Then again, what did I know?
“For the last time, I’m not gay,” I told him, my eyes trying to hold his. But like an Old West showdown, I looked away first. It was hard to be contemptuous without pressing my luck.
“Then why do you have to dress like that?” my father whined. For being Palm Valley’s sheriff, he often sounded more like a spoiled dog than a man.
“It’s called self-expression,” I said, sighing loudly. I pressed my forehead against the window, feeling the heat searing through the glass, and shifted in my seat. My pants were black and skintight, covered with patches I’d sewn on myself: Nine Inch Nails, Skinny Puppy, The Ramones, The Cramps, Korn, Deftones. I loved them but even I was starting to realize that my clothing choices weren’t the smartest for the end of the summer. My balls were sweating like nobody’s business.
“Well what the fuck are you trying to express?” My dad said.
“George,” Raquel warned.
“Oh, shut up,” he sniped at her. “Like you’ve never sworn in front of your kids.” He looked back at me. “Well? You going to tell me or do I have to guess?”
I swallowed hard. “I’d rather tell the shrink. That is why you’re sending me there, isn’t it? So that you don’t have to deal with whatever I’m going to say. Whatever truth there is? You can just put me on medication, hoping I’ll stop listening to evil music and drawing on things.”
My dad just shook his head. I was right and he knew it. He couldn’t handle me; he didn’t know what to do with me. I was like a vermin problem, a rat that refused to get caught in the traps. And I knew what the cheese was—what he was offering. He would treat me better if I acted normal. Maybe he wouldn’t beat my ass once a week. But I knew that wasn’t true. I was always Dad’s little scapegoat, even when my mother was around. Hell, he hit her more than a few times too, before she died.
I hoped I’d never turn into him.
We rode in silence the rest of the way before we pulled up to the medical building at the end of the main drag. Clouds of dust blew up around us as we parked and Raquel got out. She, not my father, would take me in to see the doctor. Heavens fucking forbid someone should see the sheriff bring his son to Dr. Edison.
I got out of the van and followed her through the shimmering heat of midday. Raquel was a frail-looking woman with wicked lines by her eyes, and though I didn’t remember my own mom too clearly anymore, I knew she was prettier. Raquel favored handbags that looked fancy but you could tell were cheap, and high heels that made her look like an idiot in our neck of the desert. Rancho Mirage or La Quinta, sure, but Palm Valley? She both tried way too hard and didn’t try at all.
She opened the door for me to go into the building just as an elderly woman with a walker was slowly coming out. The elderly woman looked at me and nearly had a heart attack. She then looked to Raquel who gave the old lady a sympathetic smile. I know she wanted to say, “He’s not my son,” and she’d be right about that.
I just grinned at the old woman, hoping she’d see the real me underneath. I may have dressed like a goth but I wasn’t about to knock her over and steal her handbag.
Raquel jerked her head, motioning for me to get inside. The old lady was frozen in place, unblinking, as she took me all in. For once I was grateful that I wasn’t wearing black lipstick or eyeliner. Lately I’d been on a big Robert Smith kick and had been trying to emulate The Cure singer’s looks.
“Excuse me,” I said to her as politely as possible as I walked past. She flinched at me as I came close and then shook her head, making a disgusted noise with her toothless mouth. I should have been used to the stares and whispers I got. In fact, most of the town had seen me, or at least I’d thought they had. But it didn’t stop me from feeling bouts of shame, and it didn’t stop them from making their pithy observations.
Raquel walked through the open foyer and up the stairs to the second level of the building and into a small waiting room. The frosted glass door with the words Dr. Edison painted in garish font clicked behind us with a sense of finality. Thankfully, the waiting room was empty, the table strewn with a mix of Reader’s Digest and Psychology Today magazines, the walls covered with dull landscape paintings. If the doctor let his patients decorate his office, he’d probably be blown away at their originality. But that’s what being original got you these days—a trip to the shrink. While Raquel went to go check in with the receptionist, I sat down and picked up a copy of Reader’s Digest. The “Drama in Real Life” stories were the best.
I only got to read one page on how someone survived a bear attack at Lake Shasta before the receptionist called me in.
“I’ll come back in an hour,” Raquel said, giving me a smile and wave—all for the benefit of the double-chinned receptionist—as I was hustled into a dark office.
Dr. Edison was standing in the middle of the room. He looked like I thought he would—widow’s peak, thinning hair, rectangular glasses that were similar to mine. He also had a steely look of observation that I was sure most psychiatrists had. I was a specimen under the glass, waiting to be examined.
“Have a seat, my boy,” he said, gesturing to a love seat in the corner. I
