The Games We Play At Night

Part Two

I sit at the dinner table with my parents, staring down at my plate of peas as I push them around aimlessly. I don't have much of an appetite these days, either. Mom and Dad try to make small talk, to which I answer with as little detail as possible. A nod, here. A yes, there. An I-don't-know, followed by a long round of silence. After a while, Dad asks, "Are you feeling ok?"

I nod. To get him off my back properly, I throw in, "I'm just a little tired. You know, that time of the month."

I look back down at my peas and I can almost feel the uncomfortable tightening of his chest from across the table. He clears his throat and moves on from the subject immediately, taking a bite of his pork chop. Mom doesn't give up so easily.

She sets down her fork, and from the way she folds her hands, I know things are about to take a turn.

"Allie, we've been worried."

Already bristling, I set down my own utensils, not that they were doing me any good.

"I spoke with someone at the registrar's office. They say your attendance is an issue. Your grades are suffering. You were almost eligible to be put on academic probation," she says, in that tone. "You're lucky you're still in good standing."

I try to remain passive. Under the table, my hand squeezes into a fist while the other taps at my thigh in a drumming frenzy.

"I don't know what to tell you. I guess college is harder than I thought it would be."

"Are you still seeing that counselor? The one at the university?"

"Yes."

She looks down at her plate as if trying to compose herself, then back up. "And what does he say?"

I sigh. "She says that I'm having a hard time coping with all of the changes going to college brings, and she sent me to a doctor who prescribed me oodles of medication."

Dad nearly chokes on his pork chop and Mom shoots him a look that only a woman whose been married that long could give. He takes a drink of his water.

"Medication? What kind?"

"Doxepin. Trazodone. Prazosin. Clonidine. Ambien. " I rattle them off like a grocery list. "I've tried them all."

The table goes quiet. I can hear the clock ticking on the wall, marking every single second of the silence. Stretching.

I feel like I might shatter.

"I was thinking... we were thinking..." She glances at Dad, who sits up a little as if to finally join the conversation, "...that you might like to move back home."

My eyes flick between her and Dad, waiting for the punchline, but their expectant stares are unwavering.

"What?" I ask, my voice, edgy.

"I know that's probably not what any nineteen-year-old wants to hear, but I think it's for the best. It will be easier for you here. The problem's only gotten worse." She sounds exasperated. Poor dear.

"Problem?" I ask. Now I'm seething.  "And, what exactly is the problem, Mom?"

"I don't know." She sighs. "We were hoping you would tell us. That's why we're having this conversation."

"If I knew what the problem was, I wouldn't need to talk to a counselor, would I?"

Mom presses her fingers into her temples, and that's when Dad finally jumps in. "Okay. Everyone settle down. Honey, we're just trying to help."