Lucy looks up. “Like OD’ing on heroin?”
“Among other things.”
She colors in the mermaid’s hair, ignoring the question. “If you could pick, how would you want to die?”
“In my sleep.”
“Everyone says that.” Lucy rolls her eyes. “If that wasn’t an option, then what?”
“This is a pretty morbid conversation—”
“So is talking about suicide.”
I nod, giving her that much. “Fast. Like an execution by firing squad. I wouldn’t want to feel anything.”
“A plane crash,” Lucy says. “You practically get vaporized.”
“Yeah, but imagine what it’s like the few minutes before, when you know you’re going down.” I used to actually have nightmares about plane crashes. That I wouldn’t be able to turn on my phone fast enough or get a signal so that I could leave Max a message telling him I loved him. I used to picture him sitting at the answering machine after my funeral, listening to the dead air and wondering what I was trying to say.
“I’ve heard drowning’s not so bad. You pass out from holding your breath before all the really awful stuff happens.” She looks down at the paper, at her mermaid. “With my luck, I’d be able to breathe water.”
I look at her. “Why would that be so bad?”
“How do mermaids commit suicide?” Lucy muses. “Death by oxygen?”
“Lucy,” I say, waiting for her to meet my gaze, “do you still think about killing yourself?”
She doesn’t make a joke out of the question. But she doesn’t answer, either. She begins to draw patterns on the mermaid’s tail, a flourish of scales. “You know how I get angry sometimes?” she says. “That’s because it’s the only thing I can still feel. And I need to test myself, to make sure I’m really here.”
Music therapy is a hybrid profession. Sometimes I’m an entertainer, sometimes I am a healer. Sometimes I am a psychologist, and sometimes I’m just a confidante. The art of my job is knowing when to be each of these things. “Maybe there are other ways to test yourself,” I suggest. “To make you feel.”
“Like what?”
“You could write some music,” I say. “For a lot of musicians, songs become the way to talk about really hard things they’re going through.”
“I can’t even play the kazoo.”
“I could teach you. And it doesn’t have to be the kazoo, either. It could be guitar, drums, piano. Anything you want.”
She shakes her head, already retreating. “Let’s play Russian roulette,” she says, and she grabs my iPod. “Let’s draw the next song that comes up on Shuffle.” She pushes the picture of the mermaid toward me and reaches for a fresh piece of paper.
“Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” starts playing.
We both look up and start laughing. “Seriously?” Lucy says. “This is on one of your playlists?”
“I work with little kids. This is a big favorite.”
She bends over the paper and starts drawing again. “Every year, my sisters watch this on TV. And every year, it scares the hell out of me.”
“Rudolphscares you?”
“Not Rudolph. The place he goes.”
She is drawing a train with square wheels, a spotted elephant. “The Island of Misfit Toys?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Lucy says, looking up. “They creep me out.”
“I never really understood what was wrong with them,” I admit. “Like the Charlie-in-the-Box? Big deal. Tickle Me Elmo would have still been a hit if it were called Tickle Me Gertrude. And I always thought a water pistol that shot jelly could be the next Transformer.”
