Born That Way (14 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The unicorn is walking along grumpily, not talking to me. I can't understand what Taylor likes about these creatures. Maybe if she actually met one she'd see they aren't the perfect, kind, spiritual beings she thinks they are.

“My feet are sore,” he says finally.

“Well maybe you should get shoes like . . . like the hornless ones get.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh please.”

His horn is even shorter than last time, but I'm not about to mention it, not with him already being in a bad mood.

I notice I'm wearing my ballet outfit again. Then I think well, if it's my dream, at least I should be able to control what I'm wearing. And I think how I'd like to be dressed in a dressage outfit like Kansas was wearing for her photo on her pamphlet. So I look down again and the pink slippers have been replaced with tall black riding boots and spurs that jingle. “Ho-ly!”

“You're getting a little ahead of yourself,” says the unicorn. “You still have to deal with the ballet lessons and whatever it is that's wrong with you.”

“You mean you don't know what's wrong with me?”

“Not exactly. It's not my area. I report on the general picture.”

“Do you mean the general spiritual picture?”

“I suppose,” he says uncertainly. “But first could you define spiritual for me?”

This strikes me as ludicrous. “Look, you're the unicorn. If you don't know what spiritual means already then I'm sure not going to be able to describe it for you.” And because I'm frustrated with everything I forget the rules and add, “You should be talking to my cousin Taylor if you want to know what spiritual means.”

“Oh you've done it again,” says the unicorn.

And just like that, there's Taylor walking beside me in the dream.

“Hey, good to see you,” she says to me. “Nice outfit.”

I check out my feet. I'm back in the ballet slippers.

She takes me by my shoulders and turns me so I'm facing her and she looks down and studies me carefully. “Though somehow a tutu doesn't really suit you.”

That's when she sees the unicorn and screams.

“Oh lord,” says the unicorn.

I take Taylor's hand. “It's only a unicorn.”

“Thanks a lot,” says the unicorn.

“You've got pictures of them all over your bedroom, and you saw one before, in my other dream.”

Taylor is taking deep breaths. “Yes, but I've never seen a live one so close before.” She grabs my arm and positions me between herself and the unicorn. “That horn looks deadly.”

“You should see my teeth,” says the unicorn; then he smiles at her.

“You know, for a herbivore, those are pretty pointy,” I tell him.

I can feel Taylor quivering against me and then I hear her whimper.

“This isn't fair,” I say, and wake myself up.

Mom and Dad have a quick round of couple's golf in the morning, which gives me time to plant my horse stickers around the place before Mom takes me to Auntie Sally's for lunch.

I put stickers in Mom's appointment book, tastefully, and not obscuring any important information like client names. I put my biggest sticker on the back of Dad's BlackBerry. I figure there's no sense being subtle any more. Now it's outright war, no guerillas.

I put the horse pens in Dad's briefcase, getting them all lined up in the loop holders so that the shiny blonde manes of the pony heads are fluffed out in a perfect row. The candle with the rearing palomino goes in the middle of the dining room table. The horseshoe napkins I arrange in a fan shape on the coffee table in the living room. I put more horse stickers around the computer monitor, and one on every light switch in the house. I steal a postage stamp from Mom's desk and stick it on a corner of Kansas's pamphlet, which I'm going to hide inside the mail when it comes tomorrow. I think this is a sly touch and much better than handing it to them. Let them think that the universe is in on my campaign and that resistance is futile.

When Mom and Dad come home it seems they have a campaign of their own, a new approach which could be titled “Don't React”. I know they noticed. I saw Mom's fingers brush the sticker on the light switch beside the kitchen door, then she had a good long look at it, turned the light off and that was that. So before we leave for Auntie Sally's I put the horse-butt toilet paper in the dispenser in the main bathroom and in my parents' ensuite.

We're on the way to Auntie Sally's and stop at the intersection at the top of the hill on Lansdowne Street. I know this is a particularly long light so I take the opportunity to let Mom know that I won't be giving in to her other little plan. “No ballet,” I say, but I've misjudged the light, which turns from red to green, and Mom must do something wrong with the car because it stalls.

“This stupid idiotic car!” says Mom.

“Taylor told me that you want her to talk me into it, and it's not going to happen.”

“Really, Cookie, I can't . . . If this car doesn't start in two seconds I am going to scream.”

