harris
It's been a day since my first therapy appointment. Mom got me in really quick with one of the providers in the local clinic, one of the ones I know she goes out for brunches with sometimes. There was a cancellation, and she fit me in. It did feel nice, admittedly. Just the simple act of talking to someone about all the Liam stuff was ... cathartic. Which I guess is the point of therapy. I just didn't realize I was going to feel so much lighter after just one appointment.
The doctor, who said to just call her Nicole, was really upfront about it. She said that recovery is never a linear line, that it's more like the sea.
"Imagine an ocean at low tide," she said, pushing her RayBans up her thin nose. She was a thin lady in general, all skin and bones and cream-to-beige clothing. But with her relaxed posture and genuine smile, I didn't have much trouble opening up to her. Her presence was comforting. "The waves push and pull as the high tide comes in, but just because we see a wave recede doesn't mean that we aren't building to something more. Recovery is a process. Sometimes one step forward, two steps back. But you're going to get where you need to be eventually, Harrison. And it's okay to take your time. You don't have to feel perfect right away, but I'm happy to get you started."
When I left the appointment, I called Mom and told her I felt so much better that I didn't even know if I needed to go again. I seriously meant it, but Mom just laughed dryly and said, "Nice try. Same time next week. Now go let the dog out before he takes a piss everywhere."
Now I'm on the couch with said dog, snuggled against my stomach, which is adorable, yes, but also has me terrified to move—which sucks, because my mouth is weirdly sore, and I really need some water right now.
Grandma is here too, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. She wedged a pillow between her thigh and my feet because she said my "mangy tarsals" were grossing her out. I would like to point out that she's simply overdramatic, because I have socks on. We're watching The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, because Grandma is old, and I'm a secret sucker for a good romantic movie. I'm multitasking—texting Evan Miller, of all people.
Me: No, seriously. I appreciate it.
Evan (track): Don't worry about it. I'm sorry for punching you
Me: lol I kind of deserved it
Me: I'm so sorry for outing you
Evan (track): Dude, you're good. Me and Rachel are chillin. It all worked out
Evan (track): I'm most sorry for leaving you alone with Liam, honestly
Me: Dude, we've been over this. You were a big help. So thank you
Evan (track): Anytime. We cool?
Me: We're def cool, dude
Grandma sighs at the TV. "I need me a man like that."
I look up at the screen, squinting. My phone goes face-down in my lap. "Huh?"
"A stud. I need a stud." She sighs again.
"Well what was Grandpa like?" I never knew him. He died a few months before I was born. No one ever really talks about him. (Which I assume is for a reason, but still, curiosity.)
"Your grandpa was an absolute dick. It wasn't early onset Alzheimer's. I intentionally forgot where we buried him."
"We only have one cemetery in town," I point out.
Grandma waves me off. "It's a big cemetery. Easy to get lost. Where's Frank? Oh, Frank? Guess he's not answering. Too bad, so sad. I'm too old to walk around a fucking cemetery all day to try and find some old fud's bones. If he's upset, he can wait a couple of years and see if I join him in that nice warm place. We can roast marshmallows while he tells me I'm a shallow bitch, and I'll happily inform him that yes, I absolutely am. And that my spite let me live longer."
"Remind me not to get on your bad side, Granny."
"See that you don't."
Peaches is asleep, which is freaking adorable, but also inconvenient because my phone is in my left back pocket, but I can't scooch forward enough to grab it without potentially waking him up. Things felt a little awkward with Seb after all the quarry bullshit yesterday, so I gave him last night to be by himself before caving and texting him this morning. I asked him how his morning was going at around eight-ish, and then sent one meme an hour later over Insta, and another two hours after that.
Not that I'm keeping track of how long it'll take for him to respond to me. No. Not that at all.
I slowly rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth. It feels like I ate a nettle or something, a painful burning that I don't think I've ever felt before. I smack my lips a few times, until Grandma turns to glare at me.
"What on earth are you doing, boy?" she asks, squinting at me.
