Angel (Fuenciado)

Chapter 7: I'm Not Mad At You

Do you ever just feel so disconnected from life it's like a dream?

I feel like that all the time.

Sometimes I just float around my aprtment, not quite committing to anything, half-doing everything and then Mike has to follow me around finishing the tasks. To some extent, I think it amuses him. To another extent, I think it worries him. Well. Can you blame him?

Our mom calls about once a month to check up on us and make sure we're doing okay. We have an arrangement where she calls us, but we don't call her unless there's an emergency. That way no-one panics or gets the wrong idea and no-one has a heart attack. It's a system that works particularly well, because after about two months I dreaded if I ever had to call my mother.

It wasn't that I disliked her or anything...but two months after the accident, she called and we were talking and...I don't remember exactly what she said but it was something about Tony and it was just not cool.

"Erm," I remember saying, "Too soon, mom."

"What?" She said. "I'm just kidding, Vic."

And she was just kidding and she didn't mean any harm - but it did harm me because not only was it not funny; she thought I'd be okay with that remark. She thought I'd gotten over it in about two months. She thought I was capable of doing that, of just forgetting, of adapting so quickly. It was then I realised that no matter how strong the bond between parent and offspring, no parent ever truly knows their child.

Children don't like talking to their parents about stuff. I don't know why, exactly, but they just don't. I get that because I don't, and Mike didn't really talk to them about stuff either when we were growing up. I know that's ridiculous because whether you believe it or not, your parents do know what they're talking about, but sometimes confessing your darkest fears and most frightening thoughts are hardest when you attempt to confess them to those closest to you. I don't know - maybe it's a fear of being judged, maybe it's a fear of being rejected. Don't ask me. I'm no psychologist or whatever. But no-one is able to see inside another's mind, and only when you know their mind can you truly know a person. And parents think they know, but they don't. They have no idea. A child is like an iceberg. You only see the small part on the top, the part in the light. But beneath the surface, it's dark and mysterious and full of unsolved mysteries.

Or maybe that was just me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I sense that Clover is not in a good mood as I plop down on her extensively luxurious sofa.

"Are you okay?" I ask as she sits cross legged in her armchair. She sighs and nods.

"Yeah. I just had to deal with an extremely hysterical client. But I have you now, so I'm happy."

"Why wouldn't you be? I'm a great person with a lovely personality."

Clover laughs and opens up her notebook. "Okay then, Vic. Talk to me. Tell me what's on your mind. What is going on in your cranium, sub cranium, prefrontal cortex..."

I blink a couple of times as she trails off before starting. "What kind of psychologist are you?"

"I am a clinical psychologist," she replies, "and let me tell you it was not easy. Six years in university including two years postgraduate."

"University?"

"Oh yes. I studied psychology in Britain at Oxford University until I was twenty four and then I moved back to the states. But I also deal with a little clinical neuropsychology, counselling psychology and health psychology."