Plastic Hearts & Satellite Stars by N. C. Stephens (miss read books txt) 📕

on his wall. It wasn’t much of a painting, just a single painted red square on a white canvas. Boring? Yes. Art? Maybe.

I must of have staring at the painting for an awkward amount of time, because Doctor Melvin had been repeating my name several times, “Suzanne? Suzanne? Will you please have a seat?”

As ritual, I would saunter over to the small old slightly faded baby blue coach that sat perpendicular to Doctor Melvin’s desk. I was sit up at first, slouching a little, and as time would pass I would eventually be lying down on the coach, practically asleep. With the sound of white noise humming in the background, he would first ask me how my day was going. I would respond saying something like ‘fine’ or ‘okay’. Second, he would ask about how the medicine was treating me, and I would reply just the same as before. Third and finally, he would ask about family life and social life was going, and I would reply by saying ‘decent’ or ‘getting better.’

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to answer his questions, it’s just that I didn’t know how to. It was always hard for me to ever talk about me feelings, even when I’m alone. My feelings are like the night, dark and dangerous if you don’t know where you’re going.


On most days, he would begin by talking about the importance of life, love, and friendship and why I’m an important part to this world. That’s when I would begin dozing off into a semi-awake slumber. Though today it was different, Doctor Melvin took of his glasses, and tossed them carefully on his desk. He looked at me for a few moments, and then smiled which made me feel a little awkward.

“You still play guitar?” asked Doctor Melvin after a moment of silence. How did he know I play guitar? Had I told me or did Mom tell him? However he knew, it got my attention, and that was defiantly a first.

“Yes,” I said sitting up on the couch. I was told I couldn’t say ‘yeah’ or ‘whatever’ when talking to Doctor Melvin, I had to be mature and polite, which was something I wasn’t very good at.

“How long have you been playing?” asked Doctor Melvin leaning back in his chair.

“Since I was eight,” I said with a quiet tone of voice. It was my third grade teacher, Ms. Camps, which got me interested in music. She actually was a certified music teacher, but times hit hard and she could only find work as a third grade teacher. She’s retired by now, but I would always remember the first day of class as I was sitting alone in the corner as all the other kids played, she came over to me, guitar in hand, and asked if I wanted to play, and the rest is history.

“Would you consider yourself experienced?” asked Doctor Melvin raising his eyebrow a little.

Experience was a relative term, I never played in a band or in a contest before if that’s what he meant by experienced. I’ve only played alone in my room or across the street at Memorial Park under the large oak tree just after sundown when the park was almost abandoned.

“I supposed so,” I said with a half smile. What was Doctor Melvin trying to get at?

“Suzanne, I have a feeling I’ve failed you this past year,” said Doctor Melvin with a sadness in his voice, “I’ve felt as if I haven’t taken the necessary steps in truly helping you.”

Failed me?

“Okay,” was all I could sputter out

“You see every human learns in a different way, Suzanne, some by reading, some by creating, some explore, and so on,” said Doctor Melvin putting his glasses back on.

“Okay,” I said trying to act like I was paying attention.

“And for you Suzanne, that’s music,” said Doctor Melvin smiling like he struck a chord within me, which he did. I looked at him a shocked expression as if he finally got me, or was that just the money my parents pay him talking? “You go to Ashland High correct?”

“Yes,” I said running my hand through the bangs of my hair. Ashland was a private school from pre-k to twelfth grade for students with rich parents in Seattle. It wasn’t a uniformed school or anything like that, but it wasn’t like Bottomfield either, the school in Seattle south end.

“Maybe you know my son, Mitch?” said Doctor Melvin handing me a picture frame off his desk. The photo was of a thin, blond haired, California style boy of sorts, standing with a woman, most likely his mother, in front of the Elfie Tower. Except for his round black rimmed glasses that made him look nerdy and acne filled faced, he wasn’t half-bad looking. Though, I’ve never seen him before at Ashland, not once.

“I don’t,” I said handing the picture back to Doctor Melvin.

“I see, well Mitch and some of his friends are forming band, and he’s looking for a lead guitarist,” said Doctor Melvin leaning back in his office chair a bit, “So I thought of you.”
Was I really being drafted into my psychiatrist’s son’s band by my own psychiatrists? I was getting the strangest feeling that he was trying to hook me up with his son too. What did he think I was some emotionless weirdo that would do anything for a boyfriend? I would never stoup so low.
“I see,” I said trying not to be rude even though I undeniably offended.
“They meet every Friday night at Crats in their basement. My brother owns the joint and lets Mitch and his friends practice there. I just thought it would be a way to make, you know, some friends and do something that you love,” said Doctor Melvin with a smile, “But it’s ultimately your choice.”
What he didn’t know was I had already made my choice; No way. No way was I going to be a part of my psychiatrist’s son’s band just because it would “help me”. I don’t need help, doesn’t anyone understand that?
“Yeah,” I said without really knowing that I accidently said the word at all.


