Page 50 of Goodbye Again
She must know. This will be difficult to explain. I focus on my breathing and reel in each wave of panic, leaving a moment of pause in case she has something to say.
“It’s just that...” she begins, and I hold my breath, “my uncle—the guy out there—said something on the way over here, and now I have a ton of questions.”
Shit.“Want to share?”
She bites her thumbnail, and at this point, I realize she hasn’t made eye contact with me.
“He said summers are hard for me because that’s when my parents split.”
I exhale. “What led him to say this?”
“Well, I was just telling him about how much I hate summer after he asked if I wanted him to take me to the pool next week. I told him no, I hate swimming.” She pauses, picking at her elbow. “I think I hurt his feelings.”
My heart aches at this. Being the funcle isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when the kids are going through puberty because it is hell on wheels.
Ellie is growing into a woman. She was a string bean basketball player when I first met her a year ago. Now she’s growing curves and muscle and opinions. She struggles with anxiety and being uprooted at the worst age, but she’s bright and funny. But I have seen firsthand how a child at this age can make an unfiltered statement that will make any grown adult question their entire existence in this young person’s life.
Ellie chews on her lip. “Anyway, it just makes me want to go home. Like, to California. But I can’t go see Dad for four more weeks, and I only get to stay for two weeks, and I hate it. I hate that I can’t go. I hate it here. It’s freaking freezing until it’s like swampy and gross, and there’s no beach. And don’t say Lake Michigan counts because it doesn’t—I’ve seen Big Sur. And then my Nonna is all,just eat something, and I want to scream because I’m not hungry. I’m sad. Why can’t I be sad and not want to eat pasta?”
“You can,” I answer. “Don’t let anyone else make you feel like you have to pretend you don’t miss your dad or your old life, or pretend you aren’t sad to make them more comfortable.”
“That’s what Uncle JP said, and now I feel bad because I yelled at him and said I didn’t want to go to the swimming pool next week. But I do! I do want to go have fun and fill all my time until I get to go back to San Diego.”
I smile and then bite my cheeks. I knew I liked JP. But as quickly as I think it, my heart throbs a little. We can’t be. And I have to tell him now.
“I’m really proud of you for expressing yourself, and I know it’s harder for you to do that with your family. So shall we go over some strategies to calm you down so you can speak clearly when you’re overwhelmed?”
She nods.
For the rest of the session, we discuss strategies. We even practice what speaking up for yourself in a respectful way sounds like because, let’s face it, a sixteen-year-old standing up to anyone respectfully is no easy feat. We talk about the basketball conditioning camp she’ll be attending this summer at U of I. We talk about her anxiety and how the medication Dr. Flanigan has her on is helping but she wants to wean off it. I make note for Shawna to schedule a med check.
When the session is over, I walk her to the waiting room to find JP. I smile at him, but I hope it gives nothing away.
“See you next month, Ellie,” I say, giving him a look that I hope reads:we’ll talk later.
He gets the memo and nods. I wave them off, then return to my desk to grab my next patient’s file. Stephanie Holcomb.
She’s notoriously late, so I have an extra five minutes. I rush to my desk and practically rip open the top drawer to find two unread texts on my phone.
1:10 p.m. GUY FROM THE PLANE:I swear I didn’t know you were Ellie’s therapist until this morning.
I sigh. “But now we know,” I whisper to the empty air in my office. I contemplate ignoring him, but he deserves more respect than that.
Me:I’m glad we found out early.
But I’m not. It doesn’t even feel early, even though it’s only been three weeks. I’m so disappointed to discover this.
A quick two knocks on my office door make me jump and drop my phone on the floor. “Do you have a minute?” Dr. Flanigan stands in front of me wearing a cream pashmina and her brown tortoise-shell glasses shoved in her curly blonde hair.
“Sure. My next patient is usually a bit late, and I was just finishing up the file for Ellie—she’s doing much better, by the way.” I’m rambling, I realize, so I close her file and drum my fingers against it as I ask, “What’s up?”
Dr. Flanigan crosses her arms. “Who did she come with today?”
“Her uncle,” I answer quickly.
“Is he not happy with her care?” She’s using her Therapy Voice on me, and my guard is officially up, making me listen with protective ears.
“No, why would you ask that?” I toss a question at her so I’m no longer in the line of fire.
