These Gentle Wounds by Helene Dunbar Page A

closes his eyes and swears under his breath.
    â€œYou realize that all you’re going to do is to piss him off, right?”
    I shrug. I don’t care.
    â€œI don’t suppose you want to let me know what the hell you’re thinking?”
    I don’t shake my head this time. He knows better.
    â€œIce … ” he starts, but leaves the rest of the question in the air and sighs. “Just sit tight for a couple of minutes.”
    I close my eyes to the sound of the door shutting. I let myself go, but it isn’t really a spin. It isn’t some memory from when I was a kid. Instead, I’m on top of the train with Sarah. I can feel the soft snow landing on my hand. I can feel the weight of her arms on my shoulders as she showed me how to use her camera.
    It’s nice. It’s strange. It probably means I’m crazy, but right now, I don’t care. I focus on how she smells like the lilacs we used to have in the backyard of our old house.
    There’s music in the way she says my name. I feel like I could fly on the sound her words make. My breathing slows and my hand relaxes.
    Then the door opens and it isn’t Kevin. Ms. DeSilva pulls one of the chairs over to the couch where I’m sitting.
    â€œYour brother says you’re scared to see your father.”
    My hand clenches again and I knock it into the arm of the couch. My brother has a big mouth.
    â€œHe’s worried about you. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve seen your dad. The last time was at the funeral, right?”
    I nod.
    â€œCan you tell me if there are any other concerns you have?”
    Other concerns? My mind races with them, each worse than the one before. I imagine telling her everything about what my father used to do to Kevin and about The Night Before. I imagine how pissed my brother would be at me for blabbing his secrets, and what he’d think of me once he finds out what a coward I am.
    I jam my hand under my leg and shake my head. I know she gets that there’s stuff I’m keeping to myself. But she’s a lawyer or something, not a shrink. I don’t think I have to talk to her even though she’s nice and if I was going to talk to someone, I know she wouldn’t be a bad choice.
    â€œGordie, is there anything I can do to help you?”
    I can tell she means it, and for a minute I feel bad for not confessing my secrets to her. I force myself to swallow and to say softly, “No. Thank you.”
    Her face falls, but she nods at me anyhow. “Okay. But you know that you can talk to me if you need to.”
    She stands up, straightens her skirt, and opens the door. “Come on. He’s waiting for you.”
    I follow her out of her office. She’s walking slowly, and it’s like being in one of those old pirate movies where the guy is walking the plank. I want to stop and say that I’ve done nothing wrong and don’t deserve this, but I know that isn’t true so I keep my mouth shut.
    When we get to the end of the hall, she pauses outside the door and Kevin pulls me aside. He looks almost as jumbled up as I feel.
    He grabs my arm and pushes a button on my watch, then whispers in my ear: “Twenty minutes and it will be over.”
    I look down and see the stopwatch on my wrist counting down the seconds.
    Ms. DeSilva opens the door and leads me in. I look at the floor, following the trail of paisleys in. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to see his eyes, but I can feel them on me. Stripping me. Cutting into me.
    I can see the legs of a chair so I push myself into it. I grip the arms, and I look up.

Twelve
    Five years. I’ve grown a foot and gained forty pounds in the past five years. Our country has elected new presidents. The National Hockey League has added a few teams and restructured the divisions. But my father has stayed the same.
    It’s weird because I expected him to have changed. Instead, he just looks