I look down at the tan khakis my mom purchased for me at the Gap the other day because she says I shouldn’t wear sweatpants to my doctor’s appointments, and even though the pants are not as swanky as my new Eagles jersey, they do look okay, so I shrug and stop worrying about what to wear to Veronica’s dinner party.
Cliff tries to get me to talk about Kenny G, but I only close my eyes, hum a single note, and silently count to ten every time he says Mr. G’s name.
Then Cliff says he knows that I have been rough with my mother, shaking her in the kitchen and knocking her down in the attic, which makes me really sad because I love my mom so much and she rescued me from the bad place and has even signed all those legal documents—and yet I cannot rightly deny what Cliff has said. My chest heats up with guilt until I can’t take it. Truth be told, I break down and cry—sobbing—for at least five minutes.
“Your mother is risking a lot, because she believes in you.”
His words make me cry even harder.
“You want to be a good person, don’t you, Pat?”
I nod. I cry. I do want to be a good person. I really do.
“I’m going to up your meds,” Dr. Patel tells me. “You might feel a little sluggish, but it should help to curb your violent outbursts. You need to know it’s your actions that will make you a good person, not desire. And if you have any more episodes, I might have to recommend that you go back to the neural health facility for more intensive treatments, which—”
“No. Please. I’ll be good,” I say quickly, knowing that Nikki is less likely to return if I backslide into the bad place. “Trust me.”
“I do,” Dr. Patel replies with a smile.
I Don’t Know How This Works
After some more lifting in the basement, I put on my trash bag and run my ten miles. Afterward, I shower, spray some of my father’s cologne, and walk into the mist—just like Mom taught me to do back in high school. I roll on some underarm deodorant and then don my new khakis and my Hank Baskett jersey.
When I ask my mother how I look, she says, “Very handsome. So handsome. But do you really think you should wear your Eagles jersey to a dinner party? You can wear one of the Gap shirts I bought you, or you can borrow one of your father’s polo shirts.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and smile confidently. “Dr. Patel said wearing this shirt was a good idea.”
“Did he?” my mom says with a laugh, and then she removes an arrangement of flowers and a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator.
“What’s this?”
“Give these to Veronica and tell her I said thanks. Ronnie’s been a good friend to you.” And then Mom looks like she is going to cry again.
I kiss her goodbye, and with my hands full of flowers and wine, I walk down the street and across Knight’s Park to Ronnie’s house.
Ronnie answers the door wearing a shirt and tie, which makes me feel like Dr. Patel was wrong after all and I am underdressed. But Ronnie looks at my new jersey, checks the name on the back—probably to make sure I am not wearing an outdated Freddie Mitchell jersey—and says, “Hank Baskett is the man! Where did you get that jersey this early in the season? It’s great!” which makes me feel so much better.
We follow the meaty aroma through their swanky living room and their swanky dining room to the kitchen, where Veronica is feeding Emily, whom I am surprised to see looking much older than a newborn baby.
“Hank Baskett’s in the house,” Ronnie says.
“Who?” Veronica answers, but she smiles when she sees the flowers and the wine. “Pour moi?”
She stares at my puffy cheek for a second, but doesn’t mention it, which I appreciate. I hand her what my mother has sent, and Veronica kisses me on my un-puffy cheek.
“Welcome home, Pat,” she says, which surprises me because she sounds sincere. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited someone else to dinner,” Veronica adds. She winks at me and then lifts the lid off the single pot on the stove, releasing a warm tomato and basil aroma.
“Who?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” she says without looking up from stirring her sauce.
Before I can say more, Ronnie is lifting Emily from her high chair, saying, “Meet Uncle Pat,” which sounds strange until I realize he is talking about me. “Say hello to Uncle Pat, Emily.”
She waves her little hand at me, and then I have Emily in my arms. Her dark eyes examine my face, and she smiles as though she approves. “Pap,” she says, pointing at my nose.
“See how smart my girl is, Uncle Pat,” Ronnie says, petting the silky black hair on Emily’s head. “She already knows your name.”
Emily smells like the mashed carrots that coat her cheeks until Ronnie wipes them clean with a wet napkin. I have to admit that Emily is a cute kid, and I instantly understand why Ronnie has written me so many letters about his daughter—why he loves her so much. I start to think about having children with Nikki someday and I become so happy that I give little Emily a kiss on the forehead, as if she were Nikki’s baby and I was her father. And then I kiss Emily’s forehead again and again, until she giggles.
“Beer?” Ronnie says.