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Some facts are very obvious.
Facts such as: Earth’s gravitational pull is nine-point-eight-zero-seven meters per second squared, are simply indisputable. That’s the way it has always been. That’s the way it will always be. The solid, steadfast facts of the universe attracted me to astronomy in the first place. Once you crack the mechanics, the result is the same every time.
Other facts, however, are not so obvious. Facts such as: how big is the universe?
Most scientists agree that the distance from Earth to the edge of the observable universe is some forty-six billion lightyears, an unfathomable distance at best. If written in miles, that number has twenty-four zeroes, which takes up almost three full inches on a page when written in twelve-point font. Even then, the universe is always expanding at a rate that is faster than the speed of light, meaning it is likely impossible that anyone will ever truly know just how insignificantly small and lonely our planet is against the vast emptiness of space.
For some reason, I find myself contemplating this fact as I watch Dr. Rodriguez’s lips move, forming words that my brain refuses to register as sounds for some reason. I notice he has missed a spot when he shaved, just to the left of his Adam’s apple, at which I can’t help but feel amused. A Ph.D. in adolescent psychology with an emphasis in clinical therapy and he still can’t manage to shave properly. I know this because his degree is hanging on the wall above his chair, a foot above his left ear like some kind of crooked halo.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
My heart pumps loudly in my ears, nearly drowning out every other sound. The hum of the air conditioner. A distant bubbling from the small fish tank in the corner. The shuffle of my shoes on the rough, threadbare carpet. In the midst of all this, I realize the doctor’s lips are moving.
“Elliot, do you understand what I just said?” Rodriguez leans back and taps his pen rapidly against his notepad while gazing at me intently. I have a tendency to shy from meeting new people--I’m sure the good doctor would guess as much about me--but Julian Rodriguez takes that to a new level. In a word, he looks corporate: his collar-length black hair is slicked back with something that makes it far too shiny and he’s sporting a three-piece suit that seems like it would be more at home on a perfume salesman at the mall than on a therapist--and, speaking of perfume, his cologne is slowly asphyxiating me in my puffy armchair. Death by Aude de Douche. I didn’t expect to go out this way.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” I snap out of my stupor and realize that I’ve let his words stew in a pause that has reached the height of sufferable awkwardness. My palms are sweaty. They’re always kind of sweaty--I’m one of those sweaty-palm guys--but right now I think they’re sweatier than normal. I’d feel a little self-conscious if it weren’t for the circumstances; I simply don’t think it is physically possible right now.
“I just want to make sure you can grasp the situation, Elliot.” Rodriguez intones. I get the sense that he keeps using my name to build some kind of rapport here, and I find myself determined to resist. The tapping continues, which I find irritating for some reason. To be completely honest, I find Dr. Rodriguez himself quite irritating, which is probably unfair because I’ve only just met him about an hour ago. Still, something about him really rubs me exactly the wrong way.
“Yeah.” I repeated, unable to hold back a sigh and a somewhat longing glance at the door. “I heard you. You said that I have depression as a result of post-traumatic stress disorder.”
I can’t believe we made the forty-five minute drive to the suburbs of West Phoenix for this guy.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
He smiles tightly and I get the feeling my attitude toward him might be reciprocated. He glances toward my parents, who are perched on stiff-looking folding chairs between myself and a freshwater fish tank that looks like it hasn't seen the business end of a scrubbing brush in ages.
Mom clutches her purse in her lap, eyes drifting between Dr. Rodriguez and me, and I’m certain she can sense the tension between us. She’s as perceptive about that kind of stuff as she is protective, which I’m sure is why she is so well-loved as the counselor at Ira Hayes Elementary here in the scorched and exhausted interstate dead-end known as Sunview, Arizona. I feel a jolt of guilt because it was her insistence at finding someone to help me that has landed us in this stuffy office in the first place. I really don’t want her to regret that; things were steadily going downhill, and a big part of me is glad she remained persistent.
Dad sits forward with his knees on his elbows, fingertips pressed together tightly. I recognize this pose from when he watches professional tennis and his chosen champion is down a set. He’s not even looking in our direction, but rather staring at a large, tattered poster with an image of a waterfall that simply had the words BE INSPIRED printed boldly at the bottom.