Doctor Melvin leaned forward in his chair and reached for a pen and a pad of paper. Clicking his pen open, he began scribbling rapidly on the pad.
“Let’s meet back in two weeks and see how you’re doing,” said Doctor Melvin tearing the piece of paper from the notepad and handing it to me.
“I thought you said this would be my last time?” I said, my voice cracking a little as I said the word last.
“Suzanne, it’s not that I don’t believe you’re okay,” said Doctor Melvin taking off his glasses, “I want you to believe that you’re truly okay.”
I nodded my head; rage was burning up inside of me. I was fine, I truly was. A wave of anger and hate flooded over me as I clenched my hand into a fist. I got up from the couch, snatched the piece of paper out of Doctor Melvin’s hand and quickly turned to leave.
“Always know this Suzanne;” called Doctor Melvin from behind me, “Love is out there, it really is. You may not believe it now, you may never will, but it’s there, it’s just hiding in the stars.”
I closed his office door behind me, with tears beginning to slowly form.

***
The trip to the Rec. Center was a long and filled with long pauses of awkward silence. Rain slowly to tap against the glass of Mom’s old Buick as we sped down the freeway. Even though the Rec. Center was only a few blocks away from Doctor Melvin’s office, it still felt like hours in spite of all the tension. Mom was obviously still angry at me as she white knuckled the wheel of her vomit green colored Buick. Even though my parents could afford nicer vehicles, Mom wasn’t always the most “careful” driver, so expensive cars for her were out of the question where my Dad was concerned.
As the silence grew denser with every moment, I knew deep down I had to say something to my Mom, but what? Say that I was sorry, because in all honesty, I really wasn’t. It was how I felt all the time. She constantly treats me like I’m still her little girl, but I’m not. I’m not so innocence and precious like she tries to make herself believe.
“How was Doctor Melvin?” said Mom being the first to break the silence and not me. This, for example, is one of those “repeat” questions, something she always asked me after every meeting with Doctor Melvin.
“Fine I guess,” I said staring out into the grayness that is mid-day Seattle.
“Well you talked to him didn’t you?” said Mom with an irritated edge in her voice clenched the wheel even harder now, “How was he?” Her tongue slivered over the word he as she said it.
“HE WAS JUST FINE MOM!” I yelled back with’ harsh tone in my voice, crossing my arms, still looking out the window. That probably wasn’t the perfect thing to say at the moment, but sometimes I just can’t control what comes out of my mouth.
Mom didn’t say anything in response, which didn’t surprise me. She wasn’t the one to ever respond when I was getting really angry, she thought it would damage my psyche and make me go jump off a cliff or something. Dad on the other hand wouldn’t back down when I got angry, or as he would put it “me getting teenage”. Maybe that’s where I got all my problems, from him.
“I’m sorry Mom,” I apologized, trying to act like it was medicine, which it partially was. Doctor Melvin prescribed me a type of medicine when I first started seeing him last year. The medicine has specific chemicals that do crazy stuff to my brain to make it less irritable to the world and people in general. There are three, and only three, possible side effects. Only one have I ever experienced, which is producing sudden outburst of irrational anger. Medicine or not, I needed my Mom on my good side, so she would still agree to drive me to the Rec. Center.
“I know Suzanne, I know,” said Mom is a soft, yet gentle voice, her head turned towards me, “I know times have been tough this past year. Things have been strained between us and I have only myself to blame.” One thing Mom will always do to make me feel better, take the blame for everything, “but I want you to always know we love you very much.”
I smiled but on the inside I felt a growing pain, an intense pain in my lower abdomen. It was like an aired up balloon was being inflated in my stomach and was ready to burst. The word we stuck a cord inside that made me clench. She was referring to my Dad, but from what I’m concerned, all he cared about was work, money, and perfect from her unperfected and suicidal daughter. In his eyes, I was a mistake.
“Are you still going to drive me to the Rec. Center?” I asked Mom quietly, my eyes still watching as cars sped past us as we exited on the off-ramp. A watery mist sprayed up against the windshield every time a car would pass.
“Do you