The Boy with Stars on His Ceiling

Chapter 1: Me and My Visit to the ShrinkWhen I walked into Dr Harding’s consulting room, it looked more like someone’s lounge than what you might expect from a doctor’s waiting room. The doctor invited me to have a seat. I saw a rather large, comfortable looking chair so I headed towards it. “Not there!” came the abrupt command. “That’s mine!” I then saw another easy chair near the only window in the room, so headed there. “Not there!” I looked at her in surprise as no one else was in the room and no one was sitting in the easy chair. “Sit there,” she commanded, pointing to a leather couch. I sat gingerly on the edge of the couch and slowly slid back. It felt hard and cold and reminded me of being in the headmaster’s office when I was being reprimanded for some evil deed I had done, although I could not think of any evil deeds I might have done. In fact, it was the other boys at school who did the evil deeds to me. I glanced around her office and noticed a few faded old degree certificates on a wall, a few paintings on the other walls, and when I say paintings, this was not the National Gallery, but rather a second-hand shop with old hand-me-downs, but on taking a better look, I could see that they must have been prints and not actual paintings. Then I saw a few photographs discreetly tucked away on her desk. I tried to see who the photographs were of, but had no luck. The doctor picked up a note pad in one hand and a pencil in the other. She cleared her throat and, giving me a rather cold stare, began our session. “Tell me about yourself,” said the old lady without a smile creasing that wrinkled face. I also cleared my throat and thought for a minute—what I should tell her? “My name is Joshua Jones and I am seventeen years old.” I paused. “What else do you want me to tell you?” I smiled at her. “Other than your name, which I know, and your age, tell me where you live, what you like doing at school, and what do you do when you’re at home.” “Hm!” I sat and stared at her, thinking where I should start. “I live at 17 Blossom Drive in a three-bedroom house with my mother, my father and my stepfather…” “Your father and your stepfather?” she queried. “Yes, that’s what I said.” “Both of them?” I stared at her and then thought that she might be deaf and had not heard me properly, so I spoke loudly. “Yes, my father and my stepfather!” “Please explain, young man.” “My father ran into a bus…” The doctor looked up in surprise. “Ran into a bus?” “Yes,” I repeated, then thought I might have said it wrong. “Well, he ran into the street and the bus hit him. Does that make sense to you?” “I understand, but was he killed by the bus or not?” “I would think that anyone who ran into a bus might get killed, don’t you?” “So, explain to me how your father lives with you if the bus killed him!” “He lives on the mantelpiece.” No reaction. She just gave me a blank stare, as though what I was saying did not make any sense to her. “We have him in a rather ornate golden coloured urn and it blends in with my mother’s lounge curtains which also have gold in them.” The doctor stared in disbelief at me and muttered almost under her breath, “I suppose all that glitters is not necessarily gold.” “I quite agree,” I chirped merrily. “My mother likes things that are gold coloured.” “I’m sorry, but I didn’t expect you to hear what I said. So, your father lives on the mantelpiece and your stepfather…?” “Oh, he sleeps with my mother.” “Absolutely.” She remained silent for a moment than added, “How do you get along with your stepfather?” “Oh, like a house on fire. We are the best of friends and he supports me when I complain about the boys at school.” The doctor appeared a little distracted. “In what way, Joshua?” “He listens to what I tell him and then he makes suggestions as to how I should deal with the boys when they bully me.” “That’s very good of him. What sort of suggestions does he give you?” “Mostly to ignore them, but occasionally he tells me to defend myself if they attack me.” “When you say attack you, what do you mean?” “Well, when someone attacks you, they usually hit you or beat you with something, so I should defend myself against these attacks,” I answered, wondering why this doctor did not understand the meaning of the word attack. “What does your mother say about these attacks?” asked the doctor. I shrugged my shoulders. “She doesn’t like to hear about such things because she says it gives her angst, whatever that might be.” “Angst means severe anxiety.” “Do you suffer from angst, Doctor?” “I try not to, but I’m here to question you and not the other way around,” she politely replied. “I thought it would be better to chat. That’s what I do when I visit my medical doctor, because then I know how he feels and he knows how I feel.” “Here we do things differently.” “I see, like the Spanish Inquisition.” The doctor’s eyes widened, but before she could say anything, I added, “We learned about that this week in school.” “No, not like the Spanish Inquisition, but I need to ask you questions so I can get a clearer picture of your home life as well as what happens at school. Tell me about your mother.” “My mother goes to shul when she can, probably to tell the rabbi about her angst.” “I have seen your mother there, but I never see you or your stepfather,” answered the doctor. “Axel’s not Jewish and I’m quite happy about who I am without going to see the rabbi like my mother does.” “And who are you, Joshua?” enquired the doctor. “I’m Joshua Jones.” “But who is Joshua Jones?” I thought for a while, deciding just how much I should say to her without incriminating myself, after all, this was not the Spanish Inquisition, or so she said. “I’m seventeen, going on eighteen—doesn’t that sound a bit