Notes on a Near-Life Experience by Olivia Birdsall Page B

milk still in it.
    “No,” I tell her. “Stick to cans and paper.”
    She's back again five minutes later, hefting a plastic Stater Brothers bag. “What about these?” she asks, taking out some empty bottles.
    “Yes,” I tell her, annoyed. But when I look again, I notice that they are vodka bottles. “Where did you get those?”
    “I'm not telling.”
    “Keatie,” I say in my most authoritative voice, “tell me.”
    “Okay, fine. From our big trash can outside. I couldn't find anything else in the house, so I looked in the trash. They were in there.”
    Weird. My mom isn't a big drinker…. At least, I don't think she is.
    “Well, stop going through the trash. It's gross.”
    Keatie goes back upstairs and I can hear her shuffling around, still searching.

W HEN T HURSDAY ROLLS AROUND , I AM STILL FREAKED OUT about my dad and the Peruvian woman. So much so that I forget that I don't actually answer any of the questions Lisz asks me. When she asks me, “How have you been? What's been going on?” I blurt out, “My dad got back from Peru on Tuesday,” without even thinking.
    “I didn't know he was in Peru,” Lisz says.
    Having trapped myself, I decide to give it to her straight for once. What the hell. Things can't get much worse on the Dad front anyway. “Yeah, he joined a hiking club after he moved out and they hiked to Machu Picchu. We saw him last night.”
    “Oh. So how was it seeing him again?”
    “Weird. He brought a woman. Home with him. FromPeru. A Peruvian. He wanted us to meet him for dinner, and when we got there, there was this woman waiting for us at the table. My dad introduces her and says she's Paloma from Peru. And she goes, ‘I am Paloma; I am of Peru.’ She doesn't speak much English, I guess.”
    Lisz looks like she's trying to hide a smile. “Does your dad speak Spanish?”
    “Yeah. He speaks it all the time for his job.”
    “That's right,” says Lisz, “I forgot.” She looks a little embarrassed. I wonder if she ever gets her patients' lives and problems confused. She looks at me expectantly. Probably not.
    I finish the story, leaving out the parts about Mom's sad, scared face and Allen's refusal to shake Paloma's hand. Those things seem too personal. Lisz asks a few questions about my feelings toward Paloma (“I don't have any feelings about her: I don't even know her”) and then our time is up. I am kind of embarrassed that I didn't have to use the jar, that I've actually discussed part of my life, however tiny it was, with a shrink.
    As I wait in the waiting room for Allen to finish his session with Lisz, I do my history homework. Surprisingly, I am able to concentrate for the first time in weeks; for once, what I read actually makes sense. If I didn't know better, I'd think that talking had actually helped somehow. But that's ridiculous. How could the recap of a disaster possibly do anything to clean up the wreckage?

W HEN WE DRIVE HOME , I ASK A LLEN WHAT HE TALKS TO Lisz about.
    “None of your business. What do you talk to her about?”
    “I talk to her about you, mostly,” I say.
    He believes me for a split second. “You do?”
    I try not to laugh.
    “Whatever. You do not. Why do you care what I talk to her about, anyway?”
    “Well, do you answer all her questions?” I watch his face, so I can see if he's lying.
    “I think so. Why?”
    “Do you always tell her the truth?”
    “Why wouldn't I?” He makes eye contact with me briefly.
    “Because she asks about personal stuff. And what if you don't want to tell her all of it?”
    “I guess you just tell her you don't want to talk about it. But so what if you do tell her personal stuff? She's not going to tell anybody anyway. She can't. It's illegal.”
    “It is? Then why does she always talk about the conversations she's had with you during our sessions?”
    He turns up the radio and doesn't respond.
    I wonder what would happen if I did tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

H ALEY AND I HAVE