I looked down at my brown shoelaces.
“How sweet,” Wendy said in an almost mean way.
I didn’t like what she was doing. Using my concern for her against me. Using her beauty as a weapon.
“Father McNamee is not insane,” I said. “He’s just . . .”
I thought about telling Wendy about Charles J. Guiteau—that there are good and bad types of crazy—but I knew she wouldn’t understand.
Wendy said, “Regardless, I don’t think you’re emotionally ready for another housemate—especially one who is your mother’s age.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you need to work on making age-appropriate friends. Finding an age-appropriate support group. Finding your own way.”
“Being a bird,” I said.
“Okay, maybe that was a stupid metaphor. I’ll admit it.” Wendy watched me stare at my shoelaces for a long time—I could feel her eyes on me—and then she said, “You okay?”
I nodded.
“Have you thought any more about coming to the support group I told you about?”
“I’m still thinking about that.”
“Is there anything you’d like to talk about this week?”
“No, thank you.”
“What do you and Father McNamee do together?”
“Guy things.”
“Guy things?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“You are not a guy,” I said and then smiled, because it felt good to have guy secrets—like I was one step closer to having a beer with a friend at the bar. You would have been proud of me, Richard Gere. Truly.
“I see,” Wendy said, and then laughed in a good way. “What have you been reading about at the library this week?”
“The Dalai Lama,” I said, because it was true. “And Tibet.”
“Interesting. Any particular reason why?”
“Did you know that Tibetan monks have been performing self-immolations to protest China’s rule?”
“Self-immolations. Like burning themselves to death?”
“Not like. Exactly so.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you know about that? Why doesn’t anyone know about that?”
“I don’t know. If it’s true, you’d think it would be on the news.”
“It is true. You can look it up at the library. On the Internet.”
“You’d think Richard Gere would be promoting that more,” Wendy said, and then laughed. “That’s his thing, right? Tibet?”
I couldn’t believe that she brought up your name at first, even considering Jung’s theory of synchronicity. Her saying those two words stunned me. But then—once her meaning sunk in—the tiny man in my stomach was enraged; he kicked and punched my internal organs.
“You shouldn’t make fun of Richard Gere. He’s a wise and powerful man,” I said. “He’s doing good, important work. You wouldn’t understand. He’s helping people. Many people!”
“Okay, okay,” Wendy said and pulled out my binder from her bag. “I didn’t know you were such a Richard Gere fan. Jeez Louise.”
I wanted to tell her that not merely am I your fan, but you are my confidant. I wanted to tell her about the you-me Richard Gere of pretending, but I knew that it would cause me more trouble than it was worth. Wendy wouldn’t understand our correspondence. Wendy wants me to be a bird. And to go to her support group of age-appropriate people. But birds do not befriend famous movie stars and internationally known humanitarians.
Do not hate Wendy.
It’s not her fault.
She really does want to help me.
She just doesn’t know how, but it’s not her fault.
Wendy is only in her midtwenties—the age I was when I was arrested for letting the undercover cop prostitute rub up against my leg. Nobody knows anything when they are in their midtwenties. Think back to when you were that age, Richard Gere. Remember your time in New York and London when you played the lead in Grease? Your reviews were sensational—you were much more accomplished than Wendy is now—but could you have been able to advise me back then? No. So cut Wendy some slack. She’s just a young woman doing her best.
“Can I level with you?” Wendy said.
I nodded.
“I’m a graduate student.”
I blinked at her, waiting for more, and she looked at me like she had said all I needed to understand.
“You know what that means, right?”
I shook my head.
“It means I’m not a licensed therapist yet.”
I looked at her.
“I’m practicing on you. That’s why I don’t charge money.”
“Thank you.”
Wendy laughed in this very excited and surprised way—like I had told a joke. “Listen, I’m all for being honest with people. Going to group therapy would be good for you. Truly. It would help. You might even make an age-appropriate friend—maybe even have your beer at the bar. I really believe you should go. Truly. Truly. Truly. But I’m also required to convince you to go. I’m getting graded on this. All of my classmates have convinced their clients to attend group therapy already, and you’re starting to make me look bad. I shouldn’t be saying all this to you; I know that. But would you please just go to group therapy for my sake? So they don’t throw me out of my grad class? Would you do it for me? Please?” Wendy put her hands together like she was begging me. The bruise on her wrist jumped out of her sleeve once more, ugly as a cockroach emerging from under a floorboard. The tiny man delivered a swift kick to my kidney. Then Wendy raised her eyebrows and said, “Pretty please?”