Authors: Joann Swanson
“Yeah.”
She pats my hand. “She’s our little star.”
“Spastic star.”
I trace the outline of Binka’s star spot and think about how it’s not like any of her other spots, how it’s a hidden surprise. Like Margie’s boxes—some light, some heavy, some big, some small, but all of them not like they seem. Margie’s a metallurgist because she likes to be surprised, because she doesn’t know how something’s going to turn out until she gives it a try.
I think I used to be like that. I think I used to write poems and stories because I liked being surprised. Now the surprises send me to the quiet place where I don’t have to think or be. With my fingertips on Binka, with her hidden star right there for me to see, I wonder if maybe someday I’ll get to feel surprised again without the bees carrying me off.
It’s Thursday again and I’m on the bus, chugging along toward Dr. Pratchett’s office. Margie’s having a crisis at work—people yelling in the background when she called. She sounded mad and asked if I could make it okay on the bus. I told her I’d be fine.
I’m tapping my knee, ready to be heading back to the apartment already. I wonder if Dr. Pratchett will let me go early. My focus: get Dr. Pratchett to let me go early.
I climb down from the bus when it stops at the big glass building and walk past the dancing fountains, noticing for the first time there are lights under the water. I wonder what it looks like at night. Colors shooting up, up, up, crashing back down into flat stillness, I think. I’m through the two sets of glass doors and the guard at the front desk is smiling at me. I nod politely, then watch my feet, put one right in front of the other until I’m riding the elevator up.
I’m waiting in the waiting room, focusing on my thread—get Dr. Pratchett to let me go early—so I don’t hear when he opens the door.
“Hello, Lily.” He’s casual today, jeans and a light blue oxford shirt. Tennies on his feet. I doubt he’s got argyle socks stuffed inside the ragged canvas.
“Hi, Dr. Pratchett.”
“Would you like to come in?”
I walk past him holding the door open for me and go right to the chair I sat in last week. “I’m hoping to leave early,” I say.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I have a new kitten at home. She hasn’t been without me since I found her.”
Dr. Pratchett smiles, looking pleased. “Well, that’s perfectly understandable. It’s important we keep our full time, though. I hope you understand.”
I shrug and pluck at my sweater. I’m still wearing the one Mom knitted, washed a few times since I found Binka. It’s getting hot and I think I’ll have to stop wearing it so much. The chocolate is starting to turn beige and I wonder if pretty soon I’ll have to put it on a hanger to preserve it.
“Wear it
’
til it falls apart, Lilybeans.”
Deep breath.
Dr. Pratchett’s sitting in the chair opposite me now and his white fluffy eyebrows are raised. “What’s your kitten’s name?”
“Binka,” I say.
“Is she black and white?”
I feel my eyes widen a little. “You’ve see that show?”
“British, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you find her?”
“In a dumpster.”
He pauses and looks confused. “You mean
near
a dumpster?”
“No, I mean in.”
“I don’t understand, Lily. Someone put the kitten in a dumpster?”
“Yeah, I guess someone did.”
“What do you think about that?”
I look toward the nearest bookshelf and pick out a title.
Moby Dick
is my new thread. I repeat
Call me Ishmael
and
There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness
. I think of whales and blow holes, of gliding alone through silky, clear water. I don’t think about whaling boats or spears.
“People throw things away all the time,” I say because it’s true.
“But Binka isn’t a thing.”
I look Dr. Pratchett in the eyes. “She was to someone.”
“Do you mean if someone had seen her as more than just a thing they wouldn’t have thrown her away?”
Call me Ishmael.
“No, I mean some people see everybody as a thing, everybody as something to be thrown away. Margie said when we found her that ‘some people don’t know how precious life is.’ I think it’s more like some people don’t care.”
Moby Dick
.
Dr. Pratchett has this amazed look on his face, but his eyes are sad. I focus on his big sailing trophy.
“You’re a very wise young woman,” he says.
I don’t scoff, but I want to. Instead, I start reading book spines. “You have a lot of fiction here.”
“I love fiction.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, my voice soft, distracted while I scan the titles. I get up when I see a familiar design. “You own
The Stand
?” I ask and run my fingers down the hardback spine, tracing each of the engraved letters.
“Yes, in fact, that’s a first edition. Signed by The King himself.”
I glance over my shoulder. “You met him?”
“He came to Seattle for a book signing when it was first published. I stood in line for more than an hour and shook the man’s hand myself.” Dr. Pratchett looks proud he waited a whole hour to meet the king of horror.
I admit, I’m impressed and I like this thread better than
Moby Dick
. “What was he like?”
“Normal.” Dr. Pratchett’s pride deflates and he sounds disappointed, like he’s been holding a grudge for more than twenty years.
“You expected something else?”
He perches on the edge of his chair. “I guess I did.”
“What? 666 carved into his forehead? Bats under his hat? A crow for a pet?”
Dr. Pratchett’s laughing now. “Something like that.”
I turn back to the bookshelf, shaking my head. I’m still caressing the letters on the binding. “It’s my favorite book. I’ve read it three times.”
“Why is it your favorite?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it the idea of starting over?”
I think about this for a minute, remembering my words when Mom asked why I liked the book so much. I let the memory go quickly. “Maybe,” I say to placate him.
“Lily?”
I walk back to my chair and sit down.
“Let’s keep on with this thread, okay?”
Thread.
King book signing.
I see his dark, tousled hair, his unhandsome face, his eyes that have known success and failure and pain.
King.
Dr. Pratchett pushes. “Why do you think
The Stand
is your favorite book? Of all the books you’ve read, why it?”
