Come Away with Me. Karma Brown

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      Dr. Rakesh grimaces slightly. “I’m a vegetarian,” he says, by way of explanation.

      “Oh, sorry,” I say, but he waves the apology away.

      “Did they stop?” he asks, leaning forward now.

      I nod. “Just, and Gabe managed to catch the pig. Turns out it was the family pet. We got five loaves of banana bread as a thank-you,” I say, smiling.

      “Do you blame Gabe for the accident?” Dr. Rakesh asks, and I’m irritated by the way he suddenly shifts gears in what I assume is an attempt to throw off my guard.

      “Yes,” I respond without pause. “He was going too fast.”

      He writes something down, but I can’t see what because he’s shifted the notepad up. “There was black ice that night, wasn’t there?”

      I nod. He must have seen the accident report. Also, he didn’t have both hands on the wheel because one of them was up my skirt—which I was happy about.

      “If he’d been driving the speed limit and the accident had happened, would you still feel it was his fault?”

      Pause. “I don’t know, but that isn’t what happened.”

      More writing, more nodding from the sneaky Dr. Rakesh.

      “I told him to slow down,” I say, noting how weak my voice sounds. “But we were late for his parents’ party.”

      “Tegan, were you trying to hurt yourself with the pills?”

      I’m getting whiplash from the change in direction with his questions.

      “No. I told you that already,” I say. “It wasn’t about that. I was still having pain from my injuries, and I was exhausted. I just wanted to sleep. That’s all.” I consider asking him if he’s trying to kill himself with the cigarettes.

      He nods, and I’m not sure how to take it. Does he believe me? Is he placating me? “I’ve read the accident report,” he continues. “And the police seemed to feel it was exactly as it was called. An accident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Tegan. Yours included.”

      “Of course it wasn’t my fault,” I snap. “I wasn’t driving the car.”

      “Do you blame yourself for losing the baby?”

      “No.” What a stupid question.

      Dr. Rakesh observes me for a moment, pen poised above the notepad. “In situations like these, the mother often feels guilty for the loss of the pregnancy.”

      “Gabe was driving too fast,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I told him to slow down.”

      “It’s okay to be angry, Tegan,” Dr. Rakesh says. “It’s part of the healing process. But at some point you need to decide if you can forgive Gabe, and yourself, for what happened.”

      You don’t understand this at all, I think at him. But I keep my mouth shut. No matter how many fancy-looking degrees line his boring, almond-colored office walls, Dr. Rakesh is clueless.

      “I think we’re done now,” I say, eyes darting to the clock behind him.

      He glances at his watch. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe try to get outside for some fresh air today?”

      I nod and push the cheap, vinyl-covered chair back. Without looking at Dr. Rakesh, I leave the room, rubbing my thumb around my ring finger, feeling the indentation again.

      I take back what I thought this morning.

      I hate this place.

       12

      I’ve only been home a few days, but between Gabe, both our sets of parents, my brothers and Anna, I feel more captive in my own apartment than I did in the locked-down psych ward. It takes a sweep of our medicine cabinet to make sure there’s nothing stronger than acetaminophen and cough syrup, along with promises to check in hourly via text and phone to get them all to leave me alone, but finally it’s quiet again. Aside from Gabe, who reiterates he’s not going anywhere.

      At my second-to-last session with Dr. Rakesh I had what he called “an important step in the right direction.” Just shy of a breakthrough, I suppose, but good enough for the yellow-toothed doctor to sign the papers for my release. Of course, what he didn’t realize was that it was mostly fabricated. The tears were real, but the proclamations of forgiveness I knew he wanted to hear were rehearsed the night before, as I tried to fall sleep under my overstarched, scratchy hospital bedsheets. Back in his office, I felt the way my kindergarteners must when they’re trying to give me the answer they think I want, rather than the one that feels most true to them.

      They released me with an antidepressant with so many side effects I’m not sure the pills are better than the depression, and two follow-up appointments with Dr. Rakesh over the next couple of weeks.

      But I’m not about to forgive anyone yet, least of all Gabe.

      “What are you doing?” Gabe asks, watching me pull out a large white melamine bowl from the bowels of our deep pantry. I hold it up to the kitchen’s halogen lights, then wipe the dusty inside of the bowl with a paper towel.

      “I’m making banana bread,” I say, cracking the freckled skin on one of the squishy bananas. I glance at the recipe, the one Gabe coaxed out of the general store owner after he returned the pig, written on the back of a postcard picturing Maui’s black sand beach. I continue peeling the ripe, fragrant fruit until three mushy bananas pile up in the bottom of the bowl.

      The oven beeps, letting me know it’s warm and ready, and I methodically drive the potato masher into the bananas before pouring in the whisked eggs and oil, and an overflowing cup of sugar. Setting the wet ingredients aside, I concentrate on the flour and baking soda, using my thumb to level the teaspoon full of soda.

      “It probably won’t taste the same,” Gabe says. “Where are those from?”

      I tilt my head to read the sticker from one of the discarded banana peels. “Costa Rica.”

      I measure out another half teaspoon of baking soda, which I toss into the flour mixture.

      I stir the flour, soda and salt around and around with the large wooden spoon Gabe’s mom gave me last Christmas, in the hopes I’d start making her Italian family’s famous tomato sauce. She’s chastised me continuously about my sauce spoons, reminding me the metal and plastic versions I typically use will ruin the taste.

      I tried to make the sauce once, even using exorbitantly priced canned tomatoes imported directly from Italy and sweet basil from Rosa’s garden, but it had none of the flavor or depth of her sauce. Gabe said I was crazy, but I was sure Rosa left a critical ingredient off the recipe card she attached to the spoon. Just to make sure I couldn’t make it taste exactly like hers.

      With a few quick stirs to blend the wet and dry ingredients together, I spatula-level the mixture into the pans coated with a healthy smear of butter, and set the timer. I sit at the СКАЧАТЬ