Spin Doctor (16 page)

That said, I'm delighted that Faith is making such progress, but I feel like I've failed Talia. I'm off my game and it's both angering and frustrating me.

My own termination anxiety regarding Talia was exacerbated by Carol Lerner's abrupt ending of her therapy sessions in the same week. Carol's insurance wouldn't cover more than fifteen sessions, and she didn't want to continue to pay for them on her own. Given Carol's income, and aware that she could afford the full freight, if necessary, I didn't extend to her the offer to continue our work on a sliding-scale basis. Now I'm second-guessing myself because I may have ultimately lost this client due to my own sense of greed.

Therapists have an uneasy relationship with money. On the one hand, we may see ourselves as healers who altruistically pro
vide our services to whoever needs us, regardless of their ability to pay our fees. On the other hand, we're credentialed professionals with years of schooling and training under our belts, and we deserve to earn a proper living.

For the most part, my laundry room ladies, acquaintances with whom I work on a pro bono basis, could not afford an open-ended course of therapy, so I could hardly be accused of being in it for the money. And yet I feel guilty about losing Carol, who has a long way to go toward complete mental health and emotional stability.

With Talia, I feel the need to dig deeper into my creative well in order to discover a methodology that will work for her during her recuperation from knee surgery. She's got a lot of stuff to work though now, and I want to be able to help her. Although I never suffered an injury that forced me to rethink my career options, I did make the successful switch from dance to another field, and survived. Of course, in my case, the decision was more or less my own, but in some ways my body—those too-wide hips and weight problems that left me with an eating disorder—did make that decision for me. My empathetic understanding of Talia's situation is very strong; but at present, until I can find a workable technique that will bring her back into psychotherapy, I feel powerless to help her.

With Naomi and Claude, walking the blurry line of “Pal with Psych Ph.D.” has become incredibly tricky. When a therapist makes the decision to actively intervene in a session, there's always a risk that things could backfire, which is exactly what ended up happening here. I alienated Naomi when she most needed to be included. As a result, she has withdrawn from active participation in the adoption proceedings to the extent that she can contribute to them. At least she's still attending their therapy sessions, so I suppose my candid thoughts haven't put
her off entirely. Still, I'm unconvinced that I did the right thing by “putting in my oar.” Instead of being didactic, I should probably have followed a traditional approach to psychotherapy.

Funny, how Claude and Naomi solicited my help with their adoption application, while at home it's like pulling teeth to get Molly to tackle her college applications. I wish I could help
her
more, but she's so resistant. Yet, if Molly were a client, I would push and prod her out of her comfort zone, so that she could grow. But knowing that there's no risk without the possibility of pain, I don't want to see my little girl hurting, even if she may
need
to leave that comfort zone in order to grow. My professional life and personal lives often bleed together. With Molly, I can't help but think as a mother, and not as a counselor.

It's going to be difficult for me to help my clients and my daughter with their respective paperwork: I have negative opinions about the efficacy of these documents in presenting what's positive and desirable and special about the applicants.

And in both situations, a child's future hangs in the balance.

NAOMI AND CLAUDE

With an expectant look, Claude handed me the pale green envelope addressed to Ms. Susan Lederer and family written in a calligraphy that resembled Chinese brushwork.

“Read it,” Naomi urged breathlessly. She scooted closer to Claude and grabbed her hand.

I slid the card from the envelope. “‘Your presence is requested at the union of Claude Li Ming Chan and Naomi Kelly Sciorra as they celebrate their love, at the Wesleyan Chapel, Fall Street, Seneca Falls, New York, on the thirty-first day of October…' My God, that's wonderful!” I said, trying not to tear up. “Congratulations! I'm so happy for both of you!”

“And if anyone has a gripe about this, they can pretend they're at a Halloween party,” Naomi quipped.

“Look, we bought each other rings!” Claude said, and each of the women thrust her right hand toward me. “Yes, the right-hand diamond celebrates a woman's independence. And we're exercising ours by making as formal a commitment as we can to each other—by choosing to get married.”

“She proposed to me,” Naomi said, blinking back tears. “Claude actually got down on one knee and proposed to me.”

I brought my hand to my heart. I was getting
ferklempt
after all. There's no way that even a therapist could remain unemotional about such a big, exciting change in her clients' lives. “What brought it on? Anything specific?”

Claude took Naomi's hand in hers. “For one thing, it was time. We've been together for years. For another thing, I wanted to find the most special way I could for Nay to know how important she is to me, and that, despite all this crap we're going through to try to get our little girl, that she's the treasure of my heart and I wanted her to know that in a way beyond words. Talk is cheap, you know! I wanted something official as well as something meaningful.”

“I am so happy for both of you. And of course I'll be there.”

“Road trip!” the partners chorused.

“I know it's short notice,” Claude said apologetically. “Giving it to you only two weeks before, instead of six. But this was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“We would have asked you to be a bridesmaid, but we're not having any,” Naomi told me.

