“Why the fuck are you here, Ian?” I asked. He flinched and I suppressed the urge to smile.
“Because I meant to get you, but I didn’t mean for it to go like that. I didn’t mean for anybody to go to the hospital. It went too far. And I’m sorry.” His voice dropped as the apology leaked out of his mouth. “Okay?” He thrust the paper bag he’d been carrying into my hands. I opened it.
“Cookies?” I asked, my mouth hanging open in shock. “Did you bake these?”
Nothing could have prepared me for that moment. He’d actually baked me cookies to show me he was sorry. It was the equivalent of him getting down on his knees and begging for forgiveness. It was worse than seeing him naked.
And fuck, I wanted to laugh.
“Your girlfriend told me to bake them,” Ian said.
“But—she what?” I was completely blown away by this.
Just then Dwight pulled up in his mom’s Toyota, hitting the curb just enough to make an annoying squeaky noise as the rims grazed the concrete. He got out of the car, and upon seeing Ian, he headed straight for us and positioned himself squarely at my side.
“What’s he doing here?” Dwight asked me, as if Ian weren’t standing there.
“He came to apologize,” I said, opening the brown paper bag to show Dwight the cookies. He reached in and grabbed one, glaring at Ian as he bit into it.
“Well, that was it,” Ian muttered, walking back to the car as fast as humanly possible.
“Ian,” I called out just as he reached the door. “Thanks.”
He nodded.
“And, dude,” said Dwight, “stick to swimming. Your cookies taste like shit.”
Dwight tried to look innocent as Ian got into his car. “What? I got your back, man.”
—
I sent Maya a text later that day.
Me: You told Ian he should bake me cookies?
Maya: Actually when he came to talk to me I told him that he should rot in hell with maggots slithering through his eye sockets and leeches attached to his armpits and that it still wouldn’t make up for what he did to you
Me: Hm. Guess he got that wrong then
Maya: Then I said he should apologize and if he had any humanity left in him he would bake you cookies.
The weirdness of this statement was staggering.
Me: WHY
Maya: (1) He made fun of you for baking me cookies on Valentine’s Day and said they were an apology for being cheap
I remembered this.
Maya: and (2) He had to think of you while he baked you cookies.
Me: Um…yeah. That’s weird.
Maya: No, it’s perfect. Anybody can just eat a cookie. But if you bake for someone, you’re forced to think about that person while you’re baking. And he should think about you and feel ashamed of himself
Me: Okay.
Maya: You still think it’s weird, right?
Me: Yeah but the maggots and leeches thing sounds pretty badass.
JUNE 26, 2013
I remember when The Half-Blood Prince came out and having to wrap my head around it. It was the angriest I’ve ever been. Well, the angriest I’ve ever been while reading a story. Like Harry hadn’t been through enough already.
At least Dumbledore came back toward the end of the last book. Remember? Maybe you don’t. It was at King’s Cross station. That hallucination where he told Harry he had a choice. And then, when Harry asked if it was real or if everything was just happening inside his head, he said: “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
He’s right, isn’t he? It doesn’t really matter that no one else can see what I see. That doesn’t make my experiences any less real.
Real is subjective. There are a lot of things that aren’t actually real to everyone. Pain, for example. It’s only real to the one experiencing it. Everyone else has to take your word for it.
It’s nice to know that Sabrina is never going to question whether something is real. She’s never going to find herself fighting imaginary creatures or talking to people who aren’t there, and before you ask me how I know that, I’ll tell you. It’s because crazies recognize each other. Like a secret membership to a club nobody wants to join. We can see when someone is one of us. And Sabrina is not.
You’re probably going to say that she’s a baby and there’s no way anyone will be able to tell until she’s older. I know she’s a baby. But there’s something solid about her. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s Paul’s daughter. She’s got his unruffled personality already. And I can tell she knows that people are depending on her to be okay. That’s a lot of pressure for a baby. I hope she doesn’t feel it already. I’d like to think that for now she only feels the love. From everyone. Especially me.
The rest can come later, when she’s ready for it. She’ll be tough enough to handle it.
They’re getting excited. You know, all the people no one can see. I won’t call them hallucinations anymore. It doesn’t really seem fair. They’re just corporeally challenged. Learned that from Harry Potter, too. J. K. Rowling is a fucking genius. Anyone who doesn’t think so is crazy.
If we were still having our sessions, you’d probably be asking why the people no one else can see are getting excited. You always wanted to know more about them. I think they’re probably excited because they know something is happening to me. They feel it the way old people can feel rain in their bones.
Rupert and Basil are sitting with their legs crossed, laughing at jokes no one else can hear, and the mob boss is standing with his gun, looking at the door. Only Rebecca looks nervous. She keeps looking at me pleadingly with her eyes full of tears. But she always looks like that these days. And that’s when I take her hand and tell her that everything is going to be okay, even if other people are around. And that’s because of something Maya said when I told her about all of my imaginary friends.
“So Rebecca is you, essentially?” Maya asked, straightening her glasses and lifting her head from my computer screen for the first time in hours. School is out, but she’s been researching other clinical drug trials since she found out about me.
“Yeah, I guess she’s essentially me,” I said.
“Is she here now?” Maya asked.
“Yep.” Rebecca was doing a handstand against the wall while Maya sat at my desk.
“If she’s afraid and you need to comfort her, just do it,” she said. The green flecks in her eyes looked brighter than usual.
“What if people are around? They’ll know there’s something wrong with me,” I said.
“You are the only one who can make her feel better,” she said, ignoring my question.
“Maya, she’s not real!” I said, trying not to laugh.
“She needs you. And she’s a part of you,” Maya said simply. “Stop punishing yourself for something you can’t control.”
“You mean stop punishing her.”
“It’s the same thing, remember?” Maya said. “Anyway, tell her it’s going to be okay.” Then she added, “Because I’m right here.”
I reached out for her fingertips and smiled. “Guess we’re lucky, then,” I said.
“Yes,” she conceded, turning back to the monitor. “You are.”