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Chapter 3:

Dr. Rosalyn is very attractive. Her hair is long, straight, and dark chocolatey brown. Her eyes are gray, they sit deep in her face and are slightly closer together than normal. She has freckles and tiny, thin lips. When she smiles, her teeth look a little too big for her mouth. She sits on a large, fluffy chair, her legs one on top of the other, and watches me behind oval-shaped, black-rimmed glasses.

In her office there is a large desk that is cluttered with things and she never seems to ever use it. There is a potted plant I suspect is fake because it never changes, the leaves are always in the same position, and its always the same green. There is a large, brown trunk of stuffed animals, mostly teddy-bears and one or two baby-dolls. Two bookshelves, black metal, lined with thick, heavy-looking tomes, their spines feature fancy lettered titles with big medical words. A golden floor lamp with a painted glass shade. And a bucket of every color crayon imaginable which she lets me use to draw on the walls.

"And how are you feeling today, Timothy," she says.

It's always the same opening question with her. Ever since that first day I came to see her, sometime near the end of fifth grade.

Usually I'm prepared for it, an answer framed neatly in my mind, along with appropriate pauses, inflections, and minute facial twitches. This time, I haven't thought much about an answer. So I choose a new crayon instead, a shade of blue – Robin's Egg, to be specific. I've never seen a robin's egg before, so I don't know how close to the real color it actually is, but the crayon will be perfect for my sky.

"Last time I saw you, there was a game you wanted to go see. You want to tell me how it went?"

Game.

I worry my lip and draw my brow together. I think about the last time I went to see a game.

It was a baseball game. Between my school and another, everyone called them 'our rivals'. Though, I don't recall ever being told before that day of this rivalry. Everyone was excited. I was excited. Tanner was still on the team then. He, and Engleberg, and Ahmad, and Toby, and Kelly; they were all on the team, and they were all playing that night. I remember thinking back then, sitting high up in the bleachers shivering in the chilly night air, how far away from looking like bears they now were, dressed in those gold and black uniforms.

I can remember it so clearly because it was the last game Tanner played for the high school. Our team won, twenty-six to nothing.

"Timothy," Dr. Rosalyn calls. I snap my eyes on her, blink a few times for good measure. "I asked if you went to the game?"

"No," I tell her.

I select another blue – Cerulean – and start another level of sky.

Sky, if you ever take the time to notice, is not wholly the same color blue. It starts almost white then gradually crawls its way to a near violet complexion. Then the sky ends and it becomes space. Space, of course, is pitch black. There are no levels to the black of space.

"I see," she sounds disappointed. She leans forward, braces her arms against her knees, and smiles down on me. "Perhaps next time. I know how much you like going to the games."

Not really anymore. It's not the same, now that Tanner is not playing. I think to tell her so much but it doesn't feel appropriate.

"You're mother tells me you haven't been doing very well in school. That she received a call from your teacher, about slipping grades?"

I choose another blue – Cadet – furiously rub it across the wall until it bleeds.

"Grades do that," I answer reasonably.

"Only if you let them."

"You don't have to let them," I say.

"Really? Why do you say that?"

I put the crayon down. Twist round and look at her earnestly. "It's hard to stay up. Falling is easy."

She clicks the pen in her hand so that its ballpoint tip darts in and out. She always has a pen in her hand, so she can use it to write things in the pad of paper she currently has stuffed between her thigh and the cushioned arm of her chair.

"And why do you say that?"

I blink.

"Because it's natural to fall."

"Oh." It wasn't an 'oh, I get it', but an 'oh well, that's not what I thought you would say'.

I shake my head. Give a withered sigh. Honestly, I shouldn't have to explain these things to her. She's the one with the PhD.

"You see, in the world, there are all these forces constantly working to pull you down."

"You mean gravity?"

I like Dr. Rosalyn. She always listens very intently when I speak, leaning forward as though she wants to soak up my every word. I know that it's only because she wants to later dissect and analyze them, but it's still nice. I'm not used to people listening to me. Most of the time they don't have the patience to wait until I have something to say. Dr. Rosalyn, as she told me once years ago, has all the patience in the world.

"Gravity. Yeah. I guess that's one of them. Sure. Anyhow...to be 'up' you have to fight against these forces – like gravity, every minute of every day. But when you fall, it's like you're working with these forces. Kind of like Pooh."

She straightens. Tilts her head to the side and scrunches her forehead.

"Like...what?"

"Pooh," I repeat, exasperation is sinking into my pores. "Winnie the."

She shakes her head and smiles. Flicks a stray strand of hair from her face then leans forward, again, ready to lap up my every spoken thought.

I'm finished with the sky. Now I search for a yellow to start on the sun. It has to be the right yellow. Because you can't just make the sun any shade of yellow. It has to be bold, bright, iridescent, incandescent. It has to be the kind of yellow that exudes the confidence of a billions of years old star.

"I suppose Winnie the Pooh is a bit of a clumsy bear," Dr. Rosalyn remarks. It doesn't really make sense but I let it slide. After all, she always lets me slide when I say things that don't fit.