I’m watching my feet tap once, twice, three times. I look back up at Dr. Pratchett. He’s waiting for me to say something. “I like Stu Redman. He’s a good character.”
Dr. Pratchett smiles. “He was my favorite in the book. He’s a strong man, a stand-up guy, as King would say. Why do you like him in particular?”
I think about how Stu and Frannie get together, how Stu takes care of her even though she’s pregnant with another guy’s kid. “It’s that stand-up thing, like you said. It’s that he gets how important every life is, including Frannie’s baby. You know? Even though it’s not his?”
“That makes a lot of sense.”
“I wanted Hank to be more like Stu,” I say to my hands. “Stu wouldn’t have spent his nights drinking six packs.”
“May I ask you a question about your father?”
“Okay.”
“How do you feel about him now?”
I suck in my breath and try not to have another coughing fit. A wildfire starts in my belly and wants to burn right through to my heart. I try to breathe flames to let it go, to blow out the black smoke filling up my lungs. I’m all charcoal and ash in there though, burned up and empty.
The phone rings. I pick it up on the third shrill buzz.
“Whatcha up to, Beans?”
“Just studying.”
“What
’
s your mother doing?” His words slur so “mother” comes out “mutter.”
“I
’
m not sure.”
“Beans, you know she sleeps with every guy she meets, don
’
t you? You know you
’
re poor for no reason?”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Don
’
t treat me like I
’
m a child.
”
“I
’
m not.”
“You don
’
t believe me.”
I stay silent. This is the part where I never know how to answer.
“She hides money, Beans. You wouldn
’
t believe how much.”
“Why would she do that?” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice, try to sound curious instead of skeptical.
“
She doesn
’
t want you to have anything nice. She never did.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Didn
’
t you always wonder how she could afford expensive clothes? All that jewelry?”
I think about Mom
’
s treasure chest of riches—an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a grain of rice, a matching wedding band, a delicate gold chain with a broken clasp. She never buys a new anything when she can find the same thing secondhand. Even if she wants a blue blouse, she
’
ll settle for pink if it
’
s cheap enough.
He
’
s waiting.
“Sorry, Dad, I didn
’
t know she had a lot of jewelry.”
“Are you blind?”
“
I don’
t think so.”
“Don
’
t be smart with me, Beans.”
“I have a lot of homework, Dad.”
He pauses. He
’
s either going to let me go or start pretend-crying. Fake sorries to make me stay.
“Fine, Lily. That
’
s just fine. You go ahead and ignore your old pop who doesn
’
t know what
’
s happening with you anymore. You go ahead and pretend you don
’
t have a father and I
’
ll just talk to you later.”
Guilt, the always popular third option.
“Sorry, Dad, I just have a big test tomorrow.”
He slams the phone down hard so it sends a big bang down my ear canal. Then a dial tone—my best friend.
Dr. Pratchett sits forward and touches my hand. “I know this is difficult, but I think it’s important we keep going. Is that okay with you?”
I shrug and imagine my
King book signing
thread stretching out in front of me. I imagine Dr. Pratchett snagging the thread here and there, making new little paths I can go down or not go down. I tell myself I don’t have to follow those snags with my whole mind, that I can stay on
King
and still help Dr. Pratchett understand.
“What’s the first word that comes to mind when you think of your father?”
“Hank,” I say.
Dr. Pratchett looks confused.
I let him off the hook. “It’s his first name. I can’t think of him as my father anymore.”
Dr. Pratchett’s nodding now, like this is the best news he’s heard all day. “Okay, good, Lily. Why do you think that is?”
“What does it matter?”
“I think it matters quite a bit. For example, I suspect the episodes you experience have a lot to do with how you feel about your father, and especially about what he did.”
I think on Dr. Pratchett’s words. “There’s a buzzing before each spell,” I say.
“What kind of buzzing?”
I take a deep breath and sink down into the leather, letting it smoosh up around me. “Like bees, but also there’s a pattern.”
Dr. Pratchett’s nodding. I expect to see he thinks I’m crazy, but he’s excited. “And what do you think the pattern is?”
I cross my arms and shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“I’d like you to think about the buzzing you hear. You said it sounds like bees?” His voice is soothing, like he’s trying out some hypnosis on me.
“Yes.”
“Now think about the pattern.”
“Okay.”
“What does the pattern remind you of?”
“There’s the buzzing and then there’s silence and then the buzzing again.” I feel my eyes go wide. “It’s a phone ringing. The phone in my old house.”
Dr. Pratchett’s nodding. “Is the phone in your old house important?”
“You
’
re poor for no reason, Lily.”
“It used to ring a lot. I think it’s an old memory.”
I look at the clock on Dr. Pratchett’s desk. “It’s almost time to go.”
He doesn’t look at the clock, but stays focused on me. “Just about.” He watches me and I see he wants to press. It’s the same look Margie gets. We’re all walking narrow paths. Push, don’t push.
Today it’s push.
“Can you tell me why the phone in your old house is significant?”
I don’t think I can say the words.
“In here you’re completely safe. You can say anything.”
“It was my fault.” My words come out like fire. They spray the room, me, Dr. Pratchett, burning us both to ash. My voice is deep, filtered by the rip that wants to open wide.
“What was your fault?”
“That night. It was my fault. Hank called first. If I’d picked up the phone, if I’d talked to him until he was done lying about her, she’d still be alive.” I say this in a rush, like it’s been sitting down inside me, a big wad of awful swallowing me whole. I can’t stop thinking about Mom’s letter, about how she wrote it two days before Hank came with his gun, how I could’ve found the letter forty years from now if I’d only answered the phone.