"Sorry." Peaches stirs awake, which works just fine for me. I shift over and scoop him onto my stomach, already reaching over to the coffee table to grab my thermos. "My mouth is, like, burning. It hurts a fuck ton."
"Hmm." Granny moves the pillow and leans in. She pauses the movie, then curls her finger in a come hither motion. "Let me see the inside of your mouth."
Maybe other people might find that sentence strange. But my mom is a doctor, and my Grandma is nosy, so I came to accept my fate a long, long time ago.
I do as she asks, leaning forward and opening my mouth, sticking my tongue out and trying to angle myself so that she can find the best lighting. "Gimme your damn cellphone," she says. "And turn the damned flashlight on for me. You know I have no idea how all that newfangled bullshit works."
"I know you didn't just say 'newfangled,' Granny." But I pass her my phone, flashlight on. On my lap, Peaches yawns.
"Open your mouth."
"That's what he said."
She flicks me in the forehead for that one. I try not to laugh, and open my mouth.
"Hmmmm...." Grandma peeks around. "You've got some white patches in there, duckie."
"Ew," I say. My tongue is still sticking out, so it comes out all warbled.
"Pretty red in there too. Looks like thrush to me."
"Thrush?" Her diagnosis made, Grandma hands me back my phone. I turn the flashlight off and cock my head at her.
"Oral thrush," she says with a wave of her hand. "You just need some meds, duckie. It's the same kind of drug you use for a yeast infection. Some fungal bullshit, I don't know. Your mom's the doctor."
"Checks out." My tongue gingerly feels the roof of my mouth again. After a moment, I think I can taste a little blood. "So it's not bad?"
"Nope." Grandma sits back and unpauses the movie. Without so much as looking at me, she asks, "So, when did you go swimming in the quarry?"
My stomach sinks. "You can get oral thrush from swimming in the quarry?"
"Why do you think they closed it down? Put up a damned sign and everything. Can you not read? Or do you just choose not to?"
"I...." Fuck. Yeah, yeah, there's the sign. But I didn't think about it. Seb was right—we shouldn't have gone jumping in the quarry. "I chose not to read it. But I was only in there for, like, a minute, Grandma, believe me. I jumped in and then swam out super fast."
"Well, now you have oral thrush. I'll tell your mother to bring home whatever it is later."
"Fine." I sit back and cross my arms. "How ... how mad do you think she'll be?"
She pauses the movie again. "Harrison, what do you—"
"Not 'mad.' Like ... disappointed. Do you think she'll be disappointed that I went swimming in the quarry?"
Grandma shrugs. "She won't be impressed, that's for sure. But you're a kid. She used to go jumping in there when she was your age, and look, she's alive. A few of her classmates got oral thrush too. She won't disown you, that's for sure."
I sigh. "Okay, yeah. Cool."
She stands up, one of her knees popping. "Ooftah. I'll go call your mother. Let her know what a bad boy you've been."
"Ha ha." But all I can think of is Seb predicting this exact thing—asking how I'd explain to my mom that I ended up with oral thrush.
I check my phone. Still no texts.
I'm beginning to feel restless, in all honesty. Did I do something wrong? I just wanted to know what you think of this ... whatever it is we're doing. Did I answer wrong? I might have answered wrong. I must have. And given that he hasn't texted me.... What did he want me to say?
Does Seb want more from me?
An hour passes, and Grandma and I have moved on to Twelve Angry Men. I'm still mulling over the lack of texts from Seb. Is this it? Did I fail some sort of test I didn't even know I was taking? The more I think about it, the angrier I get. So, what, he's just decided then? Unfair. Absolutely unfair. I'm not a mind-reader. Maybe, if he hadn't put it in such a vague way, I wouldn't have said no to wanting a relationship with him. Because, in all seriousness, I do. I have. From the beginning. For him to just decide this, in a completely one-sided fashion, is beyond just unfair. It feels cruel.
Don't I matter too?