~ Chapter Four
Steve was starting to get worried. After Marty had been gone a day, well, it had been boring. And now it was almost the second night and Steve still hadn't heard from him. Not a peep. And he was worried.
They really hadn't been apart this long since Marty died. . . Six months ~ a summer, he had spent a whole summer without him. Scored really horribly on his final exams, (Not counting Nitsky's which he hadn't even bothered to take) but the teachers had all been sympathetic,(Not counting Nitsky) and put more weight on his first term grades (Not counting Nitsky, he repeated American History 101).
He'd tried calling Marty, softly, and then loudly, until he was frustrated to the point he had yelled out Marty's name. That hadn't worked, and then at supper, no one would look directly at him. They probably thought he was mentally disturbed, or as Aunt Judy would say, a real nut cake. Steve could have taken that, if Marty had just come back from who-the-hell-knows-where.
He was starting to think that maybe he was crazy. Maybe Marty had died and that was that. Out, out brief candle and all that. Maybe this past year had been a dream, a dream he couldn't keep.
"Steve-honey?" his mother called.
"Yes?" he yelled back from his bed, not really thinking. He could almost believe it was all a delusion, except for the strange way Marty had looked before he left. Like he was hurting, somehow.
"I'd really like to talk to you, baby?" his mother asked in a questioning tone.
"Okay," he said reluctantly, alarm bells ringing. His mother hadn't called him baby in years.
Except. . . At that "intervention" where she had confronted him with all his friends and the gym coach, with the shop teacher. This day was looking better and better.
He mentally tucked in his shirt – he would never really tuck in his shirt, Marty thought it made him look fat, but the gesture was soothing. He took a deep breath, and thus prepared, journeyed to the kitchen.
It was worse than he thought.
There was a strange person in the room, and he didn't need a road map to see that this was another psychiatrist.
"Steve, honey, I'd like you to meet Dr. Jonathon Smith. He works at the Treebolt Center for Teens in Crisis."
Screaming on the inside, Steve offered the doctor his hand. "Hello, Dr. Smith, it's a pleasure to meet you." Polite. When all else fails be polite. If he gave a good first impression, then maybe everything else could just melt away.
"Hello, Steve." The doctor looked at his mother for reassurance. "I've heard that you've been having some trouble with your grades recently. . ."
"They've been a little down, but I'm working on them." Steve tried out his brightest smile but it somehow came out flat.
"Well, how have you been feeling lately?"
"Tired, mostly."
"Your mother seems to think that your friend Marty's been on your mind a lot."
"He's – He was my best friend. Of course I think about him. All the time."
"It's not always healthy to dwell on these things, maybe if you had someone to talk about it with."
"We talk about him all the time." Steve shot a pleading glance towards his mom.
"Yes, Steven, we do." His mother's voice was soft. "And sometimes I'm not even sure if you realize that he's dead."
Well, of course I realize that he's dead. Otherwise he wouldn't be able to walk through walls or get poured out a milk pitcher or anything. Got Marty? No, no I don't. What I have is a psychiatrist and a concerned parent. I'm doomed.
"We only want to help you, Steve." Dr. Smith offered somewhat lacking reassurance.
"That's why I think you should go see this." She held out a brochure.
The words seemed to bore into his mind. Learning to Adapt, A Weekend Retreat for Teens.
