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Cicadas have already started droning as I pull myself out of the truck. The sliding glass doors whoosh open, sounding like an air lock releasing. I greet the nurses at the desk, in the hall, search for Pop in the dining room, in the rec room, finally in his room. He’s still in his pj’s, his gray slippers dangling off his feet where he sits on the edge of his bed, facing the window. From this position he would have been able to see me drive in, park, sit in my truck for long minutes. He would have been able to see, if he could recognize me.
“Morning, Pop.” I sit beside him, the bed creaking under our combined weight. We sit in silence, a nurse whistles as they walk down the hallway, the pipes in the wall groan. It feels stupid to talk to him when I know that chances are he won’t remember. He can’t understand where and when he is in his own life.
“I have a new friend named Lulu. I think I told you about her.”
Pop looks over at me. I don’t see any recognition there. I tell myself it’s fine.
“The other day I asked Lulu what she wanted, but it got me thinking about what I want,” I say. “I thought I wanted to be a firefighter again, but I don’t think I do anymore. I think I’m ready to move on from that. I hope that doesn’t upset you.”
Someone coughs in a nearby room, one of those loud, wracking, wet coughs that sounds like it hurts. I wince and don’t continue until the cougher is finished. “I want Lulu. I like her. I like the way she laughs and how passionate she gets about the things she loves. I love hearing her talk.”
Now that I’ve started, I’m on a roll.
“I know it’s probably confusing for you. I told you before that I don’t just like girls and then I tell you about a girl—a woman—I like. Or maybe it’s not confusing at all. I mean, it’s not confusing to me. Well, it was confusing when I was thirteen but not anymore. But that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t tell you before, I guess. There’s this pressure to...” I shake my head searching for the word. “Perform that I’m bi enough. But maybe that was always just pressure I was putting on myself. It’s not like you could have put that pressure on me. You didn’t know.”
I pause to catch my breath and let Pop get a word in. He declines.
“What I’m saying is that I really like Lulu. I liked her from the first day I met her. But being friends is more important. I want a fresh start. I want to feel optimistic. I want you to know me,” I say quieter. “And yeah. Yeah, I want Lulu.” Pop laughs like I’ve said something funny.
“Let’s keep that between us, though, OK?”
Chapter Sixteen
Lulu
I’ve done therapy one other time in my life and it was exactly what I needed. My therapist was a tall older woman with glasses and a soft voice. She was a safe person when I felt like everyone was a danger. Like my last therapist, this therapist has a box of tissues on the coffee table in between us, a comfortable sofa, and interesting abstract artwork on the walls. There’s a big clock in the corner and a smaller one beside her chair.
She told me her name when I came in for my individual therapy session for the study, but now that we’re sitting down, I’ve already forgotten it.
“So, Eloise, how are you?”
I wince. “Lulu.”
“Pardon?”
“I prefer Lulu. Not Eloise.”
This therapist seems to be my age, maybe a few years younger. She’s Asian-American, with her dark hair pulled back in the standard academic ponytail.
“Sorry.” She makes a note in a notebook on her lap. “How are you doing, Lulu?”
“I feel terrible, but I’ve forgotten your name.” There is a swarm of butterflies flapping in my gut right now.
She smiles, tight-lipped. “Leigh. Lulu, how are you doing?”
How I am doing is frustrated. The only friend I’ve made in the study so far is the guy that I get off with, and I’m not positive but I’m pretty sure that means one or both of us is doing something wrong and that maybe this study isn’t working how I hoped it would. Of course, I can’t say any of this to her. My ability to give constructive criticism is only available to me within the context of academia. If your interpretation of the causes of the witch hunts is flawed I’ll tell you, but if you get my Starbucks order wrong, I’ll just say thank you and drink it.
“Great,” I say. “Fine.” The last one sounds like a question.
Leigh writes something down in her notebook again and I lean forward on the couch to try to see over the edge. The couch, made of some kind of vegan leather, also known as plastic, makes an extremely embarrassing noise and she catches me.
“You don’t seem like you’re being honest,” Leigh says. “Why is that?”
Well, there’s a tag along the side seam of my T-shirt that has been bothering me since I got to campus but I can’t scratch it without rucking up my whole shirt and exposing my tummy, and Frank corrected me this morning in front of everyone in a departmental meeting about the month in which a supposed witch trial took place in Russia since the empire didn’t switch over to the Gregorian calendar until 1918 and so was thirteen days behind the rest of Europe. But mostly, I’m just fed up.
Before I can organize my thoughts, I launch into how I’m really doing. “Fine. To be honest, I thought I’d be farther along by now. I thought I’d have friends. It’s not like I expected my social life to change drastically but I’ve been going to the events and journaling and sharing in our group sessions. I let you all poke and prod me and test my blood and listen to my heartbeat. But I still haven’t learned how to make friends with the other people in the study or the people I work with. I left the UK because I felt like I didn’t belong there anymore after I got dumped by Brian and Nora—who you don’t know but trust me, they’re assholes—but I don’t feel like I belong here, either. Even my own father doesn’t want me here. He thinks I should go back to Lancaster and every attempt he makes at helping me results in me alienating more of my colleagues.”
Leigh pushes the box of tissues across the table at me and I pull a few from the stack, loudly blowing my nose and dabbing at my cheeks. Now that they’re here the tears don’t stop coming and I grab a few more tissues.