like The Sound of Music?” I laughed, but all I got back was a stern glare over the top of her glasses. “I’m still at school, which I really find boring…” “Why is school boring, Joshua?” “I haven’t finished telling you about me,” I interrupted. “I have a few friends at school and my hobbies are going to movies, collecting dead bugs, oh, and I’m circumcised; just in case you were wondering.” Once more, I received the glare over the top of the glasses. “Now I’ll answer your question. I find school boring because I don’t like most of the subjects that I have to take and some of the teachers are deathly.” “Deathly?” enquired Dr Harding. “Yes, they’re very boring. Have you ever heard a swarm of bees droning? Well, that’s what some of my teachers sound like; the only difference is that the bees make honey which is sweet, but the teachers only make me fall asleep, but then I suppose that could be considered as being sweet too. Shakespeare said, ‘to sleep: perchance to dream,’ but unfortunately, I never get the chance to dream because my teachers usually shout my name and that wakes me up.” “I take it that you study Shakespeare.” “Yes, we are reading Hamlet this year. Great play with lots of murders and ghosts, not that I like murders, they’re too messy.” “Now tell me, do you do any activities at school?” “Well, not really. I did try a bit of football, but that exhausted me, so I gave cricket a go and that bored me. I do like drama and music.” “Have you thought of what you might like to do when you finish school, Joshua?” I had a long, hard think and then I replied to her question. “I might like to go into fashion…no, theatre. Theatre would be better because I could act or sing and dance, or even design the costumes for the shows. Yes, I think that would be better.” “Do you like art, Joshua?” “Some of it’s not too bad but then others are like rubbish—they don’t make any sense.” “No, what I meant was do you like drawing?” “Mainly stick figures. I’m good at those, but I’m even better when it comes to putting clothes on them.” Throughout all this questioning, Dr Harding kept writing things down in her notepad. I leaned forward to see if I could see what she was writing. “Are you making notes about what I tell you?” I asked, trying to read what she had been writing. “Yes,” was the reply. “Hm! So, my dad was right.” “Right about what?” enquired the doctor. “He used to say that when people get old and can’t remember things anymore, they have to write things down to remember.” “It sounds like your father was right.” “He’s right about a lot of things.” “You obviously were very fond of your father.” “Oh yes, we got on very well,” I replied without elaborating. “I always used to go to my dad to discuss things when I was not sitting under the dining room table.” “Why would you be sitting under the dining room table?” asked the doctor, rather surprised. “I liked to be alone, so I would hide under the table with its long tablecloth hanging over the edges and no one could see me. It made me feel safe and I could be in my own world, making up whatever thoughts I felt like.” “I take it you are an only child, Joshua?” I never answered her question. I was beginning to realise that the less information I gave her, the harder her job, whatever that was, would be. “Do you miss him?” “Of course.” “Did you ever confide in your father about specific things, Joshua?” I thought for a moment before I answered. I was not going to tell her that I chatted to my father regularly—she might think I was nuts! It was bad enough for her to think that Dad was inside the golden urn and living on the mantelpiece. Then I thought of the appropriate answer to give her—“Now that would be telling!” She stared at me as though she still wanted a proper answer, but I was going to make her earn the money my mother was paying her. “So, tell me, do you ever confide in your stepfather?” I smiled broadly at the doctor. “You heard my answer to your previous question, well, the answer to this question is exactly the same.” I was not going to tell her that Axel and I get on very well and I did confide in him sometimes. “So, tell me, Joshua, what does your mother and stepfather do?” “They love each other and have s*x…” “No, I meant what are their jobs?” “Oh, Axel is a hairdresser. He has his own salon and my mother does the books for a furniture shop.” “So, she is an accountant?” “Yes, I suppose you could say that.” “Is there anyone else in your life who might have an influence on you?” asked Dr Harding. “There’s my crazy granny.” “Why crazy?” enquired the doctor. “She does some strange things sometimes.” “Like what, for example?” “Oh, she lives in an old age home and has a boyfriend who has a motorbike and she often rides that on her own.” “Interesting. How old is your granny?” “Old! I think she might have fought in the Second World War.” “That would make her very old indeed.” “Well, I suppose she might have lived during the war, but I don’t mean that she fought in the war. In any case it would be very odd for a woman to be fighting, wouldn’t it?” “Not really, many women did their part in the war, working in factories to make bombs and aeroplanes and such like.” “Oh well, maybe she did that. I’ll have to ask her.” “And you say that she has a boyfriend?” “Yes, I call him Uncle Gottlieb. He’s younger than my granny, but they get on very well.” “Does he also live in the same old age home as your granny?” “Oh yes, he takes her everywhere on his motorbike. When I say motorbike, it actually has a sidecar attached so Granny can sit in it, and if I go for a ride with them, I sit behind Uncle Gottlieb while Granny rides in the sidecar waving to everyone we pass on the street. It does make her look quite regal,” I added, waving my hand to demonstrate what Granny did.