Wearing My Smile | ✔

Friday, April 20th, 2007

Fourteen days after your funeral.

I called my therapist right after I painstakingly went back home. Penny had insisted on driving me to and from school at the time. I had declined because, honestly speaking, I liked walking and cycling, but I suppose with my sprained ankle that wasn't going to be possible. Penny could be persistent when she wanted to and I was too weak to keep saying no, so I finally let her. I guess you'd have known the end result if you had been there, snorting in amusement, probably while saying, “Roo, really, you're too easily swayed it's almost embarrassing.”

“Rumon,” she greeted. She sounded distracted, but I knew how it was in her office during office hours so I waited until she came back to me. “What a nice surprise. What can I do for you? The slam poetry meetup will be on next Tuesday.”

“Ah, it's not about that.”

“Oh. Color me intrigued. What is it?”

I cleared my throat. “Do you have time?”

I heard swipe of papers and some things being moved, a door being locked, then complete silence. “I do now. What's on your mind?”

I never told her, but I liked it when she said that in our sessions. What's on your mind? Like she wanted to know an idea I'd been mulling over. Not many people knew I liked to ponder about ideas, projects I wanted to do, considering the long-term benefits of them for me and people around me. I had never really acted on them though. I guess my father and Luce was on point when they told me I'd never done anything just for myself, I'd been so busy with your life that I abandoned everything else, but this idea I'd been mulling over since we'd been twelve and I'd been watching you lying in that hospital bed, utterly helpless.

I didn't want to feel that way anymore. “Am I allowed to talk about my major and university choices?”

“Roo,” she said patiently, “of course. We can talk about anything.”

“Okay, so...” Sitting down on the couch all alone again shut my mind off for a second. I saw a glimpse of you standing in front of the television, trying to change the channel. There was a loud sound of gunshot somewhere outside. I flinched.

“Roo?”

I cleared my throat again. “Yeah, I'm here. Sorry.” I swallowed hard. My voice was rough. “Flashback.”

“We can talk in my office if you'd like.”

“Yeah, I will, but now I just want to mention. I mean, before I chickened out.”

“Okay.”

“When Sam—” I coughed. “When Sam was still around, we made a decision that he would take a musical major and I would take photography major, like Dad.”

Her of course was soft and understanding, so I continued, “Yeah so, he's not around anymore and to be completely honest this has been on my mind for years, I just couldn't bring it up because I was afraid Sam would take it the wrong way, but I...”

You were looking at me now from where you were standing. Your face was void from any emotion. I knew you weren't real, but I wished so bad that you were, so I closed my eyes and said, “I want to be just like you, Dr. Quintana. I admire the thing you're doing. I want to take psychology major. I want to help people sort their minds and their emotions out, too.”

Silence for a beat or two before finally, “That's wonderful, Roo. I honestly think that you'll make a great psychologist if you strive to be one.” I exhaled the breath I'd been holding. “But you need to be sure that you're doing this for yourself first and foremost and not because of somebody else.”

I knew she meant you. “No, this is for me.”

“It's not going to be an easy journey, but I'm sure you can get pass it.”

I blinked away the tightness behind my eyes. “Yeah. Thank you, Doc. I haven't told this to anyone, not even Sam so I don't—I don't know why it's so hard for me to—” I choked on my words, trying to control my breathing.

“Maybe it's because this is the first decision you make without Sam,” she told me patiently. “It could be overwhelming.”

It was. It really, really was.

“This is a big step you're taking, Roo. I'm going to say it's an improvement.”

“Is it?” I breathed.

“Of course.”

“Okay.” I let my breath out again. “Okay, and I also have an idea. Just one more thing. Something I want to do. Do you think you can help me out?”

“What is it?”

I took a deep breath and explained to her about kids in the hospital, the abusive households and people who were keeping it hushed because they didn't think it was their place. I explained to her everything, Sam, from my reasons to how I wanted to help. It was a leap to the unknown. I was still eighteen. Many things could go wrong. I could imagine you scowling at me disapprovingly, not because the idea was bad, but because you didn't want me to be at the front of it all, a vulnerable place to get hurt, but I had to start somewhere.

When I finished, my therapist was silent for longer than the first time. I imagined her thinking about it, juggling between the role of a friend and a therapist like she sometimes did when she was with me, trying to consider which approach to take. Finally, she said, “It could work.”

“Do you think so?”

“It's going to be a bit hard convincing the other professionals and trying to find the investors for this project, I mean if it works out well. I do hope it does. That kind of cases have been one of the things I worry about a lot for years.”

I almost deflated, but I replied firmly, “I'll do whatever it takes.”

“You'll need to.” I could practically feel her smile through the phone when she said, “It's going to be hard, but that's why you have me around, Rumon. Consider me the first professional joining into your project. I'd love to help you out.”

I felt the relief seeping through the sound of my laughter. I didn't know yet where I was going, but I knew where I stood.