Love and the Sea and Everything in Between

chapter twenty

I'm the master of fake smiles. The trick is you have to narrow your eyes a little. People often say fake smiles don't reach your eyes, but a slight squint will fool them without fail.

Sitting across from Dr. Keller for so many sessions, I have mastered the art. As he talks to me now, I arm my face with a fake smile. I won't let him know that I'm not okay.

I would have skipped our Monday session this week too, except he called me repeatedly until I was tired of screening his calls. Instead, I subjugate myself to an hour of psycho-babble and false hope.

"How are you doing, Adam?" he asks.

"Fine," I say. In a way, I don't even know if it's a lie because I don't know what's going on with Liz. I don't know anything and it's messing with me and I'm not okay because I'm confused.

"I wish you would have let me know that you were going to skip some of our sessions."

"Yeah, well, I was busy participating."

"Participating in what, Adam?" I almost roll my eyes, but I catch myself.

"Life, Dr. Keller."

"And how did that go for you?"

I think of the last six weeks, of meeting Liz, of the adventures, of finally feeling like I belong somewhere, of feeling like I was in control of something for once. And in one night, everything fell apart.

And I don't even get to know why.

"It was fine," I say.

"Just fine?"

"Yeah."

He sits back in his chair and adjusts the glasses on the end of his nose, staring down at his notes. "Adam, you have to learn how to communicate beyond just 'fine.' If you don't, you can't be upset when other people have no idea how to be there for you."

There it is: the blame rests squarely on my shoulders. What Jeremiah said and did? My fault. Liz's strange behavior? My fault. The chemical imbalance in my brain? My fault.

That sounds about right. "Okay," is what I say. What I do not say is a vulgar seven letter sentence that my parents would never approve of.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare down at the edge of Dr. Keller's desk. I don't care enough to make eye contact with him – or anyone for that matter. The only eyes I care to see right now are Liz's. And there's nothing I can do about that.

"Where's your head at right now, Adam?"

I think for a moment. I have the choice between telling the truth and telling a lie. I have no energy for the truth today. "I'm feeling pretty okay, I guess."

"Mm-hmm." He scribbles a note in that maddening yellow pad and I want to yank it from his desk and burn it, but I resist the urge. "Do you feel in control of yourself?"

I laugh. "I did. Once."

"And what happened that made this a one-time deal?"

"I don't know." And that's the truth.

"What can you do to take back control of your life?"

I can only think of one thing that adequately answers Dr. Keller's question. It's simple and to the point.

"Die," I say.

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