"He works with the forces in the world," I tell her absently. I've lost interest in this topic. I can't even remember what got us talking about it.

I'm thinking about Tanner now.

Again.

Actually, I'm not sure I ever stopped thinking about him. He has a way of entangling himself in your mind. Almost like a cyst growing on the edge of your cerebellum. No matter how you try, you can't get rid of him. He just sits there, accumulating bits of your throwaway thoughts – like daydreams, and bad ideas – and he takes up more and more space until eventually, he's all that there is.

"Does he? I don't remember that from the stories," she says. I catch a hint of humor in her tone. I think she might be mocking me. I can never be certain. Those kinds of emotions confuse me. They're complicated and they stem from so many roots.

"It's in his book. About the Way and flow and things like that," I insist, my voice teeters with frustration.

I can't find the right yellow. It has to be here. Goldenrod won't do and the sun is no Cannery. I put each shade I find aside. Not a single sun amongst them.

Yellow is a tricky color.

I had this problem once before when I drew a picture of Tanner. Well, it was of all of them, when we were bears. Even Coach – Buttermaker, not Murdoch. I gave him a big, round belly and put a brown bottle in his hand. Dr. Rosalyn didn't like my answer when she asked what the bottle had inside.

Tanner is blond. But the color is so light, it's almost translucent. It flutters loose, ethereal around his face. Matching it with a crayon is next to nearly impossible.

When I had stopped the drawing and left it unfinished, Dr. Rosalyn asked me what was wrong. I had spilled the bucket of crayons across her shag carpet floor and crossed to the other side of the room, playing with the soft leaves of her 'plant'. I told her the problem, that Tanner was blond and the right color for his hair wasn't in the bucket.

She picked up a yellow from the ground and held it out to me then and said, 'I always make my blond friends with this color.' I took the crayon from her, looked at it, threw it across the room. It hit the wall and broke in half. I told her – I yelled at her...I never yell, 'I can't just make his hair any old shade of yellow, I can't!'

She asked me why.

I couldn't tell her. I couldn't make my mouth form the words. She should have been able to see. The reason was so obvious, any one should have been able to see.

If I used any old color, if I drew his hair in any old shade, without care for accuracy, then it wouldn't be him. It would be a lie. A terrible, horrible lie. And if I did that, if I lied, then all the rest of them would be there, all the bears, every last one of them...except Tanner.

I couldn't stand the thought. It hurt too much, like a choke hold on my heart.

So I cried and Dr. Rosalyn had to end our session early because no matter how she tried or what she said, she couldn't make the tears stop.

"I see. You mean, in the Tao of Pooh," Dr. Rosalyn says, "You didn't tell me you've been reading. You're mother mentioned you've been having trouble concentrating on things lately. Tell me, Timothy, when did you read this book?"

I kick the bucket over. There is no yellow. There is no sun in that bucket. No sun. No yellow. No Tanner.

"I don't know," I snap, "I don't know!"

Dr. Rosalyn watches me, silent, calm, as I walk away from the wall and towards the doll trunk. I kneel on the floor, shuffle through the different stuffed critters inside. I select a scruffy bear from the bottom, its seams are coming loose and one of the eyes is missing. I hold it out and frown at it.

I whisper, "I bet you know a thing or two about bad news." Then I hug its softness to my chest. There's an unspeakable comfort in holding something small and fluffy, it soothes the aches inside.

"I noticed this bump on your head. How did that happen?" Dr. Rosalyn says from her chair. She's attempting to engage me again.

She's always attempting.

Its part of the check-up process. She tells me 'some doctors check your body, I have to check your words'. I'm not entirely certain what she sees in my words – how they can tell her if I'm alright or not – but sometimes I worry about it, sometimes so much so that I'm too afraid to even speak.

"I was hit."

"Hit?" I hear the concern heavy in her tone and I like the way it rushes over me, silken and tingling.

"We were playing baseball."

"Oh," she straightens, her clothes ruffle and chair creaks, "We?"

I smile to myself at memories I'm not altogether certain I remember correctly but could care less either way because they're pleasant and warm my toes, "Tanner and me."

"Tanner," she repeats, "As in...Tanner from your Little League team."

Click. Clack. Click.

The pen tip darts in.

Out.

In.

"I see. So you and Tanner were hanging out?"

"Sort of," I mumble, the pleasant feeling is leaving, "We were in class."

"Oh, P.E. You...weren't...hanging out, then?"

I fiddle with the stuffed bear's paws.

"We were on the same team," I point out, I feel like I'm arguing with her but I don't think we're actually disagreeing on anything. I tell her, "Coach Murdoch made Tanner team captain. He picked me."

That was right. I remember. He did pick me. We had stood lined up on the pavement surrounding the school baseball field. Tanner and another boy, Billy-with-braces, had stood across from us, looking us up and down. They each called out names, and the boys those names belonged to jogged to stand by their chooser.

I didn't bother paying attention. I knew I would be last. Every captain that Coach Murdoch had ever elected always left me for last, and I had known Tanner and Billy-with-braces would be no different.

