Chapter 4 – And How Does That Make You Feel?
Sunday, November 3nd, 1985
Doc's Garage
12:00 P.M.
"Doc? Doc, Where are ya? We've gotta talk." I call, entering the garage with no pretense of tranquility. Doc pops his head in from the backdoor, and just his concern makes me calm down a little.
"Marty? What in the name of Sir Isaac H. Newton is it?" He asks, coming in wearing his bathrobe and slippers. Doc must have slept in after working on the Delorean all night, and I feel slightly guilty for getting him up.
"God, Doc… my family, me, cocaine…Jesus, everything." I say and lean against the wall, sliding to the ground hopelessly. Doc comes over to me and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"Here, let's go inside, it's a little too cold to be out here to talk." He says gently, and offers me his hand. I take it, pulling myself up and he drapes the arm around my shoulders. We step inside and Doc flicks the light on, heading towards the tiny kitchen. Doc's whole house is really small actually. I'm pretty sure he only bought it for the huge garage. Well, at least he's made good use of it.
"Marty, here, have a seat. I'm making breakfast. Well, lunch technically, but breakfast foods." He says and presses a small button by the fridge. I watch carefully as a nearby machine breaks eggs into a preheating pan and a timer starts. I guess he moved that thing inside after all. Doc looks at me and smiles, "Einy kept getting into it when it was in the garage." I try to smile back, but I feel it falter and fade quickly. Doc looks concerned again, and he takes a seat on the stool opposite me.
"Listen, Marty. You can talk to me about anything, no matter how…ah, heavy. What's on your mind?" He asks, almost like a plead. I swallow and launch into the story of my failed research attempt, finding Dave's cocaine, and Mom and Dad thinking it was me.
"And worst of all!" I say, my voice rising slightly, "I talked to Dave just thirty minutes ago and he's letting ME take the blame cause he's in line for a promotion." I laugh helplessly. Doc finishes his eggs and gives my hand a squeeze.
"Alright. I think I understand the situation, though it does seem unlikely your parents would suspect you of hoarding this illegal drug. I would assume they know you better than that."
"God, I thought they did. At least better than how I know them now." I run a hand through my hair, mimicking the frustrated gesture I've picked up from Doc. "It doesn't make sense."
"Would you like for me to speak with them?" Doc offers. I laugh hollowly.
"No, Doc, remember? They think you've brainwashed me or something. They're hardly going to believe anything you say. I'm sorry." I add pitifully. I remember my parents used to love Doc's company. Well, back then.
"No…no it's quite all right. Nothing to be done about it then." He says, waving it off with his hand. I sigh, tugging sharply at my hair.
"The only way I see out of this is by communication." Doc says, before I interrupt him with a, "What do you think I've been doing, Doc?" but he keeps going. "Yes, but things will have calmed down by the time you get home. Their reaction was perfectly normal initial shock. I'm sure by the time you come home, they'll have thought more seriously about the issue." I force myself to breath evenly.
"God, I hope you're right." I say, feeling forlorn. He gives my hands a firm little shake before standing up to refill his coffee.
"Everything will be just fine, you'll see." He says calmly, and I look up at him with a little smile. Genuine this time.
"Thanks, I hope so." I hop off the stool, stretching a little. "I guess I should head back now, huh?" I ask and Doc nods.
"Yes, I should think so. Do your parents even know you're here?" I shake my head muttering a guilty no. "Great Scott! You better get a move on! If you hurry maybe they won't realize you've left!"
"Alright. See ya, Doc. Thanks for the advice." I say as I head back outside, locating my skateboard and starting the short ride home.
I am trying to sneak in through my bedroom window when the first thing I hear is, "Where have you been, young man?" and suddenly Dad's got me by the scruff of my jacket. Yes, I am definitely not the coolest person ever. In fact, I'm sure I'm giving Biff a run for his money on the lameness chart right now.
"Dad!" I say, and he lets go as I turn hurriedly turn around and try not to look too guilty. "I um, I um…I hello?" I say because I can't be sure if he's looking at me or seeing something hideous behind me. He doesn't flinch. Oh goody. No it's just me; public enemy number 1: Bad teenage son.
"You weren't getting more cocaine were you?" He asks suddenly and eyes my jacket with some suspicion. God, that does it.
"Christ, Dad, no I was at Doc's. I told you that was Dave's." He shakes his head slowly, expression morphing back into that pitying gaze.
"We've booked a session for you." He says, either completing disregarding my statement or just choosing to ignore it. "It's in a half an hour. Her name is Dr. Adelson. We need answers Marty, and since you won't talk to us, hopefully you'll talk to her." I feel my jaw drop.
"You're shittin' me." I say stunned. Dad's eyebrows draw together.
"And don't use that kind of language, young man. Your mother and I will be driving you there in a couple minutes. Wait in the car for us or you're in even more trouble than you are now." I stand there sputtering incoherently. What happened to reasonable, hell, pushover all around nice guy George Mcfly?
"But…Dad…" I start, but God is there anything really left to say? He looks sternly back at me.
"Go." I trudge disbelievingly towards the car, and, as if I'm in a dream, twenty minutes later I find myself inside an office with a recliner for a seat and dark haired woman sitting across from me with a notepad and heavy-rimmed glasses.
"I'm here by mistake." I say to her in frustration. Dr. Adelson just readjusts her glasses sharply and leans forward a little.
"And how does that make you feel?" She asks. I stare at her blankly, knowing this is going to be the longest and possibly most difficult conversation I will ever experience in my life. I take in a deep breath.
"Angry."