Kevin stutters his words out, all excited. “And now we have each other, right? We’re friends. I’ve never even really had friends before.”
“Me either,” I say. “This is all pretty new to me.”
The CD switches over to the next track.
I go on and look out the window again.
We’ve gotten off the highway and are driving through a sorta creepy little town that looks almost abandoned. There’s a bar with boarded-up windows—a closed-down five-and-dime—trailer-style houses with dirt yards and corrugated siding and dogs chained out front. Chickens wander the empty dirt roads. We drive over a small wooden bridge, and I can’t help but hold my breath. The road leads up toward the dusty mountains—barren, dotted with low-lying bramble and tumbleweeds. Tim pulls over into a makeshift parking lot, and I realize we’re here. In fact, Cat and her group are already out of the car, standing around waiting for us. She yells out at Tim, “What took you so long?”
He flips her off, the two of them laughing real hard.
And then we all laugh along with them—you know, just laughing together.
“Man, we sure are a motley crew, aren’t we?” says this middle-aged guy Johnny, who’s in my home group, and we all laugh even more at that.
I mean, it’s the truth.
There’s no way under normal circumstances we would ever be hanging out together.
But, well, here we are.
We get on our horses and follow along the narrow trail.
Our guide tells us to kick into a gallop.
We do.
And we take off.
Ch.9
Melonie really is just fucking glowing.
I mean, glowing the way pregnant women must look when people say they’re glowing.
She really is glowing like that.
And she’s glowing like that ’cause of me.
Or at least I hope that’s it.
The last thing we need is a little Melonie offspring added to our already grossly overpopulated world.
So, for the sake of the nation, I’m assuming her glow is all about me.
“How does it feel?” she asks me. “You’re finally ready to take the next step in getting your life together. I can’t tell you how proud I am.”
She doesn’t need to tell me. I’d say I’ve pretty well got it.
And in terms of her question, well, my answer is that it’s strange to have even the smallest bit of hope again. I was close to giving up. I was closer than I’ve ever been.
“I look at you, Nic,” she continues, “as one of my greatest successes. I will always hold your transformation as perhaps the best work I’ve ever done.”
She beams, all cherubic-looking. Glowing. Obviously having no problem letting herself take all the goddamn credit.
“I brought your case up at the staff meeting, and we voted unanimously that you are ready to go into Day Program at the end of the week. We also voted for you to be taken off all your contracts. So you don’t have to worry about not communicating with Sue Ellen anymore. Though, of course, I trust you will continue to uphold healthy boundaries with her… and everyone else, for that matter.”
I nod.
The sunlight is streaming through the slats in the plastic blinds drawn over the window. There’s no air-conditioning and the door is closed and I think I drank too much coffee, ’cause I’m starting to sweat all over the place. Whatever the hell’s left in my stomach is stuck fast to the quickly turning walls—the bottom dropping out like those centrifugal-force rides they have at state fairs. My tongue is swelled up so I’m choking.
It’s what I get for tryin’ to live on cigarettes and coffee.
But, of course, I can’t excuse myself, not even for a glass of water.
The moment’s way too goddamn touching.
“You know,” says Melonie, her eyes clearly tearing up, “I want to tell you that, after you leave here, you are welcome to call me anytime you need to talk. In fact, I want you to call me—even if just to check in now and then. I sincerely hope we can continue to build our relationship. As I said before, I really do think of you as a son. And you’ve inspired me to rededicate myself to this field.”
I look down in a display of humility.
“Thank you,” I say, even though the twisted-up feeling in me is just getting worse.
I wonder if maybe it isn’t the coffee.
I mean, I’ve been in and outta therapy since I was seven years old. And after all that time, I’d say I’m pretty hip to the, uh, protocol, or whatever. At least, I know a couple of things. The doctors are supposed to stay neutral—professional—detached. They’re not supposed to get personally involved. Not ever.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, her expression going all concerned again.
I smile it away. “No,” I say. “No, not at all.”
She smiles along with me. “Well, good.”
We sit there like that.
Smiling back and forth.
When the fifty minutes are up, I immediately go to find Sue Ellen—walking some of the sickness outta my body—stopping only to watch a raven land clumsily on a gnarled tree branch. It cocks its head back twice before flying off again and joining the other birds gathered at the edge of the rooftop.
Sue Ellen is sitting, like always, up at the smoke pit. With long legs crossed, one hand compulsively ashing a cigarette, the other pulling at her flat-ironed black hair. Her oversize sunglasses teeter precariously on the end of her aquiline nose. Her jaw click-clicks like maybe she’s grinding her teeth or something. There’s a thick wool knit scarf wrapped around her neck, despite the sun, and she’s wearing two sweaters—a cardigan and something tight and low-cut that I don’t know the name for. Her blue jean bell-bottoms are cut short at the ankles.
“Hey, Sue Ellen,” I say—louder than I need to. “What’s up, girl?”
Everyone turns to look at me with these sort of horrified expressions on their faces, like I just climbed out on the ledge of a tall building and am threatening to jump.
Ray hunches over,
