bring her back here in a year. Sail her up here. I’ll resell her for you and I’ll get the loan back and we’ll both make a bundle. Or worst case, break even.
I looked up at him. All I had to do to get my boat was make a lonely old man a promise that I’d come back & hang out w/ him again.
Do that, and I get my dream.
* * *
—
Except for a couple of trips to the grocery store since our return, I have not driven a car in eight months. Now that I am blazing down Main Street via a gentle pressure on the gas pedal, I realize that driving is not the kind of thing you want to think too hard about while you’re doing it. The double yellow lines mesmerize, the margins between them and danger on the roadside are infinitesimal. One spasm sideways and you exit this mortal coil. The wheel of a car, unlike the helm of a boat, is so sensitive. You could spin Juliet’s wheel all the way the hell around before having any impact on her direction. And with the distant coastline in sight, sailing never feels particularly fast. Yet any yahoo is allowed to speed sixty-five miles an hour or faster in a car, and the world blurs by like a drunken memory.
Up on the left I see the big red doors of the old Church Basement School. Across from that, the library where we used to spend long daytime hours spanning the oeuvre of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Farther on, toward the highway on-ramp, the grocery store, the shoe repair store, the fire department…I hold on to the wheel, trying not to let my attention wander.
Maybe my mother was right. It is “too soon.”
Driving, psychologists, talking, any of it.
I glance into the rearview mirror.
How are you doing, Peach?
Great, Sybil says, automatically.
Her hair, which was neatly braided when she left for school this morning, has loosened around her face. Her eyes look blank, her face heavy. I have picked her up directly from school for her appointment with Julie Goldman, doctor of pediatric psychology. I used to joke with Michael about how I would someday be able to call myself a doctor. I’d be very useful in a literary emergency. Stand back—I’m a doctor of letters!
It’s OK if you are not doing great, I say. I can handle that.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. Ideas brine in her consciousness.
I am great, she says at last.
That’s great, I say. We’re almost to Dr. Goldman’s office. If you have any questions about what’s happening, you can ask me. OK?
She turns and looks inquiringly out the window, raising her eyebrows.
She pauses, then seems to forget.
The thought of navigating traffic into Hartford made me anxious, so I chose a practice in the outer suburbs. After one exit on the terrifying highway, we slide down the off-ramp and back onto a slower, two-lane road, and travel through colorless neighborhoods until we reach the nondescript office building. I pull in to the parking lot.
Here we are, Sybil, I say.
I smile. Simultaneously I see my smile in the rearview mirror.
Warm, sincere—it shocks me.
Turns out, Dr. Goldman is a woman just about my age. Wearing a loose blouse, stretchy pants, and a long, complicated necklace, she’s hipper than I thought she would be. She smiles tolerantly, projecting the endless patience psychologists need to wait out layers of denial. She also looks slightly apologetic, like she’s sorry, but she’s going to have to crack your psyche like a nut.
I attempt to smile back—difficult. I feel enormously jealous of her self-possession. I envy the way Sybil warms up to her, touching all the dolls and puppets and art supplies that Dr. Goldman keeps in bins below the windowsill. At the same time, I feel relieved for Sybil, who has noticeably perked up. It is not “too soon” for Sybil to talk about what happened. Tears bite my eyes, so I try even harder to smile. The effort