Imperfect Spiral by Debbie Levy Page A

have to just sit down and say, ‘Okay, I’m not going to do anything but look up at the sky and wait for the first star to come out.’”
    â€œLet’s do that next time,” Humphrey said.
    â€œOkay, but—it’s probably about as exciting as watching paint dry,” I said. “If you catch my drift.”
    â€œI catch your drift,” Humphrey said. He skipped a little to catch up with me on the path leading out of the park. “And now I can catch your football, too.”

17
Incompetent
    Not to let me come to the funeral. Or not to want me there, since, as Mom and Dad said, there are no invitations to a funeral. They must really hate me.
    They have a right to. They have a right to hate me. And they have a right to find me despicable. And to think I’m incompetent. That’s not a strong enough word. Careless. Mindless. They’re also not strong enough. There may not be a strong enough word to describe my failure. Because, honestly, how hard is it to keep a little boy from running into the street?
    He was not an out-of-control kid. He was perfectly easy to control. Unless you were an incompetent, careless, mindless, horrendous babysitter.

    After two sessions of sitting around looking at each other, one hundred minutes of me looking at her looking at me, for which my parents paid I don’t know how much—my therapist, Dr. Gilbert, had an idea.
    â€œAre you a writer, Danielle?” she asked.
    â€œNot especially,” I answered, truthfully.
    â€œHmm. But are you comfortable writing?”
    â€œI don’t mind writing.”
    â€œDo you think you might be more comfortable writing your feelings than saying them out loud, for starters?”
    â€œYou mean, sitting here and writing?”
    â€œThat’s not exactly what I have in mind, although that’s a possibility. What I meant was writing your feelings down at home, and then reading aloud what you wrote when you come to see me.”
    â€œSo you mean, doing homework?”
    â€œI guess it is like homework. But I wouldn’t want you to feel burdened by it.”
    â€œBut what if I did feel burdened by it?” I asked.
    â€œI’m open to alternatives. Or we could continue to sit here as we’ve done for two sessions. Sometimes sitting in companionable silence can be very helpful, but I’m not sure that’s what’s happening here.”
    I didn’t have a better idea. And she was right, it wasn’tcompanionable silence. It was just silence. Almost total silence on my part, punctuated by her occasional questions and conversation starters. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I just found the concept of sitting there and talking to this middle-aged lady who doesn’t know me difficult.
    Now, having just recited my first therapeutic work of literature, I’m looking at her again.
    â€œDo you really think the Dankers hate you, Danielle?” Dr. Gilbert asks.
    I sigh. “I wrote it,” I say.
    â€œNo, you wrote that ‘they must’ hate you. And that they have a right to.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know what they think about me. Maybe they don’t think about me at all. Why should I even presume to think that they have any thoughts about me? How self-centered am I? ‘Oh, poor me, the Dankers hate me.’”
    Dr. Gilbert allows herself a small smile. “I wouldn’t take it quite where you did, but, yes, maybe they aren’t thinking about you. So if you think that may be the case, I suppose you could call yourself even more names and berate yourself for being self-centered. Or you could let yourself off
this
hook, at least—you could let go of the feeling that they hate you.”
    â€œMr. Danker always hated me,” I say.
    Dr. Gilbert raises an eyebrow.
    â€œHe always made me feel stupid and clumsy and in the way.”
    â€œDid Mrs. Danker?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid