Prologue
SAWYER
Therapy sucks. All you do is sit in a room with a weird guy who smells funny and talk for hours. I don’t get why I have to go. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t change anything...but Dad still makes me go.
Apparently, a grieving period longer than a few months is considered unhealthy for an eight year old.
Every week we go to the same room on the same floor in the same building and talk to the same doctor. Most of the time, Dad doesn’t even take me even though all this was his idea. He has to go to work so one of our housekeepers, Ms. Klara, usually takes me.
“You look very handsome today, Mr. Sawyer,” she says warmly, her Ukrainian accent thick as she brushes some of the snowflakes out of my hair and fixes the collar of my dress shirt. It got a bit mussed when I took off my jacket.
I kind of smile at her.
“Ms. Klara, can we go home?” I beg.
We just sat down in the waiting area, but I already want to leave. I don’t want to go through this again. I really don’t, but I’ve learned that when your mother kills herself, a lot of decisions are made for you.
Klara’s brown eyes quiver, and she looks like she might cry. She cries a lot now. I think she feels sorry for us.
“No, Mr. Sawyer. You need to be here.”
I slouch in the chair and fold my arms over my chest, staring holes into the vintage grandfather clock ticking away on the other side of the room.
So what if I don’t talk much anymore? Talking wasn’t that much fun to begin with. So what if I refuse to go to school? School sucks almost as much as therapy does. So what if I’m not that hungry? I still eat sometimes. So what if I’m sleepy all the time? Sleep is good for you. And so what if I’m angry? I have the right to be angry after what she did.
“I don’t want to be here...” I mumble and cast my gaze to the obnoxious, paisley carpet beneath my feet.
It’s not like I don’t know what Dr. Yates will say. He’ll say what he always says which isn’t that different from what everyone else says to me now.
“Your mother was very sick.”
“She suffered from mental illness for a long time.”
“It was a disease in her brain that caused her death.”
“It was nothing you did.”
“She loved you very much.”
“It’s okay to be sad.”
“It’s okay to be angry.”
“Remember, she was a loving person despite her flaws.”
I get it. I’m young, but I get it. It doesn’t really take the pain or the guilt away though.
“I have to go run errands now, but I’ll be back before finish. Okay?” Klara smiles brightly at me, her eyes crinkling up around their edges.
I don’t answer.
Grabbing her brown purse out from under her chair, she stands and pats me on the head. She heads for the exit, but before she can get out of the lobby, a girl about my age comes out of the elevator with her mother.
She’s in a big, fluffy coat that almost swallows her whole. A checkered scarf hangs from her neck, and snow still clings to her furry boots.
I’ve seen her before. She doesn’t come to therapy as often as I do but she comes enough that I recognize her and her dirty blonde hair. She always wears it down with a few colorful barrettes pulling it away from her face.
I wonder what her childhood trauma is.
Once, I overheard Dr. Yates tell Dad I was suffering from childhood depression and maternal abandonment.
Whatever that is...
The girl smiles and waves at Ms. Klara as they cross paths, and Klara being Klara, waves back. Soon, all three of them are talking while the girl’s mother removes her jacket and scarf for her.
It could just be my imagination or the fact that I get a lot of pity stares now, but I can’t help thinking that they are talking about me. They keep looking at me and then at the blue backpack in the girl’s hands. Ms. Klara seems oddly pleased by whatever they’re saying. She’s nodding and appears to be...thanking them?
Klara and the girl’s mother continue to talk, but the girl comes over with her backpack and sits next to me. Instantly, I feel like my bubble has been penetrated.
“Hello,” she says. Her voice is high and cheerful, but she still looks cold. Her nose and cheeks are rosy.
I blink. I don’t answer.
She watches me, patiently waiting for me to reply, but I just stare at the dozens of magazines on the table in front of us. I don’t pick any of them up though. I have no intention of reading. I just want to look at something that isn’t her.
“I said, hello,” she tries again.
When I don’t answer the second time, she frowns. She seems genuinely hurt, and for the first time since Mom died, I have a rather strong emotional reaction to something that isn’t linked to her death. I feel bad. Not bad enough to speak but still kind of bad.
She sits there awkwardly for a while. She clicks her heels together, knocking small fragments of snow into the floor as she does so. Then she stares at the ceiling a moment, but she doesn’t leave.
She’s persistent. I’ll give her that.
“I brought you something,” she finally says as she reaches into her small backpack and pulls out a worn, pathetic-looking stuffed dog.
I want to ask why, but I am too stunned to speak. I can’t really wrap my mind around what’s happening.
“He always made me feel better when I was sad.” She puts the dog in my lap, somehow already knowing I won’t actually take him from her.
“Who said I was sad?” I grumble, suddenly feeling vulnerable and defensive. Has someone told her? Does she know? Has someone put her up to this? Or do I look that pathetic to her? Maybe I just look like the kind of person who needs an ugly stuffed animal.
“No one. I can just tell.” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat next to me and hugs her backpack to her chest. “It’s okay. I still get sad sometimes too.”
I look down at the stupid dog. Its plastic eyes are faded, and its brown hair is matted together, but it seems to resemble some kind of beagle. However, it barely looks like a beagle anymore. He looks more like a stray who got into a few too many fights and skipped one too many meals. Its body gives to my touch easily, suggesting that even the stuffing inside this thing has begun to deteriorate. He’s clearly been carried around. A lot.
“His name is Sad Sack,” she declares proudly.
I actually like it. The name is highly appropriate, and the corner of my mouth starts to curl up.
“Promise you’ll take care of him?” She leans forward, cocking her head to the side coyly and trying to catch my gaze. When I finally relent, I see that her eyes are so brilliantly blue they are almost violet.
I nod and actually grin at her. “Sure.”
