be right about Bradley. I had never really thought about feeling angry toward him because my thoughts were always rerouted to the sorrow of his death. But if I make myself think about it now, maybe there is a point to Eric’s theory. Maybe I am still mad at Bradley for dying and wrecking our family. And our future. And for messing up my mom, forever. And it is possible that I put all that anger toward my mom because she’s easier to blame. And maybe that’s why, no matter how hard my mom tries to make things work between us, I always end up pushing her away.
Someone knocks on the door. I suppose I’ve taken a long time. I butt out my smoke and flick it out the window. I spray the air freshener and then squeeze through the door, not looking at the lady waiting outside.
My mom is too busy texting on her cellphone to notice me when I walk into the waiting room. I step right up to her so our knees are almost touching. She raises her head and smiles. “How was it?”
“Good,” I say. I take a look around the room. There are a few people waiting—two adults and a guy about my age. “It’s good I came.”
“Oh,” she responds, obviously surprised at my positive demeanour.
I want to say something nice to her. Something like “Thank you” or “Sorry for all this” or something like that. But I’d feel like an idiot being so sappy. And the other people in the waiting room would hear me. And the words just won’t come out of my mouth. “Do you want to go to Starbucks?” I ask her instead, which is her most favourite place to chill out in. She knows I hate it there, so if I’m offering to go, it’s because I’m trying to be nice.
“Sounds good,” she says, rising quickly from her seat and putting her arm around my shoulder as we walk out of the room and into the main foyer.
Fifty-Eight
A few days later, I wake up with the decision in my head that I will go back to school. Snap! Just like that. For some reason, on this particular morning, I suddenly feel like putting on some makeup.
I walk into class and it’s like nothing ever happened to me. Ms. Dally welcomes me back and gives me my work. No one looks at me strange, but I keep to myself because I don’t know if the other students know about what happened.
Later in the morning, the youth worker, Sheila, pulls me out of class to talk to me in the couch room. She tells me none of the other students know why I was away and that it’s up to me to tell them if I want to. She says she was sorry to hear about everything that happened, and that she and Ms. Dally want to help me get back on track. She tells me she’s always available to talk if I’m feeling upset. I tell her I’m all talked out and that I’ve been speaking to Eric and a shrink and my mother.
“Okay. But I do have to talk to you about the overdose. About how much you took that night, and the dangers associated with mixing all those things.”
“I don’t want to go over all of it. I just want to forget about it,” I object, starting to get annoyed.
“I’m not saying we have to go over everything that happened, Mel. I’m just saying we’ll make a plan for next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“I sure hope not. But life is unpredictable. Let’s just think of a plan. It will take only a few minutes.”
She opens the binder that’s sitting on the table in front of her and begins. She’s being nice about it, and I don’t think I can do anything to get out of it, so I just go along with her plan. We start with how I felt before I went out that night with my friends. “Were you upset?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know you would be using?”
“Yeah.” I look away, biting my lower lip.“I already went over all this at the hospital.”
“I know. Just bear with me.”
So we make a plan for the next time I feel that upset and want to get totally wrecked out of my mind. We write down strategies I could use to avoid turning to drugs when I’m feeling so crazy. Things like making a phone call to a friend or