Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu Page B

I can practice my drums. I know as soon as I head out there to play and my mom has some privacy that she’s going to call her best friend who still lives in Austin and her sister in California and anyone else. I’m sure this morning before I woke up she called Dr. Greenberg and probably her own therapist, Dr. Sugar. That’s what my mom loves to do. Talk. About everything. Constantly. Especially me. I guess she can’t help it, but I hate how sometimes she makes me feel like I’m a problem that can be fixed with one of her to-do lists. I think I probably can’t be fixed at all.
    I feel like a shithead for being so mean to my mom inside my head. She had to have been hurt because I wouldn’t hug her back last night. But sometimes I just can’t stand to be touched, especially by her. Sometimes it’s okay. But sometimes it just really isn’t.
    After I force myself to eat a sandwich, I head outside to my Ludwig and pick up my sticks and start drumming. My shoulders don’t ache as much as they did when I first started playing again, and I think I don’t even suck too much.
    I love playing the drums.
    I play all afternoon, and my mom brings me a snack in the garage—a soda and some potato chips on one of our nice plates. Mom doesn’t like to use paper plates, even when we eat outside.
    â€œSweetie,” she says, setting down the chips and drink, “Dr. Sugar is fitting me in a little earlier today than normal. Can you be ready to leave soon?”
    â€œMom, I can stay by myself while you’re at Dr. Sugar’s. Even Dr. Greenberg said.”
    â€œOh, Ethan, I don’t know. You had a rough night and everything.” She frowns a little and turns and looks toward the front of our house, like she can spot the next bad guy coming down the street. Since I came back she and dad have had this thing that I need to be with one of them at all times. Even though I’m sixteen. Even though Dr. Greenberg told me that I should be able to stay by myself in my house if I’m comfortable with that, and he told mom that, too, after one of our sessions.
    There’s part of me that wants to tell mom that guys like Marty don’t want sixteen-year-old boys. That I’m too old for her to worry about that anymore. But I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that’s going to make her feel better.
    â€œMom, I’m going to be fine. I’ve got my phone. You can text me anytime.”
    She crosses her arms in front of her and glances back at the street. She takes a deep breath. I can imagine her thinking this is something she’ll need to talk about with Dr. Sugar. How she can allow her teenage son to be by himself.
    â€œOkay,” she finally says, “but I want you to put your phone on the ground where you can see it when I text you. You’ll never hear it with all this drumming,” she says.
    â€œI promise,” I say, sliding my phone out of my pocket and putting it on the ground next to my drum kit, well within my line of vision.
    â€œI’ll be home a little before dinner,” she says. Dr. Sugar isn’t as far away as Dr. Greenberg, but my mom still has to get on the freeway to get there. Another reason to be glad I’m not going.
    She texts me three times on her way to her appointment, and each time I have to stop drumming and text back something like Mom I’m fine you should focus on driving okay? And then when she finally gets to her appointment, I text her Have a good session . Hopefully Dr. Sugar will keep her from texting me at least for the hour that she’s talking to him, so I can actually finish drumming through one song.
    I’m picking up my sticks when I see her, pedaling up my driveway on her ten-speed.
    Caroline.
    It’s been like two weeks since that first time she showed up. I’d almost started to feel like maybe she’d never really been at my house at all. And now here she appears,