And then my name was called. I had been startled at first, and very confused, and I didn't react. There were still eight other boys left waiting impatient, it wasn't yet time to meander over to the team burdened with me.

But Tanner had insisted. Loop. Looper. Lupis. Ferchrissake. Get the fuck over here!

"Really? And which position did you play?" Dr. Rosalyn smiles, leans back in her chair, unfolds her legs then refolds them with the other now on top.

I put the bear back into the trunk. Pace the room a couple times.

"Why is there no chair for me?"

She opens her mouth, looks thoughtful a moment, then smiles again.

"You can sit at my desk if you'd like. I used to have a beanbag chair, but one of my former patients popped it. Spilled the beans, so to speak."

She giggles at her own pun. I don't but she doesn't mind. She never minds when I fail to laugh at her jokes, or when I forget to smile, or frown, forget to react, or evne when I cry or laugh or react in ways I shouldn't.

"I haven't really thought to replace it since. Most of my patients always sat on the floor when I had the chair and no one has really complained about it being gone. I guess I could look for a new one, though, if you'd like."

I take a seat at the chair behind her desk. I never knew it was back there. It swivels. And rolls.

The desk is covered with neatly stacked papers. Some are clipped or stapled together. There's also a laptop; it's closed. And there is a tape recorder, it has a red light blinking in the corner of its display screen. I once asked Dr. Rosalyn how she could remember the things I said after she had mentioned that she would review our session later. She had told me she records everything but I had never seen the recorder before. I pick it up to inspect it.

"You didn't answer my question," Dr. Rosalyn softly says.

I put the tape recorder down again and push it to the top corner of her desk near a few framed photos of people I don't know and a mug full of black pens.

"Timothy? Which position did you play?"

"Outfield...right," I murmur.

"Is that where you were when the ball hit you?" she questions.

"Yes," I say. I squirm a little in the chair. It really was such a nice day. Tanner had picked me. But I had ruined it all. I should have caught the ball but I didn't. I let him down.

Click. Clack. Click.

"Well, at least you're okay," she tells me. "Was everyone worried?"

"Yes." I say.

Then, "No."

And then, "Just Tanner. He took me to the nurse's office."

"He did? Well that was nice of him."

"Yeah," I beam, "We talked, on the way there. It was a long walk. He doesn't have a girlfriend. I thought he did...because...well...but no. He doesn't. He asked me how my head was and I told him it was okay. I told him about how I miss Summer, when we were Bears, and then the bell rang and he told me to get checked out by the nurse, I think because he was still worried and then he left because he's a cloud."

"Oh."

"He's like a cloud. He isn't actually a cloud. Just...that...he's like one. Sort of. Kind of. I think."

"I see." She sighs. Shifts in her chair and it squeaks with her movement. "Sounds like you had a lot of fun walking to the nurse."

Someone knocks on the door and I swivel in the chair while Dr. Rosalyn answers.

"Timothy Lupis's mother is here," a man says outside. He works at the front desk of the clinic, signing people in and scheduling their next sessions and taking their money.

"Our time must be up then." Dr. Rosalyn calls to me over her shoulder, then tells the man, "Send her in, please."

The waiting room isn't very far from Dr. Rosalyn's office. Just seventeen steps from the third chair. I always sit in the third chair when I'm waiting. My mom only takes a few seconds and Dr. Rosalyn closes the door after she enters. I study the drawer handles – they're brass – as my mom and Dr. Rosalyn talk together. I only sometimes listen to what they say even though I know they're talking about me.

"And he's been taking his medication since then?"

"Yes...I've seen to it. Of course, I have to stand over him and watch him swallow the damn things now..."

"Right...I warned you that might happen. I think we'll need to adjust his antipsychotics. I'm going to write a new prescription for now and you'll want to watch him this next month...you know the drill. We'll also schedule an appointment in two weeks."

I hate when Dr. Rosalyn changes my pills. Sometimes it makes everything better. Most times it makes everything worse. It makes me sick. My stomach wraps around itself and I can't eat. I throw up all the time. I can't move, can't even get out of bed. I can't see straight.

"Tanner."

I startle. My face warms. For a moment, I think I'm hearing things. Again.

But then Dr. Rosalyn says, "They used to play on that little league team together."

My mom nods and I think she looks uncertain. She doesn't remember the Bears.

"Timothy said he and Tanner spent time together the other day," Dr. Rosalyn explains, "He seemed to enjoy it."

"Yes. Well, they really aren't friends, I think. They don't play anymore. Timmy doesn't go out much," my mom replies.

Every molecule of air feels hard and pointed.

They aren't friends.

It sounds so strange and volatile spoken aloud.

Tanner. Me.

We.

Are not.

Friends.

"...a shame. When he was on that team, his negative symptoms showed real improvement," Dr. Rosalyn comments. She sounds sad.

Sometimes, if you squint your eyes and listen very hard, you can see the color of a person's sadness. I wonder if there's a crayon to draw Dr. Rosalyn's sadness with in her bucket.

I wonder if there's one to draw mine.