I’d written about Christmas Day and my trek to the Shack but in abstract terms. I fractured myself into two characters: one who was real and the other who existed as a figment of the other’s imagination. Two figures, one trudging through snow toward a lake, one through rain along a beach. One battled through the physical sickness of PTSD. The other drank himself into a stupor. It ended with both characters finally seeing each other for the first time in the reflection of a bathroom mirror.
Not quite “The Day My Hamster Died” but that’s how I roll.
“In general, I was very pleased with your work,” Ms. Watkins told the class. “All of you proved the notion that there is no such thing as an ordinary life.” She stopped in front of me where I slouched in the last row, corner seat. “I commend your honesty. I’m humbled by it, actually.”
Her gaze met mine softly, her expression unreadable as she dropped my essay on my desk and retreated back up the aisle. I flipped it over. Instead of a letter grade, there was Ms. Watkins’s neat penmanship across the top.
See me after class.
I muttered a curse on principal, but in truth, seeing those words was sort of like opening the door to my guesthouse on Christmas Day and finding Beatriz there. Maybe something good would happen if I let it in.
“Thank you for staying,” Ms. Watkins told me when class ended. She perched on the top of the desk in front of me. “I’d like to talk to you about your essay.”
“You didn’t give me a grade. Did I leave a participle dangling?”
“Not quite.” She picked up the essay to flip through it at random. “His eyes are an alcoholic’s memoir without the wisdom of having hit rock bottom. He’s still falling.” She let the pages rest in her lap. “This is a third person narrative, but it’s still you. Isn’t it?”
“Some names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.”
She smiled gently. “Perhaps you’re assigning the pain to these characters instead of taking it on yourself?”
I shifted in my seat. “Perhaps.”
Ms. Watkins folded her hands in her lap. “Holden, this story is beautiful, sad, and frankly, a little concerning. I need to ask…where are your parents?”
“Seattle. I live with my aunt and uncle. They’re nice. Boring and gullible, but nice.”
“Do you have a counselor? A therapist?”
I rolled my eyes and began gathering my things—mentally shutting the door in her face. Watkins was smart and kind but, in the end, just another adult shuffling me to someone else to deal with.
Like dear old Mom and Dad.
“I have therapy. You’re holding it in your hands.” I held my hand out. “Do I get a grade or not?”
Ms. Watkins sighed and gave the paper back to me. “You’re lightyears above this class, Holden, and probably every other class at this school. But I’m concerned about you. It’s obvious you’ve suffered something extremely traumatic.”
“Gee, whatever gave you that idea?” I muttered, stuffing the paper in my bag. Guilt washed over me at her pained expression. “You don’t have to worry about me, Ms. Watkins. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
“Does concern for your well-being make you uncomfortable?”
“Did your teaching credential come with a psychology license?”
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” she said. “I’m not a psychologist. But as a teacher, I have a duty of care to my students who are in trouble. Your descriptions of alcohol abuse are too realistic to be fictional.”
“Maybe I just have a very active imagination.”
“Or maybe I recognize the truth in your words because I’ve been there too.”
I stopped in the act of shouldering my bag.
Ms. Watkins waved a hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It was a long time ago, and yet it’s also yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after that. That’s the never-ending nature of the struggle.” She smiled gently. “But I had help. I want that for you.”
I stiffened. “People have been trying to fix me my entire life. It doesn’t take.”
“I understand how it can feel that way, but please don’t give up on yourself. Keep trying until you get to the place where you truly understand that you deserve to be happy. Because you do.”
“I will be happy. Once I graduate, cash my inheritance check, and move to Paris. Or Lisbon. Or Madrid…”
The concerned furrow between Ms. Watkins’s eyes deepened. “Isolating yourself even further doesn’t seem to be the healthiest choice. Especially not with large sums of money and an addictive personality.”
“What’s my alternative, Ms. Watkins?” My tone was hard, but my heart was begging to hear an answer it could believe.
“You stay here, close to home, and maybe consider what I said about the program at the university. Not only will your talent be cultivated, but they have mental health services—”
“Wrong answer. This isn’t home. There’s nothing for me here.”
And no one. Not after River leaves…
Ms. Watkins sighed. “All right. But if you change your mind or want to talk between now and then, I’m here for you, Holden. Please remember that. Okay?”
I swallowed a jagged lump of sudden unwanted emotion.
“Okay,” I said, leaving the door open just a crack.
That night, the guesthouse was claustrophobic in its emptiness. I tried to write but the sound of the pen scratching the paper set my teeth on edge. Every little sound was big, amplifying my solitude and turning it into a living, breathing thing.
I tossed down the pen—River’s pen—and started for the freezer where a fresh bottle of Ducasse waited for me. The cold, frosty air wafted over my skin, carrying memories of Alaska with it. Another drunken night
