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shorts and sandals to a dress-up dinner—I can’t stop thinking about what I am going to wear to her dinner party, so much that I don’t even remember it’s Friday, and therefore, time to see Dr. Patel, until Mom calls down in the middle of my workout, saying, “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Hit the shower!”
    In the cloud room, I pick the brown chair. We recline, and Cliff says, “Your mother tells me you’ve had quite a week. Want to talk about it?”
    So I tell him about Veronica’s dress-up party and how my old dress clothes don’t fit because I have lost so much weight, and I have no swanky clothes other than the shirt my brother has recently given me, and I am pretty stressed out about going to a dinner party and wish I could just spend some time alone with Ronnie lifting weights, so that I would not have to see Veronica, who even Nikki says is a mean person.
    Dr. Patel nods a few times like he does, and then says, “Do you like the new shirt your brother gave you? Do you feel comfortable wearing it?”
    I tell him I absolutely love my new shirt.
    “So wear that one to the dress-up dinner, and I’m sure Veronica will like it too.”
    “Are you sure?” I ask. “Because Veronica is really particular about what you should wear to dinner parties.”
    “I’m sure,” he says, which makes me feel a whole lot better.
    “What about pants?”
    “What’s wrong with the pants you have on now?”
    I look down at the tan khakis my mom purchased for me at the Gap the other day because she says I shouldn’t wear sweatpants to my doctor’s appointments, and even though the pants are not as swanky as my new Eagles jersey, they do look okay, so I shrug and stop worrying about what to wear to Veronica’s dinner party.
    Cliff tries to get me to talk about Kenny G, but I only close my eyes, hum a single note, and silently count to ten every time he says Mr. G’s name.
    Then Cliff says he knows that I have been rough with my mother, shaking her in the kitchen and knocking her down in the attic, which makes me really sad because I love my mom so much and she rescued me from the bad place and has even signed all those legal documents—and yet I cannot rightly deny what Cliff has said. My chest heats up with guilt until I can’t take it. Truth be told, I break down and cry—sobbing—for at least five minutes.
    “Your mother is risking a lot, because she believes in you.”
    His words make me cry even harder.
    “You want to be a good person, don’t you, Pat?”
    I nod. I cry. I do want to be a good person. I really do.
    “I’m going to up your meds,” Dr. Patel tells me. “You might feel a little sluggish, but it should help to curb your violent outbursts. You need to know it’s your actions that will make you a good person, not desire. And if you have any more episodes, I might have to recommend that you go back to the neural health facility for more intensive treatments, which—”
    “No. Please. I’ll be good,” I say quickly, knowing that Nikki is less likely to return if I backslide into the bad place. “Trust me.”
    “I do,” Dr. Patel replies with a smile.

I Don’t Know How This Works

    After some more lifting in the basement, I put on my trash bag and run my ten miles. Afterward, I shower, spray some of my father’s cologne, and walk into the mist—just like Mom taught me to do back in high school. I roll on some underarm deodorant and then don my new khakis and my Hank Baskett jersey.
    When I ask my mother how I look, she says, “Very handsome.
So handsome.
But do you really think you should wear your Eagles jersey to a dinner party? You can wear one of the Gap shirts I bought you, or you can borrow one of your father’s polo shirts.”
    “It’s okay,” I say, and smile confidently. “Dr. Patel said wearing this shirt was a good idea.”
    “Did he?” my mom says with a laugh, and then she removes an arrangement of flowers and a bottle of white wine from the