Maybe it’s earrings?”
 

She rested her head on her hand. "What if it’s teeth?" she asked looking at me.
 

“Teeth?”

“My husband is a dentist. One year for my birthday he had our son’s first tooth made into a pendant."

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She got up again and went to her desk and when she came back she handed me a gold necklace with a small glass tube capped with a gold topper. Inside the tube was one small tooth. I turned it over in my hand, “I can’t lie that’s weird, freaky even."

“Yes, it is. You should see the matching earrings he got me a few years later, molars.”

"Even creepier," I said looking at her ears––imagining teeth hanging there without looking totally grossed out.
 

Dr. Patterson was looking at the box again. “Do you know how hard it is to pretend you think something is beautiful when it really freaks you out? And my son says ‘mommy aren’t you going to wear the necklace’ then gives me this adorable toothless grin. How do I say no to that? What kind of mom would say no? Now that he’s in his twenties he thinks it’s creepy too, makes fun of me whenever he sees a picture where I’m wearing the necklace or earrings.” She added, "Not that there are a whole lot of pictures I assure you."

I sat back in my seat, “My mom wouldn’t even display pictures I’d drawn for her on the fridge, she’d brush them away with a that’s nice dear before tucking them into a drawer."

"Ah, well, every mother is different." Dr. Patterson jotted something down on her notebook. Dammit, how did she always manage to do that? Oh well, might as well get it off my chest.

I sank back into the couch, "I guess so. You know the other day I was hanging out with Summer. She was wearing this perfume that reminded me of the flowers my mom planted every summer in the backyard."

"How are things with Summer?"

I didn’t answer just looked away. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her scribble something on her notepad. I strained as I always did to see what she wrote and Dr. Patterson tilted the paper enough so I couldn’t make out her shorthand as she always did.
 

“How’s your dad?"

“Rugby’s been canceled," I said not in the mood to go down the daddy/mommy issues road today.
 

“I heard something about that on the news. Why?” Dr. Patterson looked genuinely interested in the answer.
 

“A kid died last week after collapsing during a game."

“Oh, wow––"

“Yeah, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean it sucks this kid died, it really sucks,” I sighed feeling a heavy weight on my chest, “but I don’t know how to survive without rugby.”

She was scribbling again. Dang, what did I say now? When she was done she said, “Death tends to complicate things, and the death of a child even more so. It makes people acknowledge their own mortality and the mortality of the people they care about.”

“It still sucks."

“It’s the ripple effect at work. So what will you do now? Is your school going to incorporate another sport?"

“It hasn’t been officially canceled yet, there’s supposed to be a town meeting this week and a decision made after that, but I know it will get canceled. I hate that it’s someone else's decision and not our own.”

Dr. Patterson scratched her head, “Do you always jump to the negative?"

“Why is it considered negative whenever you’re being realistic? Besides it’s the one thing in my life that makes me feel normal, happy even. The record for things that bring me joy lasting is short." I started folding and unfolding my jacket lapel.
 

“Hmm,” Dr Patterson said, “Now that you’re warmed up, what happened to earn you that,” she asked pointing to the purpling bruise that went from the side of my left eye to my left temple

“It wasn’t from fighting if that’s what you’re thinking."

“No, I wouldn’t think so, unless you were fighting with somebody with awful aim."

“Maybe you could tell my dad that, he seems to think I’m nothing but trouble."

“Have you told your father how his distrust makes you feel?" Dr. Patterson was on the edge of her seat—her magnified grey eyes staring out from behind her glasses—very interested in my next words.
 

“Whatever,” I said settling back into the couch. Alligator mouth remember? Even though I wanted her help I wouldn’t make it easy. I’d spent years not talking about how I was feeling it was an old habit that was hard to break.
 

“I see," Dr. Patterson said settling back into her seat. She could wait out the silence too. "So what happened with the eye?"

“I went running yesterday morning."

“Still having trouble sleeping? Are you taking your prescriptions nightly?"

“No. The day after I take them I feel anxious and jittery all day, and they make my dreams intense."

“Okay, we can adjust the dosage. Are you still experiencing the dream?”

I rubbed my lumpy scar at the back of my head. Should I tell her about the weird vision I’d had after Claudia clocked me? “I’m starting to think … It doesn’t matter things suck, whatever.”

Dr Patterson uncrossed her legs, took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Let’s call it a day."

After I left Dr. Patterson’s office I called my dad to let him know I was done. He asked how the session went and told me to get my own dinner because he was going into the office and wouldn’t be home until late. I wasn’t in the mood to go home and be alone, but with rugby canceled and Summer ignoring me I didn’t know what to do.
 

My phone beeped. Dean sent me a text to meet him at Grant Park. He was there coaching a pee-wee soccer team for Coach Renly and asked me to assist. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out Dean was psychic.

I thought about my session with Dr. Patterson the whole drive to Grant Park. Maybe I was one of those people who enjoyed misery, and chose it over happiness.
 

