Out of the Box by Michelle Mulder Page B

day.” I tell her about my conversation with Mom.
    She sits back down. “Sounds like she needs some serious help.”
    â€œThat’s what Jeanette says.”
    She finds a stone and tosses it into the pond. “What do you think?”
    â€œMaybe. Jeanette wants Mom to see a therapist.”
    â€œThink she will?”
    â€œNo.” I don’t tell her that it hurts to think of Mom on a psychologist’s couch. Mom always says that psychologists are for people who don’t have family and friends to talk to. If I’d listened properly, instead of getting so caught up in my own world, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.
    â€œSo is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” she asks. “Because you were upset about your parents?”
    I shake my head and admit that I didn’t want to hang out with Michael and Steve. “They’d just think I’m weird. Guys always do, and then you’d have to choose, and I didn’t want to be dropped.”
    â€œThat’s the most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever heard, Ellie. You don’t just ditch someone for something they might do.”
    â€œI didn’t ditch you,” I say.
    â€œHard to tell.”
    â€œLook, I’m sorry, okay? I can’t be perfect all the time.” The words—ones that Mom always uses and that I hate—make me squirm.
    Sarah tosses her stick into the lake and gets up.
    â€œIf you ever feel like hanging out instead of feeling sorry for yourself, let me know.” She heads back down the path, leaving an emptiness far bigger than the one I’d had when I came to the stone bridge in the first place.

    Jeanette is waiting for me in the living room. “I made some tea. Chamomile. For the nerves.” She brings me a steaming mug and hands me a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. “These are for your soul. Did your walk help?”
    â€œNext question,” I say.
    She hands me the plate. “Eat. Very few things don’t improve with chocolate.” I obey, and she tells me she’s asked my mother to leave the next call up to me.
    The cookie turns to dust in my mouth. “Oh great. Thanks, Jeanette.”
    â€œNo problem,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Someone’s got to stand up for you, Ellie.”
    I shake my head. “I don’t know how you can talk to her the way you do.”
    â€œWhy not?” She grabs a cookie. “It’s a valuable skill to learn, being respectful but firm. And don’t forget, she’s my little sister—I’ve had a lot of experience talking to her.”
    I blow on my tea. “Hate to say this, but I’m not sure how respectful it is if everything you say makes her fall apart.”
    â€œEllie,” she says, “right now, anything anyone says will upset her, so we might as well say what we think. She needs professional help. You can’t hold yourself responsible for fixing her. Or your father either, for that matter.”
    We go around and around the same issues for another twenty minutes or so before I tell her I’m going to bed.
    The chocolate has done nothing for my soul, and the chamomile hasn’t helped either. I stare at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time my parents were both happy. What comes up instead is the picture Facundo talked about, of his father playing the bandoneón and his mother clapping behind him. I imagine them, Andrés with his eyes closed and a little smile on his face, and Caterina grinning. I hope Facundo can hold that image in his mind rather than imagining their faces as they were killed.
    I’d like to ask Facundo how he manages to smile, how he can know what he knows about his parents and his life and still find moments of happiness. I want to ask him why my mother, who has a home, work she loves and a daughter who gets straight A’s, can be miserable.
    Christmastime, I suddenly remember. Right after my violin recital,