“I need to see you,” I said.
“I have another patient.”
“He left.”
“Oh?”
“I popped in hoping I could talk to you and there was a guy sitting and waiting.”
“And he just left?”
“Yeah. He looked really angry. Pissed off.”
“That doesn’t sound like the person I was expecting.” She walked over to the desk and filled her empty tea cup. I’d put an awful lot of the stuff in the tea and I worried she’d taste it. I’d watched her drink her tea over many therapeutic hours and knew she liked it strong, always with four tea bags in the pot. I’d considered testing it at home with some of Mama’s tea but, for obvious reasons, I didn’t want to try out that much laxative unless it was part of a grim plan to become a skinny moron like Tanya, so bitchy because she was afraid to eat and metabolize salad.
Dr. Papua didn’t look like she believed me, but maybe that was because I couldn’t help but stare at her teapot. My eyes must have looked shifty. “The dude got a phone call. A text from somebody, I think. Then he just got up and left.”
“Hm. Georgie—“
“Gidget!”
“Gidget. Pardon me. Good. Gidget, did you not receive my letter?”
“Yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I took out another water bottle from my backpack and drained it. I wanted to show her I was still doing something she’d asked me to do. Maybe we could compromise so I could change a little more and she wouldn’t put me through the hell of breaking in another therapist.
Dr. Papua shook her head. “I do not think that is a grand idea. I think we have taken our therapeutic relationship about as far as it can go. We have tried over many sessions to get you to a place where you are ready for the commitments of the process. Perhaps you will find better luck with another therapist who can provide what you need. Not every therapist is for every patient…and vice versa.”
“So, what? You only work with the people who aren’t very fucked up, is that it? I’ve got to find a new therapist because…why exactly? I don’t make it easy enough for you?”
“I did not feel we were making progress, Gidget. I am concerned that if we are not making progress, then you are not getting the help you need.”
“I want another chance.”
“We have had this conversation.”
“I want another chance.”
She gave me that kind of smile, very much practiced, as if she was talking to a fairly retarded little kid. Then I noticed her smile went a little sideways. “Oh,” she said softly, and put a hand over her stomach.
“Are you okay?” I asked, smiling.
“Georg—Gidget. I do not think this is appropriate and if my scheduled client is not going to attend, then I should finish up here. I have an engagement right after work and I am really not feeling well, so… Oh! Excuse me!”
She ran out the door and down the hallway toward the women’s bathroom.
Awesome.
I hadn’t expected my plan to work that well or that fast. I had hoped that she would see that I’d bothered to take a couple buses to get here on my own and welcome me back. If that had worked, I would have accidentally knocked over her teapot with my backpack. That would be embarrassing but I’d be back in and by the time she figured out what I had done to get rid of Mr. Tear Stains, she’d forgive me because I’d demonstrated a real commitment to getting therapy.
From her.
I’d be a story she could tell at cocktail parties for years. She’d act mad at first, sure, but then she’d see how funny it was and how much I clearly need her and she’d forgive and forget and soon I’d be her favorite patient and she’d see she’d been totally wrong about me and someday soon I’d be skinny and she’d admit we’d made a lot of progress and I was a fine young woman and she’d be really sorry, apologizing all over herself for ever thinking she should get rid of me.
But it hadn’t worked out that way. So Plan B: Get a terrible vengeance on that bitch. The trouble was, I wasn’t sure what to do next. I really thought Plan A would work. I mean, how many patients dared to come back and face her after she sent out her fucking letter railing on about “positive therapeutic outcomes”?
I wandered into the inner office. I’d spent so many fifty-five-minute hours on that couch, spewing on about Mama and her boyfriends and how nobody seemed to like me much. Dr. Papua sat in her chair and listened, not liking me much, either. It was like she didn’t get me at all and I really thought she had. I really thought she liked me a little bit. Sure, I’m quirky, but if your therapist won’t cut you some slack, what the fuck?
