that is empty except for

a box of tissues.

Dollhouses,

hand painted,

model cars,

and rocket ships

fill the shelves.

Lots of framed pictures

drawn by kids

cover the walls.

Paint-by-numbers, too.

I see this all

as I stand near the doorway.

Mrs. Chapman,

the doctor says,

you can join us too.

Let’s all meet together

for a few minutes.

Momma shakes her

head no.

I already spent plenty

of time in there,

she says.

You meet with Hope now.

Just for a few minutes,

he says.

I stand halfway between

them, holding up

the wall,

waiting.

But Momma, unlit

cigarette between her fingers,

just points at me

and says,

You remember

what I said, Hope.

Then Momma hightails it outta there,

shouting over her shoulder

she’ll be back in less than an hour,

for me to be ready.

The doctor and I

look each other over.

He points to his

office with his whole

hand.

I’m Dr. Marino,

he says and

reaches to shake

with me

but I edge into

the room.

Sit down.

Get comfortable.

I want to laugh.

Get comfortable?

You said that in

a shrink’s office?

What’s he been smoking

to think I can get

comfortable.

I sit my butt

on the edge of a chair.

We look at each other

for a moment,

him over the top

of those glasses,

and he says,

So, Hope,

how are you?

I shrug.

I know that feeling,

he says, and then,

Do you know why you’re here?

You’re making me?

I say.

He grins.

Settles into a chair

so that we are almost knee-to-knee.

I move back

in the seat.

I look past him,

at a painting of what looks

like people with their heads cut off.

Tell me

about you, Hope.

Me?

I say, surprised.

Absolutely,

he says,

with this smile

in his eyes like

he wants to

know me.

At the end of the

forty-five minutes,

when I have

told Dr. Marino

about me

and Mari

and my dad being gone

and Lizzie leaving too

(and yes,

even a little about Momma

and her job),

he says,

Next time,

let’s talk about

you and Lizzie.

I nod.

Walking out to the

car with Momma,

who asks over and over

to tell all I told the doctor,

I think two things.

One

how did that all come

out of me?

Two

Momma is not going

to be happy about

me spending all that

money chatting

about who

I am.

What a bunch of shit,

Momma says.

He coulda saved me

a helluva lotta

money if you had just

written your life story down

and sent it to him

with a Forever

stamp.

81.

Our second session

goes like this:

Hope, your mother

will be with us today.

I knew this.

Momma ranted the whole

way from Ormond

to the hospital

about the wasted money

wasted gas

wasted time.

I knew Momma

would be there

and the idea of it scared me.

Momma listening.

Me working hard to