After my mom’s death my life was scrutinized and examined by everyone. My mom committed suicide and suddenly every eye, in every room, fell to me. Every adult in my life dissected, questioned and examined everything I did. And kids. Kids were the exact opposite. They could be cruel even when it wasn’t their intent to be. Innocently talking about family plans for holidays, cracking jokes, or discussing vacation destinations could earn a punch to the gut. It was the sort of behavior grown-ups pounced on.
 

All those eyes left silence in their wake making me good at hiding my emotions. So good in fact they became lost even to me. I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked it. No calls or texts from Summer. Not that I’d called or texted her either because that would be admitting there was a problem.
 

I found Dean and his team on the second soccer field. He blew his whistle and shouted, “You’re doing good out there Arthur, but keep the ball inside when you head down the field." Dean handed Arthur a Capri-Sun. Arthur nodded and ran off to join the rest of his benched teammates on the sidelines.
 

Dean looked over his clipboard comparing his notes to the kids on the field. He blew his whistle right in my ear, “Collins you’re out … Martin hustle in."

“I thought you said Martin was your weakest player?"
 

“Have you seen the score? We’re clobbering the other team,” Dean said matter-of-fact.

“Does your extra credit hang in the balance if these kids win by a certain margin or something?"

“I get the credit either way, but completely annihilating another team doesn’t give these kids any sense of humbleness or sportsmanship."

“So let me see if I understand, you want your team to lose to an awful team to build character?"

“Exactly. With the plays I’ve come up with there is no way this team will lose unless I make them," Dean said thumbing through the pages attached to his clipboard. He blew his whistle again, "Do you mind running to my car and getting my hat." He said it like he was asking but he handed me his car keys.
 

I took the keys. "Do you need a hat to keep your head from getting so big it explodes?"

"It’s not vanity or ego if it’s true," he called after me as I made my way to Dean’s Prius.
 

I returned a few minutes later with señor Dean's hat. His team, the Middle Sox, were huddled around him and he was calling off names and motioning to positions on the field. At the beginning of senior year Dean had taken on even more extra curricular activities than usual wanting to fatten his transcripts. He’d already applied, and been accepted to MIT and had a full ride scholarship but he needed more. Dean had this compulsion to prove himself, but I’m not sure to whom. His parents couldn’t be prouder and weren’t afraid to say so. Even my dad bragged about Dean's accomplishments, if he bragged about his actual son it was news to me.
 

“You talk to Summer yet?" Dean asked after the kids had broken and retook their places on the field.
 

“No, and I have no idea why she’s mad to begin with?"

“She’s pissed about something. Trevor called me this morning asking if you two broke up."

“Why’s that jackass calling you? What’d you tell him? You didn’t say anything did you?”

“I don’t get involved in that shit you know that. Is something going on with you two?"

I shrugged and sat down on the bench, "I don’t know, I was getting my head shrinked today, but the doc’s magic eight ball kept saying ask again later."

“Shrunk,” Dean said.
 

“That’s what you’re going to latch on to," I rubbed my face with my hands.

“Do you want to talk?" Dean put his foot up on the bench resting his arms on his knee.
 

I tucked my arms across my chest. "My dad’s really in my business lately, he’s calling more often and stepping into my three-feet way to much. It’s making me nervous I know I fucked up bad, but that was like six years ago. When’s he gonna forgive me? You forgave me right?”

“That’s a stupid question.” Dean put his clipboard down and sat next to me. “Maybe he’s gone all sentimental like my mom. She’s constantly asking me ‘do you remember when you were seven and we used to …’ or ‘when you were little you’d only eat your sandwiches if they were cut into four equal triangles’ and then she goes all misty-eyed and weird on me. Is it my fault that if you don’t cut your sandwich into four equal triangles you open up the fifth dimension?"

I looked at Dean and started laughing. “I don’t think that’s what my dad is doing."

Dean shrugged, “In any case you should talk to him about it."

“Yeah, sure I’ll do that,” I said placing my hands on the edge of the bench and leaning on them.
 

“Good, and while you’re at it why don’t you do the same with Summer. Look I’m no ladies man, but maybe your problem is that you’re too casual about everything, like nothing gets to you.”

“Stuff bothers me. I just don’t broadcast it like everyone else."

“I know that, but she doesn’t. Girls eat, sleep and breathe feelings. Why do you think I don’t have one? because I don’t have the amount of feelings required for it."

"Even if it’s a girl like Claudia knocking at your door," I said.
 

Dean ignored my barb and went on, “Take my advice—"

“Your advice? The guy who doesn’t have a girlfriend?"

“Shut-up and listen, I’m about to impart my wisdom, tuck your tail between your legs, go over there and beg her forgiveness for whatever you did to piss her off, because believe me no matter what happened it’s your fault."

I changed the subject. "How much time’s left?"

"We have another quarter after this. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go get us some refreshments," Dean said blowing his whistle and calling for a time out. He looked back at me, "I’d hate for your time to go to waste." He pointed to the snack bar, "I need a Pepsi and we need more snacks for the kids."