“We figured we'd spare our friends the pastel polyester dresses,” Claude added.

“So are you two wearing big white dresses?”

“I'm wearing white,” Naomi said. “Claude's wearing a red dress; that's the Chinese traditional color for brides. She's got a cheongsam with the dragon and phoenix embroidered on it. It signifies good luck, and is supposed to chase away evil spirits. There's plenty of those in Washington,” she added, “but they're not on the guest list.”

“And all our flowers will be red and white,” Claude said.

“We're going to try to incorporate a few Chinese wedding tra
ditions, actually. My grandmother—she's very traditional and conservative—doesn't know whether to be proud or appalled. She still doesn't quite get it that I'm living with a woman, and am so in love with her that I'm getting married, but that I'm not marrying a man! She keeps asking me what the groom's name is.”

“You should hear
my
parents,” Naomi said. “My mother made her peace with my sexuality years ago, but my father calls me
misere.
His misery. He always says to me, ‘You wanna be a tough girl, how come you don't want to work with me at the hardware store?'”

“Would you believe that there are probably some straight people out there who think you're nuts?”

“For getting married? Fuck 'em!”

“No, Naomi,” I said, “because the way the laws of the land currently stand, the only thing in gays' favor when it comes to the institution of marriage is that they get to avoid all the family bullshit that comes with wedding planning!”

“Well, there's always a downside to everything, I suppose,” Claude said cheerfully. “Even equal rights.”

I glanced down at the wedding invitation. “Seneca Falls. I like the significance.”

Naomi beamed. “That's why we're having the big ceremony in New York, even though at this point we'll have to skip over to a judge's chambers in Massachusetts to do it up legally. But Claude and I love it that the Wesleyan Chapel in Seneca Falls is where the first women's rights convention in history was held.”

“That's very cool!” I said. “Very cool.”

“For us, it's a
civil
rights issue. We think same-sex unions—legally recognized ones—are as important to fight for as women's suffrage was a hundred years ago. And of course there was a time when blacks in America didn't have the vote either,
and when interracial marriages were against the law. Look at all the states that had Jim Crow laws on their books for decades. And a lot of blood was shed to get all those laws changed and new ones enacted. But if our country was founded on the principles of ‘liberty and justice for all,' and you believe that's more than empty rhetoric, it's the only way to go.”

Claude nudged her partner in the ribs. “Get off the soapbox, Nay, you're preaching to the converted!”

“I want to hear all about the wedding plans,” I told them, “but I'd also like to discuss the adoption situation, and how that's working for each of you, especially in light of the wedding.”

“We still don't see eye-to-eye on it,” Naomi admitted. “The bottom line for me is that, yes, I want a daughter, and I understand why Claude wants to get her from China, but I don't want to have to play games and get her dishonestly.”

“And you, Claude?”

“It's not lost on me…the irony that Nay and I own a nightclub where
straight
women pay us money to
pretend
they're
gay
…that it's how we make our bread and butter. That it's how we would be able to afford to give our adopted daughter a really comfortable upbringing.”

Eureka! “Naomi, what do you think of that?”

I'd never seen her eyes so wide. “Can you believe,” she said slowly, “that that has never occurred to me before? It totally never entered my mind. And Claude has never brought that up until now.”

“That's because it just hit me. It was an epiphany. I'm as struck by it as you are.”

“And if I want to apply my own standards across the board, if your pretending that you're
straight
in order to get our daughter is an unacceptable hypocrisy to me, then our livelihood, which trades on sexual identity-bending pretense, really should
be as well. And I can't conscience trashing the business Claude and I worked so hard to build.”

“So does that mean that you're becoming more open to accepting Claude's signature on that heinous form attesting that she's a heterosexual, actively seeking a husband?”

Naomi gazed at the sparkler on her right ring finger. “As long as we can accept that none of us is condoning perjury, per se. Right?” Claude and I nodded.

“Of course right,” Claude assured her.

“Actually, it's pretty funny—when you look at it the way I am this morning—right this minute, anyway.” Naomi curled her diamond-bearing hand into a fist. “I'd like to see Claude ‘actively seek a husband' when she's already got a wife!”

MERIEL

“You know if it isn't one ting, it's another wit' her,” Meriel sighed.

“Have you thought about sitting down with Ms. Baum and talking about these issues?” I asked her.

“She tink because I speak wit' an ahkcent and work as a domestic dat I don't know how to have an intelligent discussion. She don't know dat I record de talking books for de sight-impaired people at my community center. It don't speak well for her kind, daht's all I can say.”

“And what kind is that?” I prodded. I was taking the calculated risk of hearing something I would find unpleasant, given the similarity of my background to Amy's, but I had to get Meriel talking—at least to me—about the
root
of the problem she was having with Amy rather than about its manifestations, which we had discussed at length during prior sessions.