“I understand, Mom, but I am not going to ballet lessons. I want riding lessons.”

Then the ignition catches, the car lurches ahead and I think it's going to stall again but Mom floors it and we scoot on through the intersection just as the light turns from amber to red. Mom slaps the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. “Yes! Good old girl!” And she turns to me and smiles and says, “What was that, Peaches?”

I'm so mad I can't say anything. I'm sure she heard me. Probably she stalled the car on purpose. Obviously she will go to any ends to get what she wants. Well I've got news for her. So will I.

“No
B-A-L-L-E-T.
”

“Careful, Cupcake. You're getting oppositional.” She turns her head and fixes her sight on the road ahead of us.

“Mom, I'm not being oppositional. I'm standing up for myself, because I have high self-esteem.”

In profile, my mom's face is somehow more readable. She can't paste on her professional psychoanalyst non-expression, and hide her true feelings. She licks her lips and swallows. “I see,” she says.

And I think I should leave it at that for now.

When we arrive at Auntie Sally's lunch isn't ready because Auntie Sally and Taylor are studying home-decorating magazines. There's a stack of them on the kitchen table; Auntie Sally must have been collecting them for years.

“Isn't this exciting?” says Auntie Sally. “Finally Taylor wants a change in motif and we can be rid of those unicorns.”

Taylor is looking more than a little tense and it's not just my imagination. She is flipping rapidly through a magazine with one hand and holding off Erika with another. I feel sick with responsibility.

“As long as you don't give me the hand-me-downs,” says Erika. “I do not want Taylor's silly old unicorns in my bedroom. I want something new too.” She slips past Taylor, grabs a magazine, opens it and immediately shoves the page at her mom. “I like this one. Look at all the Dalmatians! They're so cute.” Then she stamps her foot and her eyes well up with tears, which seems premature to me—no one's said no yet. “It's not fair, Taylor gets everything.”

I step in beside Taylor, who I figure is more in need of emotional support than decorating ideas. “What's up?” I whisper, but I'm afraid I already know the answer. “I thought you really liked unicorns.”

She bites her lip. “I don't know. When I woke up this morning I looked around my room and all those unicorns totally creeped me out. They look unnatural and freaky, not spiritual at all. I can't explain it.”

“Maybe you had a bad dream?” I prompt.

She shakes her head. “I don't dream.”

“We all dream,” corrects my mom. I should have known that talking quietly would only draw her attention.

“Mom, please,” I say. “Taylor doesn't need a psychology lecture here.”

Mom stiffens but carries on anyway. “Well I was merely going to say that if we don't get
REM
sleep, which is when we dream, then our brains don't function properly. Perhaps Taylor just doesn't remember her dreams.” She opens a magazine and idly turns the pages, as though her feelings aren't hurt, but I know they are.

“I never dream,” Taylor murmurs.

“Never?” I say. This is so sad. If I couldn't remember my dreams I'd lose at least half of what I enjoy about my life.

I hook my arm in hers. Fortunately she's not quivering the way she did in my dream, but the feel of her beside me is familiar and brings up a strong desire to protect her. This is all my fault and I don't have a clue how to fix it. I wish I did know; Taylor has tried hard to be helpful to me and in return I have ruined her life. Auntie Sally doesn't even seem to notice, she's so happy to have a decorating project in her sights. And Erika only thinks about Erika. Stephanie's away at university and probably wouldn't understand anyway. There's only one person who might be able to help, and so—with great reluctance, because I know how much she'll enjoy being consulted—I turn back to my mom. “What if she was scared by a dream but then she forgot the dream. How would she get over it? How would she learn to not be frightened of something if she didn't know why it scared her in the first place?”

“I don't know, Honey, though I suppose that's how anxiety disorders tend to manifest.”

This is not what I was hoping for; I wasn't trying to get Taylor diagnosed with a mental illness, but I should have known that's what Mom would do with the situation. If I don't move fast, Mom will start scheduling therapy sessions. “She doesn't have an anxiety disorder! She had a bad dream about a stupid unicorn with sharp teeth and he scared her, that's all!”

They are all looking at me.

“Well, theoretically.” I grab a magazine and flip through several pages. “Something floral would be nice for you, Taylor,” I say, desperately looking for examples.

Unfortunately, disagreeing with Mom again has taken its toll. She says to Auntie Sally, “Sylvie's taken quite the sudden interest in interior decorating. You should see what she's doing at our house.”

