Leah yells from the other side, dragging Sheila’s still form onto the sand beside the dock. “Sheila’s not!” She turns her over, strikes her hard between the shoulder blades, and Sheila coughs.
Tim yells, “Get the kid in the car, heat on high,” and I grab Frankie, while Tim rushes to help Leah.
April 22— Session #Who’s Counting?
ANNIE BOOTS
Came in relaxed; jeans and a very nice blouse; appears more “feminine” than usual, though that could be therapist bias. Seemed more “open.”
Annie: So, counselor lady, this is it, huh?
Me: For now.
Annie: What’s that mean?
Me: The door’s always open, Annie. For you.
Annie: Aren’t you going to fill my spot?
Me: You mean with some other eight-year-old beastie; hopeless half the time and weaponized the other half?
Annie: (laughs) Was I that bad?
Me: Let’s just say you were first. I was new to the game. And yeah, I’ll fill your spot, but when things come up . . . you’ve got my number. So how do you want to use this time?
Annie: You know how I always ask you for advice and you almost never give it . . . you ask questions till I come up with the advice you’d have given me anyway?
Me: Busted.
Annie: I want to ask the questions today.
Me. Last day. I guess I can bend my style.
Annie: And you can’t answer any of my questions with one of your own.
Me: Busted again. Fire away.
Annie: Am I going to make it?
Me: Yes.
Annie: How do you know?
Me: You’ve already gone through the tough stuff, and here you are.
Annie: But am I going to make it?
Me: (handing her the envelope I intended to give her at the end of the session) I have one full file drawer of notes on you. It’s been a real ride. I’m giving you these few from this year so you can read them and remind yourself what you know.
Annie: Want me to read them now?
Me: No.
Annie: So, my question.
Me: Of course it depends on your definition of “making it.” I think you’re always going to be conflicted, and you’re always going to have to watch your temper. I think you’re going to have to be very careful who you decide to share your life with, and who you decide to let into your life in general . . . you know, friends. You’ve told me a number of times that my office is the only place where you tell the whole truth. I would suggest that you look for those few people out in the world you’re willing to take a chance on. And then take it.
Annie: I don’t know. . . .
Me: I’d start with your friend, Leah. Maybe Walter. And you’re going to meet a whole new bunch of possibilities when you start college.
Annie. I’m scared.
Me: Good.
Impression: I break out the farewell cake, and we pig out.
Emily Palmer, M.A.
ChapterNineteen
Thanksgiving: The following year
I back into a parking spot in the strip mall across the street from Quik Mart and kill the engine; Momma helped me buy this clean-but-well-used Chevy after graduation. This will be a catch-up day with my bios. I’ve had no lengthy conversations with them, haven’t run into them on the street, something that would have made Pop happy if he still lived with us. These days it’s me and Marvin and Momma, and the unsinkable Frankie Boots.
I finished my senior basketball season strong but not like a superstar, and got a couple partial scholarship offers. Momma said she’d cover the balance, but she’s only exactly half as well-to-do as when she was with Pop, and I don’t want to be cutting into Marvin’s education trust—little shit will be Ivy League. Or Stanford. At any rate. I opted to take that job at the multiplex and play at least a year at community college to see if I can up my stock with a Division II school, just like Walter advised.
So far this preseason, I haven’t dazzled the coaches. My heart isn’t quite Michael Jordan yet.
I’m watching the side entrance to Quik Mart—don’t want to get there first—and haven’t seen anyone else go in, so I lower my seatback, plug my iPhone into the radio, and kick back to my playlist for this month. This is the first Boots Thanksgiving Day Ritual Dinner I won’t have to sneak to. I invited the book club, but after I described it . . . no takers. Leah said, “Annie girl, I’ll know your mind is right when you skip that fiasco!” Oscar said it sounded like a pretty horrible thing to do to an immigrant. Seth said it sounded like an affront to Indians and Pilgrims alike.
Sitting here waiting for people, some of whose bloodstream I share, I can’t help but float back to what brought me here.
I still meet with Walter at Revel at least once a week; I’m glad he never stopped following me. When I finally digested that night we chased down Frankie, I guess I truly came to terms with how crazy my life has been and it’s been almost lifesaving to have a place to talk about it.
I look through my windshield now to see Sheila walking into Quik Mart, resplendent in her government-issue orange jumpsuit, which she’s wearing by choice (“Be proud of who you are.”), holding Frankie’s hand. The woman close behind them is the visitation supervisor. No unsupervised visits for the incarcerated, whether or not you’re clean and sober.
In less than a minute, Nancy appears from the other side of the building; Rance following like a dutiful puppy. Gotta wonder how he tricked her into an invite.
And then Wiz and his wife, Rachel. Before this day is done she’ll wish she’d gone ahead and cooked Thanksgiving dinner at home, but now that Wiz is “starting over,” he wants “new experiences.” We’ll see.
Walter steps out of a taxi, scans the premises till he sees me parked across the street. He waves. “Annie! Get over here!”
We hug on the walkway next to the gas pumps. “Sure
