The Practice

I didn’t see it at first. Me hiding inside in the dark. Away from the angry words. The accusations. The dishes pitched across a kitchen, taking aim at someone I hardly knew.

He came and went. Never stayed. Never perched on the end of the couch and looked at a son with interest and appreciation. Just sat at the table, glass in hand. Staring at the brown liquid at the bottom. Like a message was about to bubble up to the surface. An answer to an old prayer finally making its way back to him – like he earned it. Like he finally mattered enough.

His name was Roland. Tall, dark haired. Had been something once. A lawyer, maybe, probably disbarred now. Drove an old Chrysler. Part tank, part fire breathing dragon, that wheezed into our driveway every other month or so. Like the prodigal son returning. Like we should give a damn and welcome him at the door.

Mom did, with the shotgun leaning against the door jam.

He had a nice smile though. They say I inherited it. They said a lot of things, but I keep to myself. Not like I have much of a choice. Living on my grandfather’s farm, is like living in the belly of the whale. Safe, but at a great cost.

He said he had a good job in the city. Said he wanted us to move back in with him. That things had changed. That life would be better. That we should give him another chance.

Mom laughed. No humor in it at all. Just old grief squeezed so tight it sounded like a laugh. He poured himself another drink. Argument over. Not much of a lawyer.

The barn was my place. Tall, dark and dry. Not used much. Not anymore. Not like we grew anything. Most of the land had been sold off years ago. The farm growing smaller each year.

“Needed to pay the Bills,” grandpa said, rocking in a chair he never seemed to leave. Back and forth. Rain or shine.

I found an old desk behind the house. Three legs only, so it leaned a bit. Not so much with a book under it. Found a chair in the attic, along with an old typewriter, that Mark Twain probably used. The keys still worked, though there was no ribbon. No paper either. But it looked good on the desk. Official. Like I had an office.

Like I was important enough.

I sat there most days after school and thought about the world. The small piece of it that I knew about and wasn’t all that impressed with.

I had customers too. Real enough to me, I suppose. Patients that came and sat on an old bale of hay in front of me and told me their problems. Guess that makes me a psychologist or something. Made me feel like my problems weren’t all that tough after all.

I didn’t tell mom about this. Didn’t think she’d appreciate me having make-believe people in the barn. Or her son talking to others about personal matters. Like her boyfriends and the sex, I wasn’t supposed to know about but that me and grandpa chuckled over out on the porch. Him rocking, me feeling flushed and embarrassed.

“Got her needs, “is all grandpa would say about it.

So did my patients. They told me about their lost jobs and broken homes. Their kids running off to the Army or Navy or some religious group in Marin County, wherever that is.

About how they were tired of sitting and waiting and thought life just wasn’t fair. That it owed them better. That they were going to pack up and move. Though none of them had yet told me where they were moving to.

I was listening pretty intently to a boy who thought his dad was mean and inconsiderate, when the owl flew down and perched on the same bale of hay.

I had seen it before. Outside watching me. Not like his next meal or anything – just curious.

But that was a while back and I had forgotten.

He looked from side to side now. Large head swiveling. Wide eyes blinking and taking me in.

I asked him if he had come for a session. That I charged $20 an hour if he was interested. He didn’t say anything. Just sat calmly, eyes blinking some more, waiting.

I might need that bale for another customer if you don’t have anything to say. I’ve been pretty busy lately. Seems like there’s a lot of pain out there. A lot of people wondering what they should do. How they should deal with their kids who won’t listen.

Or a parent who doesn’t understand.

Not sure why that is. Why people aren’t all that happy. I was happy once, before I moved here. Had a few friends. Liked the school I was in. And had more than two people to talk to, ever.

I thought I was pretty normal back then. Didn’t cry in my sleep. Didn’t have bad dreams involving strangers I never met. Not sure what that’s all about.

I liked it in the city. I liked the noise and the cars and the pollution rushing through the windows every time you opened them. The strangers sitting on stoops that said hi. Kids in the street playing stickball. Teachers too busy to teach but kept trying anyway. The food truck that sold tacos and parked in front of the playground.