He’s not an uninvolved father by any means--in fact, I’m sure he’s at least forty percent of the reason we’re here today. It’s not even that he’s unprepared to deal with all these gooey teen-angst type problems; he is, after all, a history teacher at Sunview High School. My history teacher, to be exact, because Sunview is home to less than three thousand sun-baked residents of the western Arizona desert and there are only two teachers for a given subject. I wonder if our relationship dynamic might be a little less strained this summer if I hadn’t signed up for his class (Examination of European History II) this year. Figuring out how to walk the line between “Dad” and “Mr. Bishop” will be a difficult adjustment for both of us, to say the least--school starts again in just a week, so we have an entire year to be stuck figuring that whole thing out.
Dr. Rodriguez clears his throat purposefully before returning his gaze to me. “That’s not exactly what I said.” He puts a lot of emphasis on the word. “What I said was that you appear to be affected by what we refer to as ‘exogenous depressive episodes,’ which are technically more environmentally mediated, although still triggered by a certain traumatic event of your childhood. Which means your symptoms react more to outside stimuli than true chemical imbalances in your brain.”
I might be overwhelmed by all this but I’m more than used to Mom’s habit of discussing things like Psychology Today over the dinner table. As grim as it sounds, it seems things like depression aren’t absent in even the young children Mom works with, so I'm sure I’ve heard the term nonendogenous depressive episodes before.
“So, is it depression?” I ask innocently.
Rodriguez pauses for a moment and I can nearly taste his displeasure at being challenged “Yes. Technically.”
“Because of the jumper?” Dad interjects suddenly. His lips are as tight as a wire.
My chest tightens briefly at the mere mention of the jumper.
Rodriguez frowns. “That may be an oversimplification of the situation, in my opinion, but I cannot even imagine the trauma your young brain must have experienced at such a tender age.”
“I don’t like calling the whole thing the jumper,” Mom says with a tremble in her voice. “I’m sorry, I know. But he had a name -- Terrance McGill.”
I blink in surprise. “How do you know that?” I didn’t know the jumper’s name.
“I looked it up,” she admits, carefully dabbing at her left eye with a bit of folded tissue. “It took a while to find it. He was homeless, you know. Unhoused, sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” I ask sharply. Something venomous is rising inside my chest, some sick concoction of anger and sorrow feels as if it is clawing its way to my throat from somewhere deep inside me.
“Honey, we’ve never really talked about the ju-- I mean, about the incident. Not really.” She reaches over and lays a hand on my knee but it feels like ice through my jeans.
“It was, like, six years ago,” I say to no one in particular.
“Is that something you’d like to discuss in more detail today?” Rodriguez weaves his delicate, too-long fingers together in his lap and the intensity of his gaze feels like a laser beam.
“Not particularly,” I reply honestly, unable to meet his eyes. “I’d mostly like to never think about it again.”
Not thinking about the jumper is my prerogative. My mission. My Mars Rover, my Apollo 13. My survival depends on my success. Still, the still images attempt to invade my brain relentlessly and must be eradicated.
Dad opens his mouth to say something but snaps it shut when the doctor gives a sharp shake of his goateed chin. “Elliot, you are an extremely bright young man,” he begins, and it’s all I can do to not roll my eyes. “I’m sure you can understand why avoiding this, ah, event will not make your issues disappear.” Here, he pauses and for the first time I sense something that seems like genuine concern. “However, while the road to recovery will involve confronting your trauma, I cannot and will not force you to do that outside your own terms.”
“Okay,” is all I can come up with. “Thanks,” I add quietly, barely above a whisper.
“Elliot, I’d like to book you another session next week where we can dive into this a little more, and I think I have the perfect medium for us to do that: group therapy!”
“Group therapy?” the three of us repeat the words at the same time. Dad looks confused. Mom looks surprised. If I were in front of a mirror I’m sure there would be no hiding my disgust.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
That oh-so-familiar sound makes it hard to process exactly what this means.
Dr. Rodriguez turns his attention back to my parents, ignoring me completely. "I understand your concern; the idea of divulging your struggles in a group can be extremely intimidating. But, I can assure you that I have extensive experience in treating patients with depression. In fact, I have a success rate of over ninety percent with my patients." He leans forward in his chair, hands still clasped together. "And I truly believe that Elliot can benefit from my group therapy program. It has helped countless teenagers in the area deal with depression, anxiety, self image… you name it."
Dad looks at Mom, the hope obvious in his eyes. "That's amazing," he says, nodding enthusiastically. "Ninety percent?"
Dr. Rodriguez nods confidently and the shark-smile makes another appearance. "Absolutely. The group therapy I run has a specific focus on cognitive-behavioral therapy and interpersonal relationships in adolescents.” He gestured not-so-subtly at the degree on the wall behind him. “I'm sure it will be beneficial for Elliot as well."
