Speaking in Tongues

too.
    “What’s the boyfriend situation?”
    “This won’t take much time,” she said, laughing ruefully. “I was going with this guy? Joshua? And he was, like, all right. Only he was older. And he was black. I mean, he wasn’t a gangsta or anything. His father’s a soldier, like an officer in the Pentagon, and his mother’s some big executive. I didn’t have a problem with the race thing. But Dr. Hanson said I was probably involved with him just to make my parents nuts.”
    “Were you?”
    “I don’t know. I kinda liked him. No, I did like him.”
    “But you broke up?”
    “Sure. Dr. Hanson said I ought to dump him.”
    “He said that?”
    “Well, not exactly. But I got that impression.”
    Crazy Megan thinks that Mr. Handsome Shrink, Mr. George Clooney stud, ought to’ve figured it out: How can a psycho nutcase like me go out with anybody? If I hadn’t dumped Josh—which I cried about for two weeks—if I hadn’t left, then everybody at his school would be on his case. “He’s the one with the loony girl.” And then his folks would find out—they’re the nicest people in the universe and totally in love—and they’d be crushed . . . Well, of course I had to leave . . .
    “Nobody else on the horizon?” he asked.
    “Nope.” She shook her head.
    “Okay, let’s talk about the family some more. Your mother.”
    “Bett and I get along great.” She hesitated. “Only it’s funny about her—she’s into her business but she also believes in all this New Age stuff crap. I’m, like, just chill, okay? That stuff is so bogus. But she doesn’t hassle me about it. Doesn’t hassle me about anything really. It’s great between us. Really great. The only problem is she’s engaged to a geek.”
    “Do you two talk, your mom and you? Chew the fat, as my grandmother used to say?”
    “Sure . . . I mean, she’s busy a lot. But who isn’t, right? Yeah, we talk.” She hoped he didn’t ask her about what. She’d have to make up something.
    “And how ’bout Dad?”
    She shrugged. “He’s nice. He takes me to concerts, shopping. We get along great.”
    “Great?”
    C.M.—Crazy Megan—chides, Is that the only word you know, bitch? Great, great, great . . . You sound like a parrot.
    “Yeah,” Megan said. “Only . . .”
    “Only what?”
    “Well, it’s like we don’t have a lot to talk about. He wants me to go windsurfing with him but I went once and it’s a totally superficial way to spend your time. I’d rather read a book or something.”
    “You like to read?”
    “Yeah, I read a lot.”
    “Who’re some of your favorite authors?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” Her mind went blank.
    Crazy Megan isn’t much help. Yep, he’s gonna think you’re damaged.
    Quiet! Megan ordered her alter ego. She remembered the last book she’d read. “You know Márquez? I’m reading Autumn of the Patriarch.”
    His eyebrow lifted. “Oh, I loved it.”
    “No kidding. I—”
    Dr. Peters added, “Love in the Time of Cholera. Best love story ever written. I’ve read it three times.”
    Another ecstatic ping. The book was actually sitting on her bedside table. “Me too. Well, I only read it once.”
    “Tell me more,” he continued, “about your father.”
    “Um, he’s pretty handsome still—I mean for a guy in his forties. And he’s in pretty good shape. He dates a lot but he can’t seem to settle down with anybody. He says he wants a family.”
    “Does he?”
    “Yeah. But if he does then why does he date girls named Bambi? . . . Just kidding. But they look like they’re Bambis.” They both laughed.
    “Tell me about the divorce.”
    “I don’t really remember them together. They split up when I was three.”
    “Why?”
    “They got married too young. That’s what Bett says. They kind of went different ways. Mom was, like, real flighty and into that New Age stuff I was telling you about. And Dad was just the opposite.”
    “Whose idea was the divorce?”
    “I think my dad’s.”
    He jotted another note then looked up. “So how mad are you at your parents?”
    “I’m not.”
    “Really?” he asked, as if he were completely surprised. “You’re sure the porridge isn’t too hot?”
    “I love ’em. They love me. We get along gre—fine. The porridge is just right. What the fuck is porridge anyway?”
    “Don’t have a clue,” Peters said quickly. “Give me an early memory about your mother.”
    “What?”
    “Quick! Now! Do it!” His eyes