So Marilyn said more.
“I didn’t think he’d want to take money from me for being over here playing with Izzy. It’s just something he wants to do. But it does make my job ever so much easier. That’s why I thought a little gift might be in order.”
“What makes you think he wants an old book?”
“Because it’s his namesake. Or he’s its namesake. Anyway, that’s his name. Stuart Little. Though I’m not sure if he spells Stuart the same way. In any case, when he tells people his name for the first time, they always say, ‘Oh, like the mouse.’ And he’s really not quite sure what they’re on about with that.”
Sylvia’s face did not look convinced.
“Well,” she said. “It’s your seven dollars. Should I hit the ‘Buy’ button?”
“Yes,” Marilyn said. “Please do hit the ‘Buy’ button.”
Then she sat back and turned her attention again to the not-very-good police drama. And felt satisfied.
She had no idea how long the book would take to arrive. She had no idea how the boy would feel about reading it. But it had struck her as an appropriate gift for him. Almost . . . thoughtful.
There was no doubt in her mind that the boy was trying in his own way to be a good friend to her, and this gesture made her feel as though she was being a less terrible friend in return.
Chapter Nine
His Psychology
Stewie
Stewie sat in the doctor-person’s plush-looking office, glancing around and feeling uneasy. There were diplomas on the walls, but their words remained indecipherable to him. The chairs were covered with baby-soft burgundy-colored leather. It stuck to the backs of his bare legs. The skin that his shorts didn’t cover felt sweaty. And his face felt sweaty. Which seemed odd to Stewie, because the office was only vaguely warm.
He wondered how things were going over at Marilyn’s house while he was stuck here. He thought about how he would feel if there was a disaster at her house and he wasn’t there to prevent it. Then he forced himself to stop thinking about it, because it made him feel too panicky inside his lower belly.
“Tell me again what kind of doctor you are?” he asked.
As he asked, he peeled his attention away from the room and its furnishings and looked directly at the man. Even though he had generally been avoiding doing so as much as possible.
The doctor was surprisingly old. Surprising to Stewie, at least, in that Stewie tended to think that people stopped working and stayed home when they got so old. He had gray-white hair that seemed untamed and unruly. It billowed out from his head, reminding Stewie of the photograph of Albert Einstein in his science textbook.
The doctor had an almost pasted-on kindness and patience on his face. Well, maybe not pasted on, but . . . it felt like too much. Like overdoing the kindliness to the point of looking down on Stewie. It gave Stewie an uneasy sensation inside.
“I’m a psychologist,” the man said, and his voice was overly kind as well. “I’m a doctor of psychology.”
“I’m not absolutely sure I know what that is.”
“Psychology? It’s the study of the mind, and behavior.”
“Is there something wrong with my psychology?” he asked, squirming in his chair. Or at least, he attempted to squirm. But his sweaty legs stuck to the soft leather.
“No, of course not,” the doctor said. “That’s a common misconception.” Then he stopped himself, and backed up. “A misconception is a wrong idea. People tend to have a false idea that if you see a psychologist it means there’s something wrong with you. But in most cases it just means a person is under some kind of pressure. That they’re dealing with grief, or stress, or confusion, and they need some help with it.”
“I don’t think I’m under pressure,” Stewie said. “I mean . . . I sort of am. Now. Because I’m here. But before I got here, I didn’t feel that way.”
“I hope you’ll relax and think of me more as a friend,” the doctor said. He sat back in his soft leather chair.
He had a pad of paper and a pen in his hand. That made Stewie even more uneasy—if such a thing were possible—because it made him feel as though he was expected to say something important. Something worth writing down.
“What do we do here?” Stewie asked.
“Just talk.”
“Really? That seems easy.”
He settled a bit as he spoke, sinking more deeply into his chair.
“It is easy.”
“What good does that do, though?”
“Just give it a try with me. You might be surprised. Tell me something about yourself.”
Stewie felt his gut tighten again. Because it felt like a test. It felt hard.
“I don’t know what to say.” The words came out sounding breathy. They seemed to betray his panic.
“Anything you want.”
“But that’s too hard. I mean, there’s so much about me. Eleven years of somethings, and I don’t know where to start. You have to help me know where to start.”
“All right. Tell me about your parents. Your sister tells me they died in a motorcycle accident when you were just a baby.”
“Then you already know,” Stewie said, more convinced than ever that this was confusing and hard.
“I thought you could tell me more about that situation.”
“But I was just a baby, so I don’t really know. I only know the things people told me about them later. I know the stories Stacey and Gam told me, but I didn’t really know them.”
“Well, on some level you did. But let’s come back to that when we know each other better. Maybe just tell me how it made you feel.”
“It didn’t make me feel anything. I was too young to know it even happened.”
“But you know now.”
“Right.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel anything about it. It was just a story I was told. If somebody tells you a story about people who died . . . if you didn’t know them, then you don’t feel much of anything. Right? I mean, that’s how it is for me. I don’t know how it is for other people.”
“She also told me your grandmother died less than a year ago.”
Stewie held very still in his chair and felt all the inside parts of him go empty and still, like a house must feel when nobody is home. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought about willing himself away. But he was not a baby, and he knew it probably wouldn’t work, especially since he’d tried it before. Then he thought about getting away in the more dependable sense. Getting up and walking through the office door. But Stacey had asked him to do this. “For me,” she had said. And he had said he would.
He opened his eyes again and pinned his gaze to the gray carpeting. He was careful to avoid the doctor’s face.
“But I don’t want to talk about that,” he said.
“I hope we can eventually,” the doctor said. “But it’s a first session, and there’s no need to push you too fast. Let’s talk about something happier. Tell me something from your life that’s good.”
“Hmm,” Stewie said. He straightened his back and sat up in his best classroom posture, as though it would help him think, and perform the task well. “Stacey and Theo are good.”
At the corner of his eye he saw the doctor writing that down. It seemed odd to Stewie, because a brother and sister shouldn’t have been hard to remember.
“What else?”
“The hens are good. I really love the hens. And one of them is even a good flier. For a chicken, I mean. Usually chickens aren’t very good fliers. I’m going to enter her in a chicken flying contest. So that’s very good. Don’t you think?”
“Your sister told me they were your grandmother’s hens.”
“But I said I don’t want to talk about that.”
“That’s true. You did. I’m sorry. What else? Anything else in your life feel like a good thing?”
“Marilyn.”