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And that’s that the first time I ever remember Mom
and me going to visit her parents back in Versailles, Indiana, Papaw warned me to stay away from the abandoned cistern in the back of the farmhouse, which was covered with an old piece of plywood, and which he was waiting for a backhoe to come and fill in with dirt.
Only I had just read Alice in Wonderland, and, of course, I was obsessed with anything resembling a rabbit hole.
And so, of course, I moved the plywood off the cistern, and stood there on the edge, looking down into the deep, dark hole, wondering if it led to Wonderland and if I could really go there.
And then the dirt around the edge gave way, and I fell down the hole.
Only I didn’t end up in Wonderland. Far from it.
I wasn’t hurt or anything, and eventually I managed to pull myself out by grabbing on to roots that were sticking out of the side of the hole. I put the plywood back where it had been and went back to the house, shaken and smelly and dirty, but no worse for wear. I never told anyone what I’d done, because I knew Papaw would have just gotten mad at me. And fortunately, no one ever found out.
But the thing is, ever since I talked to Michael last Sunday, I’ve felt as if I were sitting back at the bottom of that hole again. Really. Like I was down there, blinking at the blue sky up above, totally unsure how I’d found myself in this position.
Only this time, there were no roots to pull myself out of the hole. I was stuck down there at the bottom. I could see normal life passing by overhead—people laughing, having fun; the sun beating down; the birds and clouds in the sky—but I couldn’t get back up there to join them. I could just watch, from down at the bottom of that big, black hole.
Anyway, when I was done explaining all this—which was basically when I couldn’t talk anymore, because I was sobbing so hard—my dad started muttering darkly about what he was going to do to Papaw next time he saw him (which seemed to involve a Taser and Papaw in the shower).
Dr. Knutz, meanwhile, looked up from the piece of paper he’d been writing on the whole time I’d been talking, stared straight into my eyes, and said an amazing thing.
He said, “Sometimes in life, you fall down holes you can’t climb out of by yourself. That’s what friends and family are for—to help. They can’t help, however, unless you let them know you’re down there.”
I blinked at him some more. It was really weird, but…I hadn’t thought of that. I know it sounds dumb. But the idea of calling for help had never even occurred to me.
“So now that we do know you’re down there,” Dr. Knutz drawled on, in his Western twang, “what do you say you let us give you a hand?”
The thing was—I wasn’t sure anyone could. Help me out of that hole, I mean. I was down there so deep, and I was so tired…even if someone threw me a rope, I wasn’t certain I’d have the strength to hang on.
“I guess,” I said, sniffling, “that that would be good. I mean, if it works.”
“It’ll work,” Dr. Knutz said matter-of-factly. “Now, tomorrow morning I want you to pay a visit to your general physician to get a blood workup, just to make sure there’s nothing amiss there. Certain medical conditions can affect mood, so we want to rule those out—along with the meningitis, of course. Then you can come see me for your first therapy session after school. From which my office is conveniently located just a few blocks away.”
I stared at him, my mouth suddenly dry. “I…I really don’t think I can go back to school tomorrow.”
“Why not?” Dr. Knutz looked surprised.
“I just…” I said. My heart had begun to slam into the back of my ribs. “Can’t…wouldn’t it be better if I started back to school on Monday? You know, make a clean start, and all of that?”
He just looked at me through his silver wire-rimmed eyeglasses. His eyes, I noticed, were blue. The skin around them was crinkly and kind-looking. Just like a cowboy’s eyes should look.
“Or maybe,” I said, “you could, you know. Prescribe me something. Some drugs or something. That might make it easier.”
Ideally some kind of drug that would completely knock me out so I didn’t have to think or feel anything until, oh, graduation.
Again, Dr. Knutz seemed to know exactly what I meant. And he seemed to find it amusing.
“I’m a psychologist, Mia,” he said with a tiny smile. “Not a psychiatrist. I can’t prescribe drugs. I have a colleague who can, if I feel I have a patient who needs it. But I don’t think you do.”
What? He could not be more wrong. I needed drugs. A lot of them! Who needed drugs more than me? No one! He was only denying me them because he hadn’t met Grandmère.
The next thing I knew, Dr. Knutz was blinking at me, and Dad was wriggling around uncomfortably in his chair. That’s when I realized I’d said that last part out loud.
Oops.
“Well,” I said defensively to Dad. “You know it’s true.”
“I know,” Dad said, looking heavenward. “Believe me.”
