on his nose. “Lily?” he says over them.
I nod and stand up.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says and holds out a hand for me to shake. I do. “I’m Dr. Pratchett. Would you like to come in?”
“Okay.”
He leads the way into a dimly-lit office full of expensive furniture. There’s a lot of leather in here, including the top of his desk. It smells nice—spicy, like Christmas. He has enormous bookshelves and I walk right over to them, trail my fingers down the spines of books I’ve never heard of. Some look like first editions and I drop my hand to my side. “Sorry,” I say.
“No need. Go ahead and touch anything you like. Are you a reader?”
I glance over my shoulder at Dr. Pratchett where he’s leaning against his desk. “You could say that.”
He nods. He’s got a moustache I’m just noticing. It matches his hair—dry and wet concrete. “Today I thought we could get to know each other a little, make sure you feel comfortable working with me.”
“Okay.”
“If you decide you’d like to see someone else, I have some referrals ready for you. Sound good?”
“Yes.”
“One more thing, Lily. Whether you decide to work with me or someone else, Margie will be privy to everything we discuss here if she decides she wants to know. Sometimes, parents or guardians don’t ask, but sometimes they do. How do you feel about that?”
I turn back to the books and keep going. “Fine,” I say. I tell myself to remember Dr. Pratchett’s words, to not mention Hank at the airport, Hank in the bookstore, Hank in the blue and white bedroom—the not-Hanks that will get me sent to the loony bin or to Mack and Darcy’s.
Dr. Pratchett’s got bookcases on every wall. I speed up my investigation, skipping over big sections. “What’s this one about?” I ask. The spine is stamped DSM-5 .
“That one helps me decide how I can best help people.”
“It helps you diagnose,” I say.
Dr. Pratchett looks surprised. “Yes.”
“Helps you label people.”
“Well…” He shifts to lean against his other leg.
“Have you labeled me?” I ask.
“No, Lily. I don’t know you.” He laughs at his own joke.
“I heard Margie on the phone.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have questions about what was said?”
“Dissociation?”
Dr. Pratchett nods. “Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Margie said you go very quiet sometimes.”
“Inside.”
“Inside?”
I tap my chest. “In here it’s hollow. There’s room for me.”
Dr. Pratchett’s head tips. “Can you tell me more about that?”
I shrug and turn back to the books—old friends I’ve never met before.
“Do you think about anything when you go inside?”
“It’s quiet. Nothing to think about.”
“Does it scare you when it happens?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t scare you to lose time?”
“No. It scares Margie.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to scare her.”
“You love her very much.”
I tap my chest again. “No room.”
“For love?”
Nod.
“What is there room for, Lily?”
Shrug.
“Is there room for memories?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happens when the memories surface?”
“The hollow gets bigger.”
Dr. Pratchett thinks on this awhile. “When you go quiet and you don’t think about anything, are you aware?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know you’ve been gone until you come out?”
“Yes.”
I hear Dr. Pratchett shift while I run a finger down the engraved spine of an old book— The Grapes of Wrath , one I had to read for English last semester. About poor people trying not to be poor anymore, about people dying because they were poor, about the haves and the have-nots. About Hank working for Grandpa Henry’s money and me and Mom in our dog food house.
“Dissociation is a common response to trauma, Lily.”
“Okay.” I wonder if Dr. Pratchett would say the same about Hank on the blue and white bed, stinking up Margie’s apartment with his whiskey and paint, his mint.
I nod and stand up.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says and holds out a hand for me to shake. I do. “I’m Dr. Pratchett. Would you like to come in?”
“Okay.”
He leads the way into a dimly-lit office full of expensive furniture. There’s a lot of leather in here, including the top of his desk. It smells nice—spicy, like Christmas. He has enormous bookshelves and I walk right over to them, trail my fingers down the spines of books I’ve never heard of. Some look like first editions and I drop my hand to my side. “Sorry,” I say.
“No need. Go ahead and touch anything you like. Are you a reader?”
I glance over my shoulder at Dr. Pratchett where he’s leaning against his desk. “You could say that.”
He nods. He’s got a moustache I’m just noticing. It matches his hair—dry and wet concrete. “Today I thought we could get to know each other a little, make sure you feel comfortable working with me.”
“Okay.”
“If you decide you’d like to see someone else, I have some referrals ready for you. Sound good?”
“Yes.”
“One more thing, Lily. Whether you decide to work with me or someone else, Margie will be privy to everything we discuss here if she decides she wants to know. Sometimes, parents or guardians don’t ask, but sometimes they do. How do you feel about that?”
I turn back to the books and keep going. “Fine,” I say. I tell myself to remember Dr. Pratchett’s words, to not mention Hank at the airport, Hank in the bookstore, Hank in the blue and white bedroom—the not-Hanks that will get me sent to the loony bin or to Mack and Darcy’s.
Dr. Pratchett’s got bookcases on every wall. I speed up my investigation, skipping over big sections. “What’s this one about?” I ask. The spine is stamped DSM-5 .
“That one helps me decide how I can best help people.”
“It helps you diagnose,” I say.
Dr. Pratchett looks surprised. “Yes.”
“Helps you label people.”
“Well…” He shifts to lean against his other leg.
“Have you labeled me?” I ask.
“No, Lily. I don’t know you.” He laughs at his own joke.
“I heard Margie on the phone.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have questions about what was said?”
“Dissociation?”
Dr. Pratchett nods. “Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Margie said you go very quiet sometimes.”
“Inside.”
“Inside?”
I tap my chest. “In here it’s hollow. There’s room for me.”
Dr. Pratchett’s head tips. “Can you tell me more about that?”
I shrug and turn back to the books—old friends I’ve never met before.
“Do you think about anything when you go inside?”
“It’s quiet. Nothing to think about.”
“Does it scare you when it happens?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t scare you to lose time?”
“No. It scares Margie.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to scare her.”
“You love her very much.”
I tap my chest again. “No room.”
“For love?”
Nod.
“What is there room for, Lily?”
Shrug.
“Is there room for memories?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happens when the memories surface?”
“The hollow gets bigger.”
Dr. Pratchett thinks on this awhile. “When you go quiet and you don’t think about anything, are you aware?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know you’ve been gone until you come out?”
“Yes.”
I hear Dr. Pratchett shift while I run a finger down the engraved spine of an old book— The Grapes of Wrath , one I had to read for English last semester. About poor people trying not to be poor anymore, about people dying because they were poor, about the haves and the have-nots. About Hank working for Grandpa Henry’s money and me and Mom in our dog food house.
“Dissociation is a common response to trauma, Lily.”
“Okay.” I wonder if Dr. Pratchett would say the same about Hank on the blue and white bed, stinking up Margie’s apartment with his whiskey and paint, his mint.
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