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
I shift in my seat, feeling ever more skeptical of Dr. Rodriguez's claims. His tone sounds rehearsed, like he has given this speech a hundred times before. But my parents don’t seem to notice; they are both nodding, taking in every word.
Mom wraps her arms around her purse once again, glancing my way with a concerned expression on her face. "And what about medication? Will Elliot need to take any?" A cold chill washes over me from head to toe and my mouth goes dry. I hadn’t even considered this possibility.
To my utter surprise, Dr. Rodriguez shakes his head confidently. "Not necessarily. While medication can be helpful in certain cases, I believe that therapy should be the first line of treatment. And with the right therapy, I'm confident that Elliot can overcome his depression without any medication.” He gives his shiny watch a sidelong glance and it seems abundantly clear that he has another appointment. “Group meets on Wednesdays at the Lutheran Church on Sequoia Lane.” He stands and swings the door open and gesturing us into the hallway. “We start at six-thirty in the evening, be sure to come a little early so we can get introductions sorted out.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Julian,” Dad says, shaking his hand as we bustle into the hallway. “I suppose we’ll all see you next Wednesday, then?”
Rodriguez looks at him blankly for a moment. “Oh, James, my mistake; I should have been more clear. Our group therapy is structured as a safe space for the patients to express themselves freely and unreservedly. We’re usually finished by eight, but of course Elliot here can call you and let you know when the session is finished,”
“Ah, I see,” Dad says pleasantly, but his smile is a little thin. “Thanks for the information.” With that, we’re ushered out of the wonderfully air conditioned lobby and back out into the scorched desert afternoon.
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The ride home is surprisingly quiet and therefore pleasant. Mom talks about some neurologist she is going to watch give a speech on abnormal psychology at the community college next week, Dad asks all the right questions to keep her engaged. I stare wistfully out the window and watch the world creep by at what seems a slightly slower pace than usual. Is it just me, or are the colors duller than normal? I’m waiting for one or both of them to address the elephant in the SUV and finally, after a brief pause at a stoplight, Mom glances over her shoulder and locks eyes with me.
“Do you want to talk about anything?” She asks, looking me over with a concerned expression. I shrug one shoulder and the corner of her lip twitches slightly and I know she’s about to start using tactics on me, as I’ve come to refer to them. “Well, I’ll talk, then,” she says, and the light turns green and we are headed down the roadway again. Dad drives in silence and I can tell he’s resigned to just let her take control of this whole thing. The desert heat bares down through the windshield despite the air conditioning and I feel like I’m suffocating in the back seat. “I’m thankful that you were willing to come over here and meet with Dr. Rodriguez today, I know that was a big step.”
I give her another one-shoulder shrug while playing with the little flapper thing on the air vent. Mom likes a challenge and I can feel her resisting the urge to go full “school counselor'' on me. Her eyes well up with tears but she doesn’t bother to dab them away, “I wish we never took that trip to California, Dad and I. I wish we didn’t leave you with Lydia for the weekend. I wish you had never gone to the planetarium.”
“Lisa…” Dad reaches over and rests a hand on her elbow, but she shakes her head and the tears come more freely.
“Mom, it’s okay.” Seeing her like this makes me want to cry, too. I haven’t cried in ages; hollow people don’t cry.
“Elliot, I’m sure you’ll be in good hands,” Dad says, clearing his throat haltingly. “Dr. Rodriguez seems like he really knows what he’s doing.”
“He seems like he’s a used a car salesman for happiness,” I retort before I can stop myself.
“That’s probably just the depression talking, dear,” Mom says, shaking her head.
“Depression?” My throat is dry and my voice cracks a little, which makes me feel like a scared little kid. “That wasn’t a diagnosis, he just likes hearing himself talk. I’m not depressed, I'm just… bitter. I don't know.”
“I don’t think it’s normal to consider yourself bitter at this age,” Dad cuts in, glancing at me from the rearview mirror. “Elliot, you turned seventeen last week for crying out loud! This should be the best year of your life! Being a teenager is supposed to be fun.”
Mom nods in agreement and reaches back to touch my cheek like she does when she knows I’m feeling down. “We just want you to be happy. If that means you need a little help to get there, we’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Group therapy, though?” I make a pained face at her and struggle to keep from rolling my eyes.
“We’re going to have to just let Dr. Rodriguez handle this the way he knows best.” Mom tries to sound reassuring, but I’m not convinced. “Hey, look at the bright side. You’ll meet some kids your age and maybe you can make some new friends.”
“Sure.” I don’t want to sound too sarcastic, but I mostly fail at it. Mom knows Sean Hernandez is my only friend, which is one of the reasons she’s concerned about my mental health. Truth be told, I've never really fit in with anyone at school anyway.
