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if I shook his hand when I saw him. I couldn’t remember so I said, “Nature calls,” and excused my-self to the bathroom to scrub my hands in scalding hot water.

IMAGINE MY SHOCK
     
     
     
    A
    S WE MADE A LEFT TURN ON P ERRY S TREET, MY EXCITE ment peaked. “Look at that house,” I said, pointing out the window. It was a pristine white Victorian with a slate roof and widow’s walk on top. “I bet it’s just like that one. I bet it’s even nicer.” I pictured a silver Mercedes 450 SL parked sideways in the crushed clamshell driveway, roof down, M.D. plates glinting in the sun.
    My mother was having an emergency session with Dr. Finch, a session at his home. Now I would finally get to see it. Hope had told me all about how much fun it was. “There’s always someone around, always something fun to do,” she’d said. I couldn’t believe it had taken so long for me to finally see where he lived. Visiting the personal residence of John Ritter would not be more exciting than this.
    A doctor’s house.
    I had dressed up in pressed gray slacks, a crisp white shirt and a navy blazer for the occasion. At the last minute, I added a gold-tone ID bracelet.
    “It’s just down here,” my mother said. “On the right.”
    The street was lined with immaculate homes, each more stately than the next. Perfectly trimmed hedges, double fireplace chimneys, tall front doors painted glossy black, porches fronted with latticework. It was a protracted-jaw, New England money street. “This is nice,” I remarked. “I’d love to be a doctor.”
    “I imagine a lot of the Smith professors live on this street,” my mother said. Smith College was just past the center of town.
    And then up on the right, I saw one house that did not belong. Instead of being white and pristine like all the others, this house was pink and seemed to sag. From a distance, it looked abandoned. In a neighborhood of whispers, it was a shriek. “That’s not it, is it?” I said warily.
    My mother hit the blinker and slid the car over to the side of the road. “That’s it,” she said.
    “It can’t be.” Utter disbelief.
    “That’s it, Augusten,” she said. She killed the engine and tossed the keys in her bag.
    “Wait,” I said, feeling panic. “That can’t be it.”
    “That’s Dr. Finch’s house,” she said, finally.
    We got out of the car and I shielded my eyes from the sun as I scanned the house. The pink paint was peeling off, exposing veins and patches of bare wood. All the windows lacked shutters and were covered with thick plastic, making it impossible to see inside. And the lawn—at least what was once a lawn—was nothing more than firmly packed earth that had the look of heavy foot traffic. Parked crooked in the driveway with the nose touching the corner of the house was an old, gray BuTck Skylark. It was missing all its hubcaps.
    My mother walked across the dirt to the front porch and I followed. She rang the doorbell, which generated a strange and very loud electric buzz. I pictured wires deep inside the wall crossing, then sparking to make this sound, which was reminiscent of a chain saw in the distance.
    Nobody answered the door, but I could make out the distinct sound of running from inside, a tinkle of piano keys and then a crash.
    She hit the buzzer again, holding it.
    A moment later, the door opened and a hunchback appeared. It was a lady hunchback with kinky, grayish, almost purple hair. She was holding an electric can opener, the cord dangling to the floor.
    “Hello, Deirdre,” the hunchback said. “Come in.” She stood back and waved the can opener in the air, indicating our welcome. She resembled a candy cane without the red stripes. She leaned forward, head down, as if trying to assume the crash position in an airplane while standing.
    My mother said, “Thank you, Agnes,” and she stepped inside.
    I followed. The lady reminded me of Edith Bunker from All in the Family, except with really bad posture.
    “Hello,”