Delilah
ACROSS FROM THE COUCH IN DR. DUCHARME’Soffice is a huge aquarium full of tropical fish. I know it’s supposed to be pretty, or relaxing, but it just makes me depressed. I’m quite sure they’d all much rather be doing the backstroke somewhere in the Caribbean.
“So,” the psychiatrist says, “tell me, off the top of your head, five places you’d rather be than here.”
I look up at him. “In England during the Black Plague, at the dentist getting a root canal, at a taping ofTeletubbies,locked inside a Porta Potti, and… taking the SATs.”
He steeples his fingers together, considering these.“Teletubbies?”he says after a moment, wincing. “That bad?”
“That bad,” I say, but my lips twitch.
He has a nice smile, and all his hair, and he’s about my mom’s age. “Your mother says that you are somewhat less than thrilled to meet with me,” Dr. Ducharme says.
“Don’t take it personally. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But that’s not why your mom is concerned.” He leans forward. “What worries her is that you seem to be isolating yourself lately. You’ve become dependent on—maybe even obsessed with—this book.”
When I don’t reply, he clasps his hands. “When I was your age, I used to watchA Christmas Storyevery Christmas at least ten times. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out!’” he quotes.
I stare at him blankly.
“Guess you’ve never seen it,” the doctor says. “My point is, I used to watch that movie over and over because it was easier than admitting to myself that Christmas is a really crappy day for a kid whose parents are divorced. Sometimes the thingswe treasure for comfort are just masking a deeper symptom.” He looks at me directly. “Maybe you can tell me why this story means so much to you?”
I don’t know how to respond. If I say Oliver speaks to me, I look insane.
“I don’t read it because I miss my dad or I hate my mother or any of the other juicy things psychiatrists always think. It’s really not a big deal.”
“Your mom seems to think itisa pretty big deal to you,” Dr. Ducharme replies. “I don’t know many fifteen-year-olds who spend their time reading fairy tales.”
“It’s not just a fairy tale,” I blurt out.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a one-of-a-kind story. The only copy in existence.”
“I see,” the psychiatrist says. “You’re intrigued by rare books?”
“No,” I admit, blushing. “The main character. I can relate to him.”
“How, exactly?”
I think for a second, watching the fish in Dr. Ducharme’s tank swim in trapped circles. “He wishes his life could be different.”
“Do you wishyourlife could be different?”
“No!” I say, frustrated. “It’s not about me. It’s what he’stoldme.” Immediately, I panic—I’ve just admitted exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t.
“So… you hear him talking?”
The psychiatrist thinks I’m nuts. Then again, why would I be here if I wasn’t? “I’m not hearing voices. I’m just hearing Oliver. Look,” I say, “I’ll show you.”
I skim through the book until I land on page 43. There’s Oliver frozen, clinging to the rock wall, dagger in his mouth. “Oliver,” I demand, “say something.”
Nothing.
“Oliver!” I groan. “I don’t know why he’s not talking to me.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Dr. Ducharme asks.
