Oliver Ausman Lives Again

seventeen

I pay the operator once we get to the front of the line, Kat silently thanking me with a smile that's well worth the three dollars. We head up to the ride and climb onto three fanciful brown horses. Charlie sits between me and Kat, a smile on his face as the music surrounds us. 

When the ride starts the feeling brings me back to the party again, and I find myself wondering what ten-year-old Oliver would think of eighteen-year-old Oliver. Looking back on the past eight years makes me dizzy, a never-ending cycle of trying to figure out how so much nothingness made me go so crazy. It almost feels like I haven't changed at all-- like this could be the same carousel on the same day, because I'm just as clueless and inexperienced as I was back then. 

I feel sick, but I'm not sure it's from the ride. 

My eyes meet Charlie's bright blue ones and I force a smile, wondering if he can pick up on when my happiness is artificial. If Charlie was faking, would I know? The thought tugs at the heavy knot in my stomach. As it lurches, I swear I can taste birthday cake. 

Charlie looks away, and I watch him watch everything-- the people, the colorful ride, the glimpses of the park as we pass by the openings. I think about the spinning feeling, and how I hope more than anything that when Charlie gets off, for him, the world is still again.

»»——⍟——««

"So," Kat starts to speak as we continue our walk through the park, but pauses to eat another spoonful of cherry ice cream from the small cup in her hands. Charlie's holding a cone of chocolate, and I've got my own cup of vanilla, all picked up from the overpriced vendor next to the carousel. "When you were on the phone with your mom, you said something about her hiring someone to talk to you. I'm guessing that means you have a therapist?"

"Doctor Schneiderman," Charlie answers for me, the hint of a smile on his chocolate-covered lips. "He's funny."

"Funny?"

"He's not funny," I argue.

"He looks funny," Charlie corrects himself. "Not in a mean way. It's kind of cool."

"You take one look at this guy and you'd think you're living in the seventies," I explain to Kat. "I mean, really. He's got everything-- big glasses, tacky clothes, a mustache that takes up eighty percent of his face. I don't know where my mom found the guy."

"Well, disregarding his fashion choices, how is he?"

I shrug. "Fine, I guess."

"I like him," Charlie says, looking up at Kat from his place between us. "He's nice. And he asks good questions."

"He's your therapist too?"

"Not really. Mom just wanted me to talk to him."

"Anyway," I say, wanting to direct the conversation away from the reminder that what I did could've fucked with Charlie's head pretty badly, "Yes, I have a therapist. What about it?"

"I've just always wondered what it's like," she admits, eyes briefly distracted by a passing dog walker with four comically different looking dogs, all of which are practically dragging her through the park. "Having someone to talk to about all the stuff going on in your life."

"It's not that great. Not like having a friend or anything." As soon as I say the words, I realize I'm not really sure I have enough experience with friendship to know if that's true or not. "I mean, at least for me, I'm always worried about saying the wrong thing. I know he's analyzing everything, trying to make sense of me, make sure I'm sane and all that. It's too nerve-wracking to really talk freely."

"I guess that makes sense. Must make his job a lot harder, though."

I let out a short laugh. For someone who likes to remind me of how young I am, Kat has a certain naivety about her that almost makes me feel like I'm the older one. "Which he's probably grateful for. The longer it takes him to fix me, the longer my mother keeps paying him."

She squints at me, tilting her head slightly. "You know, there are more lucrative jobs than being a therapist."

I scrape my cup for the remaining ice cream, which is mostly a soupy liquid thanks to the rising temperature. "...Meaning?"

"Have you considered that the money might not be his primary concern?" she asks, sounding genuinely curious rather than condescending. "That maybe he became a therapist to help people, and is more worried about you than what his next paycheck will look like?"

"I guess it's possible. Unlikely, but possible."

"I just think maybe you're selling him short." She takes another spoonful of pink ice cream, pondering the thought for a second. "I mean, it's not helping anyone if you don't give him a chance."

I know she's got a point-- it's one I've argued with myself over. Maybe for all I know, Dr. Schneiderman is the answer to all my problems. Maybe if I opened up to him, he really would fix me. But the chance of that happening doesn't stop the fear that maybe, even if I tried my hardest to get better, it wouldn't help at all.