Auntie Sally completely misses the irony. “That's great,” she says.

Mom takes another stab at getting control of the situation. “You know, Sally, I think that often a parent's job isn't so much to provide for every whim as it is to set limits, to say no, to let a child experience the reality that they are not always going to get what they want. Especially if what they want is expensive and beyond the family budget.”

Auntie Sally flips a hand in Mom's direction. “Evelyn, you're sounding just like Tony.”

Mom has a frustrated expression on her face that I don't see very often because any time she gets frustrated with me she turns it into a teaching opportunity, which is one of her life's great pleasures. “Sally, don't you remember what it was like when we were kids and Dad gave us anything we wanted? And Mom went around in those old dresses scrounging things she wanted out of garage sales? Didn't you feel guilty about that?”

Auntie Sally frowns. “I thought Mom liked getting stuff from garage sales. She never complained to me.”

Mom shakes her head. “Well I'm not making the same mistake with my daughter.” She reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.

I'm in a state of confusion sorting through this new information about Grandma and Grandpa and my mom's childhood. I wonder how guilty I would feel if Grandpa bought me a horse and Mom was still struggling along with her old car.

Auntie Sally gives my mom a penetrating look. “You know, Evelyn, you think too much. As a matter of fact you've always thought too much. I think you should loosen up a little.” She returns her attention to the magazines on the table and puts an arm around Taylor. “Maybe it's time we all re-decorated. Maybe we could all use a change. We'll have to have a talk with Grandpa about this when he comes out for his visit.”

“Grandpa's coming?” I stare at my mom. “No one told me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

On Wednesday Dad has an afternoon meeting so I'm allowed to ride my bike to school. I spend the whole day plotting how to see Kansas. In math class, Mr. Brumby yells at me to pay attention, which has never happened before, and it's really embarrassing even before Amber makes a crack about me being lost in outer space searching for my home planet.

Mom made me promise I wouldn't stop on my way home from school, and I don't want to lie but I'm desperate to see Kansas. I need time with my herd—even a minute would help. My plan is to ride my bike to Kansas's gate, hop off, open the gate, roll my bike through, close the gate, pedal up her driveway and then ride circles in front of the barn while I talk to her before riding home. No stopping, that's what Mom said, and if I'm in constant motion, then technically I won't be disobeying her.

I'm on my bike ready to leave the school grounds when Mom's car lurches into the parking lot. Mom leaves the engine running (loosely speaking), and opens the trunk. “Dr. Gelderlander's office called. They have a cancellation if we can get there by 3:30.”

While Mom wrestles with my bike I climb in the front seat. I stare at the ignition key, wondering which way I would have to turn it to shut off the engine, and whether Mom would notice what I'd done. I decide it's not worth the risk, and with my luck this would be the one time in recorded history that the car re-started.

Amber and Topaz and Logan Losino walk by. Amber holds her nose and flaps at the exhaust fumes coming out of the car. Topaz says, “Apparently some people still don't believe in global warming.”

But when they've passed us, Logan turns around and I'm not positive, but I think he rolls his eyes.

“He's cute,” says Mom, sliding into her seat.

“Who?”

“That boy.” She points at Logan's departing back.

“Mom, don't point!”

“Don't you think he's cute?”

“You're being gross.”

“No need to be rude, Sylvie.”

I fold my arms and slouch into the seat so I'm well out of sight when we pass the kids on the road. Mom gives them a finger-wave anyway. I could die.

“Honey, what we need to decide before we get to Dr. Gelderlander's office is whether or not I should come in with you.”

I try to imagine which would be worse: listening to my mom fully describe my problems in psychoanalytic lingo, or being alone with a strange doctor and having to tell him the personal facts of my life.

“Is he going to be like John?”

“Well sort of, Sweetie, but not really. John is a psychologist but Dr. Gelderlander is a medical doctor who has specialized in psychiatry.”

This is bad news and brings up my other fear. “He's not going to examine me is he?”

“Well no, Cupcake, not physically. Or at least I don't think so.” She doesn't sound sure. I'm not liking this.

“Maybe you should come in with me,” I say.

“Well, of course I can, at least to begin with. I can help get things started, and put things in perspective,” she says in an enthusiastic way which leaves me regretting my suggestion.

