Thackeray. Chuck had
Animal Dreams
by Barbara Kingsolver,
The Secret History
by Donna Tartt,
Bel Canto
by someone whosename was obscured, two copies of
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
, three books by Philip Roth and lots and lots of skinny poetry collections. And that was just the top shelf. Adam had never heard of any of them. There was no Dickens or Steinbeck or Melville or anybody that he was forced to read at school. And there was no nonfiction.
Chuck lowered his aviators and turned around to face his bookshelf. “Don’t worry, I get all I need professionally from the online sites the hospital subscribes to. Can we continue?”
Adam must have nodded, because they did.
They talked about how it went at church with Group, a bit about the door thing, about maybe trying out for track in the spring, about how amazing Robyn was and about how he hadn’t been able to get to any of the lessons in the OCD manual. “No, none, sorry.”
“Have you been keeping up with your breathing exercises?”
“Yes,” he lied, while eyeing Jerzy Kosinski’s
The Painted Bird
. Maybe he could borrow that one.
They did not talk about what a dick he was. Adam knew he was being a dick. But he didn’t know why and he didn’t care to find out. He still hadn’t touched the manual and he’d had it for months. He also knew he was supposed to ask Chuck about something but he couldn’t remember what. It was okay, didn’t matter. Forty-seven minutes in. He was squirming on the inside.
“You okay?” Chuck almost frowned. “You look a bit fidgety, my man.”
Maybe on the outside too.
“No, sir, I’m cool,” he lied. Again.
“Is there anything that’s ramped up the stress or anxiety, Adam? Your mom? Anything at all?”
The letters, the letters, the letters
. Adam still hadn’t pieced together the one in his jeans pocket. That’s how much of a dick he was.
And she had received another one on Friday.
Carmella had taken a bottle of Chardonnay to her room that night. She had never done that before.
“No, sir,” Adam said. There were also books by Ian McEwan. He’d heard of Ian McEwan. Maybe. “No, there’s nothing.”
Chuck nodded and glanced at his watch. “Okay, so the List?”
“Uh, yeah.” Adam pulled a sheet out of his jacket pocket. “I didn’t have time to finish it, sorry.” That was because he had just started it in the waiting room. “Look, I’m … I’ll do better next month, I promise, sir.”
Dick
.
“I know you will, and don’t call me sir.” Chuck said it in such a way that they both believed it was possible. “Hey, you didn’t even
do
one last month, so this is a step up.” He unfolded the paper.
Not much of one
, thought Adam.
“How about I read it out loud this time?”
Adam flinched.
“But we don’t have to discuss it. Fair?”
“I guess.”
One, three, five, seven
… At least he didn’t have to tap in order to count anymore.
Chuck cleared his throat.
Chuck looked back up. “Are the meds okay, the levels? Should we raise the Anafranil? Maybe it’s time to switch over from Ativan to clonazepam?”
“No!” Adam was hit with a physical flashback of all the nightmare side effects, the roller-coaster nausea, the itching, the thick-tongued numbness he’d felt with all the drugs before they’d finally settled in on the Anafranil/Ativan combo. “It’s cool, really. I’m good.” He edged forward to the end of his chair, ready to leap.
Five more minutes
.
Chuck returned to the crumpled piece of paper.
Chuck looked up again.
“I ran out of time.”
Thirty-three, thirty-five … One, three, five …
“Do you want to—”
“No. I don’t, if it’s okay.” Adam had screwed up by mentioning the letter the last time. That was a mistake. He would have scribbled out number five but Chuck had opened the door to call him in, so he couldn’t fix it.
Chuck turned the paper over as if the rest of the List would magically appear on the other side.
Animal Dreams
by Barbara Kingsolver,
The Secret History
by Donna Tartt,
Bel Canto
by someone whosename was obscured, two copies of
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
, three books by Philip Roth and lots and lots of skinny poetry collections. And that was just the top shelf. Adam had never heard of any of them. There was no Dickens or Steinbeck or Melville or anybody that he was forced to read at school. And there was no nonfiction.
Chuck lowered his aviators and turned around to face his bookshelf. “Don’t worry, I get all I need professionally from the online sites the hospital subscribes to. Can we continue?”
Adam must have nodded, because they did.
They talked about how it went at church with Group, a bit about the door thing, about maybe trying out for track in the spring, about how amazing Robyn was and about how he hadn’t been able to get to any of the lessons in the OCD manual. “No, none, sorry.”
“Have you been keeping up with your breathing exercises?”
“Yes,” he lied, while eyeing Jerzy Kosinski’s
The Painted Bird
. Maybe he could borrow that one.
They did not talk about what a dick he was. Adam knew he was being a dick. But he didn’t know why and he didn’t care to find out. He still hadn’t touched the manual and he’d had it for months. He also knew he was supposed to ask Chuck about something but he couldn’t remember what. It was okay, didn’t matter. Forty-seven minutes in. He was squirming on the inside.
“You okay?” Chuck almost frowned. “You look a bit fidgety, my man.”
Maybe on the outside too.
“No, sir, I’m cool,” he lied. Again.
“Is there anything that’s ramped up the stress or anxiety, Adam? Your mom? Anything at all?”
The letters, the letters, the letters
. Adam still hadn’t pieced together the one in his jeans pocket. That’s how much of a dick he was.
And she had received another one on Friday.
Carmella had taken a bottle of Chardonnay to her room that night. She had never done that before.
“No, sir,” Adam said. There were also books by Ian McEwan. He’d heard of Ian McEwan. Maybe. “No, there’s nothing.”
Chuck nodded and glanced at his watch. “Okay, so the List?”
“Uh, yeah.” Adam pulled a sheet out of his jacket pocket. “I didn’t have time to finish it, sorry.” That was because he had just started it in the waiting room. “Look, I’m … I’ll do better next month, I promise, sir.”
Dick
.
“I know you will, and don’t call me sir.” Chuck said it in such a way that they both believed it was possible. “Hey, you didn’t even
do
one last month, so this is a step up.” He unfolded the paper.
Not much of one
, thought Adam.
“How about I read it out loud this time?”
Adam flinched.
“But we don’t have to discuss it. Fair?”
“I guess.”
One, three, five, seven
… At least he didn’t have to tap in order to count anymore.
Chuck cleared his throat.
Chuck looked back up. “Are the meds okay, the levels? Should we raise the Anafranil? Maybe it’s time to switch over from Ativan to clonazepam?”
“No!” Adam was hit with a physical flashback of all the nightmare side effects, the roller-coaster nausea, the itching, the thick-tongued numbness he’d felt with all the drugs before they’d finally settled in on the Anafranil/Ativan combo. “It’s cool, really. I’m good.” He edged forward to the end of his chair, ready to leap.
Five more minutes
.
Chuck returned to the crumpled piece of paper.
Chuck looked up again.
“I ran out of time.”
Thirty-three, thirty-five … One, three, five …
“Do you want to—”
“No. I don’t, if it’s okay.” Adam had screwed up by mentioning the letter the last time. That was a mistake. He would have scribbled out number five but Chuck had opened the door to call him in, so he couldn’t fix it.
Chuck turned the paper over as if the rest of the List would magically appear on the other side.
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