“Elliot, we are in this together,” Mom says, pursing her lips tightly. “ You just… just tell us what you need, and we’ll figure this whole thing out together.”
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
“I want to go to Cosmic Village. Alone.” The words spill out of my mouth immediately. “Sorry, I know that doesn’t seem relevant, but I… I want to be more independent.”
“Oh?” Mom’s interest is obviously piqued. Dad raises his eyebrows at me. The following pause is extremely pregnant, like giving birth in a taxicab level.
This request isn’t new; I’ve wanted to visit the world foremost dark-sky astronomic observation community for as long as I could remember. Mom and Dad offered to make the five-hour drive to the northwestern corner of Arizona last summer, but things hadn’t worked out and we ended up visiting Dad’s family in California instead, much to my disappointment.
Secretly, I was sort of glad it hadn’t been a family trip. The thing about my parents is that, despite my near-constant bids for autonomy, they treat me like some sort of porcelain doll. They each have their reasons, but the combined smothering can be a force to be reckoned with. I feel the sudden urge to defend my request despite the sweatiness of my palms suddenly hitting maximum strength.
“Alone?” Dad glances dubious at mom. How are you going to get there?”
“I have my license, remember?” I retort somewhat defensively. Along with my birthday had come that little plastic card that seemingly granted me some semblance of freedom.
“Well, you don’t have a car,” Mom reminds me hesitantly, looking worried. “Remember, we--”
“I know, I know,” I cut her off hastily. “Sean has a car.”
“That thing is more boat than car,” Dad muses about Sean’s old red Mercury and the corner of his lip twitches upward.
“Look, I know you’ll probably never let me go alone, so Sean can go with me. It’s only five hours away, we could stay for like three nights. Two nights,” I correct myself hastily at Mom’s look of alarm. “I’ve wanted to do this forever, and I get that you don’t think I’m responsible enough for something like this but, I… I think I’m ready.”
“Oh, Elliot--” Mom begins with a frown.
“Hold on, Lisa.” Dad holds up his hand. He’s looking at me with a bit of a peculiar expression and I’m thinking it lands somewhere between pride and surprise. “I think you’re onto something, Elliot,” he says, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, gazing ahead at the garage door, seemingly lost in thought. “Tell you what, how about we make a deal?”
“What kind of deal?” I had expected much more resistance than this.
“If you attend Dr. Rodriguez’s group therapy without complaint for the next couple of months, your mom and I will seriously consider this request.”
“James!” Mom has that look on her face, the one she wears when she’s about to go full school-counselor on someone.
Dad holds a finger up, not taking his eyes off me. “I want to see some improvements in your grades this year, too. I know you’ve been having some difficulty managing your… problem, but you are far too intelligent to be a C-average student. Let’s try that, and we can figure out the next steps from there. How’s that sound?”
The growing bubble of apprehension in my stomach pops suddenly and I’m full of something that feels so strange. So foreign. So… alien.
“Yeah. Yes! Deal.” I didn’t give it a second thought. The sheer feeling of hope is almost too good to be true.
“Excellent.” Dad nods purposefully, but I notice he’s avoiding Mom’s gaze; her lips are pursed and it isn’t hard to tell she’s not quite as enthusiastic about this arrangement. “But, Elliot, Could promise me something?” Dad’s eyes rest on me once again through the rearview mirror.
“Yeah?” I try to swallow my excitement as best I can.
“Just promise me that you will talk to us, please. We’re your parents and we love you very, very much. What goes on inside your head is important to us.” Dad glances over at mom and I know he’s trying to reassure her this isn’t some huge mistake. Mom smiles once again and reaches back to squeeze my clammy hand, which I offer without my usual protesting. Honestly, it makes me feel a tiny bit better.
“Fine.” I reply, offering one last shrug before I open my door and escape into the heat. “I can try, I guess.”
As I cross the lawn to our front door I glance up at the sky and can’t help but ponder the facts:
Nine-point-eight-zero-seven meters per second squared.
Exactly the speed that a warm body drops itself from an overpass across I-10 and alters my life forever. One minute in either direction and I might never have discovered the prison of terror deep within my own mind that haunts me to this day.
What are the odds?
The universe is forty-six billion miles in every direction, a virtually limitless vacuum of space and I felt like my brain was screaming into that uncaring void, why me? That void is filled with an almost literally incalculable number of planets, an unknown number of which could be teeming with life.
Despite the glaring statistical probability of such a notion, how could I possibly feel so alone?
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