Here, I was lonely. Thought too much. It hurts when you think too much. The brain freezes up on you and you can’t do the normal stuff. Like tie your shoes or spell your name right on homework.

“It hurts right here,” I said rubbing my temples. The owl blinked and remained quietly there.

Mom is nice. She tries. She does. But just because you’re a grown-up doesn’t mean you got it all worked out. She’s made mistakes, lots of them according to her. Not sure I should be hearing all of that. Young minds are fragile and don’t need to hear about how adults screw up their lives.”

Kids need role models that function. That they can learn from. Not learn how to avoid.

The owl hooted around this time. I took that to mean continue, so I did.

Anyway, I thought, a farm is kind of pointless if you’re not growing anything. I think that’s why grandpa is always sad too and sits in his rocking chair all day. Think it would be better if there were potatoes or green beans out in the field instead of junked tractors. They stopped growing a long time ago.

The owl flapped his wings and startled me. Thought he was leaving. Right in the middle of what I was saying. But he settled down. Had an itch, I guess. But it passed.

He stared and blinked and seemed interested again.

I’m ten, I said to him. I’m smart, they say. So, I know things. Maybe more things than I should at my age. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I just see things and remember them. More stuff to think about.

I wanted to be an astronaut when I was eight. A fireman at nine and then a hedge fund manager. Wanted lots of money so I could live where I wanted and was no longer subject to the vagaries of grown-ups (read that in a magazine) yanking kids from one place to another without asking.

And to pay off all of my mom’s debts; those that my ex-dad ran up before he left in a huff. So, she doesn’t have to work all the time and can spend more of it with me.

Maybe I don’t know what I want. Maybe I’m too young and my brain isn’t fully formed so I’m wasting time thinking about it. But on the off chance that I could be wrong – I think about stuff.

Like being happy. Though I feel there is a lot of uncertainty on that subject. I hear a lot of it in my practice. People wanting to be happy, but not knowing where to find it and not sure what it really looks like.

I think happiness doesn’t exist. Not like a thing you can pick up off the floor and play with. Not like a warm fuzzy blanket or a doll that squeaks, “Mama.” I think that’s why people are having a hard time finding it.

Happiness is like a thank you. You mow the lawn and your neighbor says thank you and gives you five dollars and what do you feel – right, happy. See.

If happiness is not being hurt or hungry, then why am I not happy right now? If happiness is having lots of land to play on, then why am I not happy right now?

I thought that grown-ups would have had this one solved by now, but I am disappointed yet again. Though it’s a tough one, so I guess I understand.

I ran out of steam after a while and was feeling kind of empty. Talking about things with others was supposed to make you feel better, but I wasn’t. I felt more lonely not less.

I heard the old Chrysler’s engine fire up again and went out to the barn door. In time to see my ex-dad driving away. No goodbyes as usual.

When I went back into the barn, the owl was sitting in my chair. So, I sat down on the bale of hay instead and waited. He waited too. His eyes half-closed, mournful.

Wasn’t sure what to say next. Said it all – or all that I could think of.

That’s when I teared up a little. Couldn’t stop it.

“Not fair,” I said.

The owl fluttered, seemed to understand. Still watching me.

I heard the footsteps behind me and wiped my eyes with my shirtsleeve. My mother was standing just inside the door.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked.

I looked at her kind of funny, then at the owl.

“Him,” I said, pointing to my chair.

“Are you alright, hon?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The chair’s empty.”

I looked at the owl, the owl looked at me. Then we both looked at my mom.

“Yeah, I’m fine mom. Better than I was before.”

She smiled and said dinner was on and that my ex-dad had left – again.

The owl jumped onto the desk, right at the edge and looked at me. I reached over and touched him, he let me. Then he flew out the door.

I ran to follow him. Feeling incomplete. Like there was more of my story to tell. More feelings to let go of and new ones to find.

But he was gone. Heard the screen door close behind mom and turned to go back inside.

I missed him. Hoped he would come back.

The desk was the same, except for the typewriter. It was closer to my chair than before. And there was a sheet of paper in it now and a new ribbon ready to be used.

I looked up and out the door and back again. Moved the typewriter closer to me and set the paper in place.

That’s when I started writing this story.