“What is it? Are you and Dad getting a divorce?” I smirk.
“You can be such a smart ass, ya know?” She smacks my leg with the phone. “Well, two things. Your friend from school, Maisey, her obituary is online. It says the wake is tomorrow evening and the funeral is Monday. I think we should at least go to the wake; it looks like the funeral is closed to family.” She looks to me for a response.
I can’t even face the letter Maisey left me. But to actually go to her wake? Shame jolts through my body in such a rush that I shudder.
“Okay, I guess you’re right. I should be there. What’s the other thing?”
She purses her lips together, inhales and speaks quickly. “I was wondering if you wanted to talk to someone about what happened the other day?”
“Someone?”
“I made you an appointment for a therapist. It’s in a couple weeks on Saturday morning. I know you have a lot going on right now so I thought—”
“You thought what? It’s the end of my senior year, Mom. I have a lot of crap going on and the last thing I need is someone who thinks they know who I am because they read a bunch of books in college. No. I’m not going. You can cancel it, or better yet, maybe you should go. You’re the one who seems to have issues with me.”
My mom does the thing where she lowers her voice to act calm, but I can tell she’s mad. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and why you’re getting so worked up. It’s a counselor. Someone like Ms. Selinski. Listen, you had a panic attack on Thursday. You might also have some issues with me and your dad. I thought it might be easier to talk to someone else about it, rather than us.”
I narrow my eyes. “Easier for you, you mean?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that.” The look on her face tells me she knows exactly what I mean.
We sit in silence for a few moments, and I wait for her to say something else. I’ve said my part. Mom sighs and attempts a half hug. My body is stiff as I sit on the edge of my bed, rubbing my toes into the soft shags of my carpet.
“I love you, Bree Ella. I’m trying here. I’ve made some mistakes and I’m not sure how to say it all without rehashing a whole lot of junk and talking about stuff you don’t need to hear about. I know I’m not perfect. I seem to have skipped over this chapter in the mom manual.”
“Really Mom?” I roll my eyes and try not to smile. “The mom manual? That’s so corny.”
She cracks a smile and we both giggle. But then I tell her I’m still not going to any counselor.
That night I stay home. No call from Kallie, Sean’s playing guitar at Azumi, and when he texted to see if I wanted to meet up, I wrote that I was tired but maybe tomorrow.
I decide to do some of the studying I’ve been neglecting the last couple weeks. As I’m jotting down some definitions for sociology class, my phone rings and it’s Dad, checking in to see how I’m doing.
“Making sure I’m not having another said panic attack or making plans to jump out of a window?” I ask.
“Your sarcasm is charming and a pain in the ass at the same time.”
I don’t disagree. We make small talk about his current beat partner at work (rookie cop), how Uncle Mike’s doing (same ole same ole), and my grades at school (mostly Bs).
“I hear you’re giving your mom a hard time,” my dad says.
“Dad, come on. You too? I’m not going to a therapist. I’ve had to talk to the one at school, like a million times this year.”
“Escuchame, Bree Ella,” he says. He says my name the way he always did when I was little, putting Bree and Ella together but with a Spanish accent. Bree-a-ya. “We didn’t really get into it the other night because of the circumstances, but I think that with everything that’s happened this past year, your mom might have a good point.”
“Really? How come you guys never went to counseling?”
“We did.”
“Oh.” Anxiety bubbles zip through my core. “Well,” I say, “I didn’t know that and now that I do, it’s not a very good sell. I’m really okay and I don’t feel like talking about any of this with some stranger.”
“Well, what about talking about it—or talking about anything with your dad? Regularly. How come you haven’t called lately? I moved out in July and I’ve only talked to you a handful of times.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Do you think you’re upset about the divorce?”
“Nooo, Dad. It’s not that. Or maybe it is. It’s … I don’t know. I’m just pissed sometimes when I think about it, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because it was kind of shitty how everything went down.” I take a deep breath and continue, “A few years of listening to you and Mom fighting all the time, you leaving whenever you felt like it, which was like all the time, and then it’s over, just like that. Then you leave for good. No one even asked me what I thought or said anything about it until it was all over with.”
A moment of silence.
“Si.” He sighs. “Entiendo.” Another pause. “I’m sorry it happened that way. Maybe it was a lousy way to go about it.” His voice is pained.