Dr. Gelderlander's office is at the hospital. It takes us ten minutes of circling in the parking lot to find a space that Mom thinks she can squeeze the car into. Then we go in the wrong door and obviously Mom doesn't know where we're supposed to be so eventually we go back to the main lobby and find the information desk and by the time Mom pulls me by the hand down this really long hallway and we're standing in front of a door marked “Child and Adolescent Psychiatric Programs”, she's breathing hard and it's 3:35.

I'm hoping we're too late and they've given my appointment to someone else. If not, I'm hoping that if we go in right away Mom will be too out of breath to talk or better yet that she'll be so tired she'll decide to sit in the waiting room and rest.

Mom pats her hair into place, opens the door and then kind of hip-checks me until I'm walking ahead of her over to the reception desk.

“Sorry we're late,” Mom says over my head. I can hear her panting but it isn't preventing her from talking. She puts her hands on my shoulders. “This is Sylvie, to see Dr. Gelderlander for 3:30.”

The receptionist looks up from her computer screen and smiles. “No problem, we're running a little late here anyway.” She hands Mom a form to fill out on a clipboard, which is very discouraging because this is going to give her time to rest up. Then there's more bad news because the receptionist says, “But they did tell you that Dr. Gelderlander isn't actually here today and that Sylvie will be seeing his locum, Dr. Cleveland?”

“Who,” says Mom, having so carefully researched the most suitable therapist for me, “is Dr. Cleveland?” I can hear the icicles in her voice. Obviously she's not too tired to turn into indignant super-mom.

I slink away to a chair against the far wall. I don't want to participate in the interrogation and I'd rather not listen to it either. I plant my elbows on my knees and cover my ears with my hands. It doesn't work, I can still hear them.

“Oh she's great, everyone really likes her, we're so lucky to get her on such short notice,” says the receptionist. She's still all chirpy. You'd think that anyone working with mentally ill people every day would be more aware when an atomic blast was about to go off.

Mom says, “What kind of experience does she have? Or is she fresh out of medical school?”

There's a slight pause. I guess the receptionist is trying to decide if that was really irony she heard. “Well I'm not sure about that, but she's really nice.”

“How wonderful. Unfortunately, I'm not looking for nice. I was thinking more along the lines of astute, competent and experienced.”

I don't know when I've heard my mom sound this angry. Even Dad says that when Mom doesn't have her way she becomes either sarcastic or scholastic. But I do know how relentless she can be, so to save myself further embarrassment I say, “Mom, please—I'll be fine.”

She looks over at me, then back at the receptionist, whose smile has disappeared. Then she comes back and sits beside me. She takes a pen out of her purse and sets to work on the form but I can tell she's still fuming. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters. “They should already have all this information. We had a referral from Dr. Destrie, you'd think his office would have provided the pertinent medical history.”

“It's probably in the mail. We got a cancellation, remember?”

“They could have faxed it. Or sent it by computer.”

“You think Dr. Destrie has heard of computers?”

Mom turns the page over and sighs again.

I put my head in my hands and stare at the floor. I feel like throwing up. Partly it's the smell of the hospital, which I remember from when I visited Grandma before she died and Uncle Brian when he was sick, but mostly it's because the medical atmosphere has convinced me that I am going to be subjected to a physical examination, and if there is any question of sexual orientation, hermaphrodism or bisexuality I am sure I know where they're going to be looking. The fact that my mother will be in the room with me only makes it worse.

I hear the door to the hallway open and close but I don't look up. The receptionist says, “Oh hi, Dr. Cleveland, your 3:30 is here.”

Dr. Cleveland's legs and feet cross my line of vision—black pants and some kind of flat-soled black shoes. I'm surprised because I guess I was expecting nylons and heels, like Mom wears to work because she says it's important to always look professional.

Mom gets to her feet, then tugs on my sleeve. “Come on, Lambchop. Off to the lion's den.”

This must be a joke for Dr. Cleveland's benefit because it sure doesn't tickle my funny bone. I stand up as slowly as I can.

I expect Dr. Cleveland to be old, like Mom, but she's not. She's tall and slender and curvy and beautiful. She's everything I'm not and never will be. She takes the clipboard from Mom. “Usually I start my interview without the parents.” She runs a finger back and forth across the page, reading. “But I suppose, as a professional courtesy . . . ”

Great. Mom has managed to record her profession on my form. My life is over. This is going to be terrible. Two against one.