“What kind? Lawyers!” I must have looked visibly relieved because Meriel added, “Mrs. Susan, you tink I was talking about white Jewish women?” I tried to look enigmatic. “No-no, I hope you know me well enough for daht.” I hoped I did too, but people can surprise you. “No, I talk about lawyers, who are supposed to be all about helping people. In French—I learn dis from Leon—de word for lawyer is
avocat
—same place we get our word ‘advocate.' Mrs. Amy ahkt layk she's my enemy, not my advocate. Everyting I do nowadays, she find reason to complain about it. I tell you, I am at my wits' end wit' her. But I need de job, so I don't quit.”

It would have been a violation of professional ethics to mention to Meriel that Amy had so much of her own
mishegas
going on right now that she was probably misplacing at least
some
of her ire, taking her frustration out on the help instead of on her husband.

“I know you want me to talk to her,” Meriel continued, “to take de risk, to go out of de comfort zone—all daht stuff you talk about—but she don't want to discuss it wit' me. I tink when all is said and done, Mrs. Amy is a little afraid of me.”

“In what way?”

“Afraid I get so ahngry daht I quit and leave her wit' nothing. But at de same time, she so rude sometimes daht she's practically pushing me out de door. Maybe she want me to leave, but make de leaving be my own idea so I don't complain to Al Sharpton or somebody daht she fire me for no good reason.”

“So what's her beef with you these days? The carnival was weeks ago. It can't be that.”

“Ohhh, William is getting ready to open his restaurant, and I been helping him out, trying out de recipes for de community—you know, ahsking friends and relations to try dem, see which are deyr favorites. I try to get everyting done fahst for Mrs. Amy
so I can leave a little early to get back to Flatbush by seven or eight in de evening, so I can still help William. And some mornings I come in a little late because William want me to meet with de contractors too. He say de place need a woman's touch for de decoration, you know?” Meriel laughed. “William is good wit' de people and good wit' de food. He even bettah wit' de people dan wit' de cooking, if you ahsk me!” She leaned back against the sofa cushions and brought her hand to her face, to cover a blush. “But he
terrible
wit' de decor. Oh, my Lord, I can't help but bust out laughing just tinking about it. William say as long as de colors are Jamaican—de green and yellow and black—he don't care what de walls and the furniture look like. He pick de designs and show me so proudly and I go, ‘Oh, my God! You making de place look like a high school gymnasium!' So Mrs. Amy doesn't layk it daht I spend de time wit' William on his restaurant and be all creative and excited and den I come into de city and she say I don't give her my best. I tell you, I'm doing de same job I always do for her. But she don't layk it daht I come in happy sometimes. She want me to be all beaten up inside like she is. You know de saying ‘misery love company'? Daht's Mrs. Amy dese days. And I don't layk it one bit.”

“Well…you seem to be enjoying getting the restaurant together so much, have you talked to William about there being a niche for you there?”

“You have a son, Mrs. Susan,” Meriel said. “And in a few years' time he be telling you he don't want his mama making his decisions for him. He got to live his own life. I can help William wit' tings he have no big interest in, layk de restaurant decor, even choosing de best recipes to put on de menu, but Mama got to stay outta de kitchen, if you know what I mean!”

ME

“You know, it's always me who's doing the initiating these days,” I murmured to Eli. When we'd made love that night, his mind seemed a million miles away. I know it's not uncommon to fantasize about someone else during intercourse, but when the fantasy is a good one, it usually results in added energy and spice, not the tepid tussle I'd just been a party to. “Are you feeling all right? You haven't had a checkup in years, you know. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea. At the very least a prostate—”

“I feel fine, Susie,” Eli said evenly. “I'm totally healthy. There's nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about. Then why am I worrying?
“Is it me? Is there something I'm doing—or not doing—that you wish I'd do—or not do?”

Eli smiled and caressed my cheek. “It's not you.”

“Then if it's not you—and it's not me—” I bit the bullet. “Eli…? Is there a third person in our bed?”

“Susie.” My husband smiled weakly. “It's the book. The deadlines. I…I'm sorry…I just haven't been able to get myself to concentrate on anything else. You know I've never been the most focused person in the world; I really have to work at it. Call it immaturity, call it AADD, call it how I'm hard-wired, but I've been this way ever since you've known me. I know I haven't been pulling my weight around here lately, and I know you—and the kids—haven't thought Dad's been much fun lately. But I love you all very much. And…and…I don't know. Soon. Soon.”

“What's that supposed to mean, though?” I asked gently.

Eli released an exasperated little sigh. “
Aghh.
See, you're always getting shrinky. I…I don't know what it means. I mean,
it means what it means. Susie, you know I'm not the most verbal person in the world. I'm a
graphic
novelist, not a wordsmith, remember? I feel at a disadvantage when you're in the room. I…never feel like I can find the words I need to say. Or the words you want to hear.”