What a gift that would be. No, my eyes are the last to get in on the action. My mouth wobbles and, basically, disintegrates. My face becomes red and contorted. The only thing to do is to hide it. So, am I saying that vanity is what made me run away from Justin when I cried in the park yesterday? Dr. Gilbert looks at me expectantly. When I don’t read any more, she says, “No more?” “That’s everything I wrote down.” “And that’s fine,” she says. “I do hate the way I look when I cry,” I say. “So of course I wouldn’t want this guy I’m kind of interested in to see me crying, when my face falls apart.” I sit for a few minutes without saying anything. She waits. Dr. Gilbert is a patient person. “And maybe I didn’t want to cry about Humphrey—about Humphrey in particular—in front of him. In front of anyone, really.” “Because you think it might seem strange that you felt so close to a five-year-old,” Dr. Gilbert prompts, “who doesn’t know enough to have conversations about family dynamics and immigration?”
