Finley
That night with Zachcarries me through the next few days, the final ones of UPC’s winter break.
My parents and I avoid the topic of next semester. I’m choosing to operate on the assumption they’ll drop me at the airport and share in my excitement about returning to school when the time arrives.
Well, okay, not excitement. Not yet.
“How are you today, Finley?”
Today’s session with Dr. Warren includes my parents. She starts every one the same, regardless of whether they’re here. It’s the equivalent of running chalk over my grips exactly five times each before beginning a bars routine. Regardless, I like the question, especially with happiness coursing through me since Zach made a six-hour round trip to tell me he chose me after playing anentirehockey game.
“Great, honestly. I can’t wait for the new semester.”To get back to Zach Briggs and my training.
Dr. Warren cocks an eyebrow. I’m not sure if she’s surprised because it hasn’t come up before or because she didn’t realize our in-person sessions were again coming to an end. But in the span of a second, I realize that’s not it at all.
Mom inhales sharply.
Dad says, “You’re not going back for the new semester. Finley, you’ve broken our trust, and as far as I know, you still haven’t apologized to your brother or asked if he is open to you living with him again.”
I half expect the statement, which is why I took necessary precautions, so I won’t need to scramble so close to the next semester. I didn’t go back to sleep after Zach left, despite operating on only three hours. My body fueled itself with pure determination as I developed a plan to get back to North Carolina without my family’s support, financially or otherwise.
“That’s because I don’t plan to live with Matt.”
“You won’t be living with that boy,” Dad states.
Mom places a hand on my father’s knee, a silentLet me handle this. “Honey, why is this the first time we’re hearing about this?”
I shrug. “Figured you didn’t want to know because you hadn’t asked.”
“Of course we want to know. It’s why we’re here with you, talking, trying to understand each other better.”
“Huh. I thought we were here because you think I’m reckless and you want Dr. Warren to rein me in.”
I don’t give my parents a chance to respond, continuing with long overdue words.
“But she never did that. Shefacilitatedour discussion. She offered advice. She never laid out conditions.Youdid. And I accepted them, partly because I didn’t think I had a choice. I let you convince me to make my life small, and it made me feel incapable. You didn’t do it on purpose. You thought you were doing what was best for me.”
I tilt my head, looking straight at my dad. “Including you, Dad. I’ve resented you since my diagnosis. You acted like it was a death sentence and bolted into action to try to fix it. But I don’t need to be fixed. I have a condition, something that affects my entire life, but somethingIcan manage.
“My bipolar disorder doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself, or that I shouldn’t have the same opportunities as everyone else. It’s a credit to the services you got me that I can say that and wholeheartedly believe it.”
Mom cries silently beside me with what looks to be a mixture of guilt and pride. Dad remains silent, mulling over my words. It’s more than I told myself to anticipate. The silence stretches into discomfort.
That’s when Dr. Warren interjects. “Finley, thank you for being so vulnerable in sharing those feelings with us. Matthew and Grace, do you have anything you’d like to share with Finley?”
“Oh, honey,” my mom says with a sigh. “You deserve the world. I want you to be happy and healthy. I’m sorry I ever gave you a different impression.”
“Matthew?” Dr. Warren prompts.
“Do you haveany ideawhat the call from your mother was like for me?”
He doesn’t need to specify which call. My dad had left for work by the time my gymnastics coach opened the gym to find me collapsed on the ground. Mom drove there immediately, calling my dad to let him know what happened after we got to the hospital. I pushed myself to the point of exhaustion and dehydration and was in the depths of a depressive episode, which I’d only managed to push through thanks to the uppers that Garrett gave me. It almost cost me everything.
My father shudders. “I never want another call like that one, Finley. Ican’t.”
“You know the risk is always there, right?”
My tentative question hangs in the air. It’s an obvious point, but he needs the reminder. I could have been born genetically perfect, if such a thing exists, or have the powers of Supergirl, and he’d still have to live with the risk of a call like that. It accompanies love. There’s no way around it.
