Chapter Two

Minnie's listening to those same autotuned songs on the car ride over to my therapists' office. I can't tell them apart. It's like they're rotating, with no distinguishable end or beginning. But still, she sings along anyways. Her lips form a tiny pink O as she does so. She nudges my shoulder, and I don't know what she wants. I just shrug deeper into my already-snug sweater, that itches and itches, but I'm wearing it for her, and she's doing the same thing for me. 

She frowns. The O she made out of her lips flattens into a little pink line. "..Okay. Sorry for..um, well, you know." Her gaze focuses back on the road. But I don't know. What is it that I should know that I don't? 

"What do you mean?" I make eye contact with her. Well, really, it's her ear. A little gold hoop is stuck in the lobe. I know a matching one is in her other ear. 

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." She says. She's annoyed. I can tell by her tone. Doctor Eaton helped me realize people's feelings with body queues and vocal tones. "I know that you don't like to sing." 

"I like silence." I answer back, hoping to start conversation. Instead, Minnie reaches up a hand to the car radio, and switches it off with a twist of a big blue knob. I stare at her again. That wasn't the response I was hoping for, but I really wasn't lying when I said I liked silence. I look out the window as we drive out of our little neighborhood, one with squat little houses that all look identical to each other, but vary in terms of color. Our little house is white, with dark green shutters and window boxes. I think Minnie might have put flowers in them before, but she forgot about them. They turned to little brown nubs by the time summer rolled around. 

Little houses soon turn to strips of shops. Some have been here since I was a little kid, and some are brand new. I don't like new things very much. Change is something that I've never dealt well with. The best example I can come up with is when Minnie was born. I was in the waiting room of St. Arthur's Hospital, the only one in the county-area. My dad was sat with me in the waiting room, smoking a cigarette even though he wasn't supposed to. The sign outside the entrance said so, and I told him that. He didn't care. He was a man who didn't take care of himself, but he took good care of me after Mom died, so he expected me to do the same for Minnie.

On the other side of me was Wendy Terren's mom, a lady who always dressed in colors that were too bright. I remember that she was wearing tight neon yellow leggings, that she'd decided to wear with a loose pink tunic and turquoise high heels that clicked against the linoleum floor. She had her blonde hair up in a messy bun. It looked like a birds' nest on her head. She would stare at me, and I would stare back. It was hours before a nurse told us the baby had been born, and she was waiting for us in the nursery. My dad led me to the nursery window. Wendy's mom followed, her heels still clicking against the floor. I covered my ears - it was getting hard to stand. 

Once we got to the window, all three of us peered into it, looking for the little girl who was supposed to be mine. My dad spotted her first. She was in the middle of the first row, in a little plastic box like all the others.  She was wrapped in a little pink blanket and wore a little yellow hat. 

"She has my Wendy's nose." Mrs. Terren let out a hearty laugh. "That sweet little button nose." 

"She's got your hair, Adam." My dad said, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Look at it, just peeking out from under her cap." He smiled for the first time that day. 

"We're here." 

I blink, and we're parked in front of my therapist's office. It's in a tony storefront that's right in between a flower shop and a bookstore. Both are closed.  I look over at Minnie, and she's faced away from me, looking out her own window. 

"Hey," I say. I undo my seatbelt and reach over to touch her. I press my fingertips to the little pink heart on her collar.

"I love you." The words always make my tongue feel weird when I say it. But this time it feels right. 

She turns to look at me. Her hazel eyes meet my own. She smiles again, and laughs. It's soft and jittery. Like Wendy's. 

She takes my free hand and presses five dollars she pulled from her pocket into it.

"Have a good session with Doctor Eaton, dad." 

I get out of the car, and wave to her until she's out of my sight. It's only when I walk into Doctor Eaton's waiting room that I realize she didn't say I love you back.