I went over to her desk and sat behind it. I looked in the drawers. I was sure she’d have a vibrator (for the boring stretches between patients) that I could steal and put to good use. I couldn’t find it. If I’d thought to bring some superglue, I could have really fucked up her desk and phone but, like I said, Plan A was supposed to work. I did a full circle around the office. At the beginning of every appointment, I told her that her flowery wallpaper really sucked and that she should change it. She didn’t, so I guess I wasn’t the
only
one unwilling to change.
How much more time would she be in the bathroom? I was running out of time and between all the water I had been drinking and the fear of getting caught in here, now I really had to pee. In all the girl detective stories, the young heroine “casts about” for clues, so that’s what I did. I cast about for a way to fuck with Dr. Circe Papua. The filing cabinet behind the desk was closed but the key was in the lock. I stopped casting about.
I peeked out into the outer office. No footsteps running my way, so I ran over to the tall filing cabinet, opened the lock and yanked open the bottom drawer. If I’d had time, I would have looked for my file. How much did she doodle in the margins of her notes? Would there be little drawings of dicks and vaginas? I pictured pages and pages of her handwriting, over and over again, stating “I hate this fucking fat little bitch. I hate this fucking job. I should have been a librarian so if somebody started crying and whining I could just tell them to shut the fuck up. I have got to get rid of this fat little bitch.” I would have looked, but I didn’t have time.
The bottom drawer was marked “U – Z.” There weren’t many files in there, and a phonebook was tucked in behind a few file folders. U is for Urine. I took a squat and pissed in there, really letting go. I felt scared about getting caught, but I also experienced a very positive therapeutic outcome in about equal parts. Fear apparently helps you pee harder. You learn a lot in therapy.
I pulled my jeans up, slammed the drawer shut with my foot in one motion, and smiled when I heard my piss slosh around. I had just finished buckling up when I heard footsteps. I flew over to the couch, feeling warm and light.
“Gidget,” she said, like that said it all, like an accusation.
“Are you okay?” I said, all sweet concern.
“No. No, I am not. I had t-to…um…vomit.”
More than just puking was involved, I bet. “Maybe you better sit down.”
She did and here we were in our usual spots, except now—thanks to a lot of water and B-complex vitamin pills—she had a filing cabinet drawer full of bright, yellow urine. Not bad for a last-minute Plan B inspiration.
Her face looked somehow fallen in. As shitty as she obviously felt, she would leave soon and the piss would ripen in her U to Z phone book drawer all weekend. It was supposed to be a hot weekend. By Monday morning, the whole office would reek of piss. She could explain that to Mr. Tear Stains and I’d be sitting at school feeling happy happy happy about my brilliant vengeance.
If I’d had more time, I could have dumped a big, smelly Number Two in her filing cabinet, too. As it was, maybe she’d have to start over on all her files. Maybe that shitty flowery wallpaper would absorb the smell so much that Dr. Circe would have to close up the whole office and redecorate. Maybe my leak would leak through the bottom of the cabinet and soak into the rug and through the floor and through the ceiling into the office below. Maybe she’d get in trouble with her landlord and have to move. Maybe she’d get so teary about it, she’d quit being a shrink altogether. One way or other, she would sure be fucking sorry.
“I was supposed to go out tonight,” Dr. Circe said. The way she said it, I wondered if she knew.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“I thought from my letter you would understand that our talking should be done. I am not the therapist for you, Gidget. My letter was clear in that regard. What did you hope to accomplish coming here?”
I felt my fat face getting hot. I wondered how long before the smell would waft our way. I wondered how she could be so mean that she could kick me out in the first place. I still wanted to stay, but the piss in the filing cabinet might become apparent any moment so I wanted to run, too. I wanted us both to get out of her office to let my revenge percolate and ripen.
“Gidget,” she said. “I am feeling very unwell and I have a massive headache coming on so I think we both better leave.”
An answer to an evil, second-rate prayer! “Okay.” I used my small, humble voice.
She looked at me with sad eyes. Instead of moving to get up she said, “You know…I think I made a mistake with you.”
My heart rose up and rubbed against the insides of my ribs and I straightened.
“
Ending
our sessions was
not
the mistake,” she added quickly.
“Oh?”
Shit.
“But I should have had another session with you to discuss why I had to terminate treatment. Not every therapist is for every patient and I felt that we were not a good fit. For this to work, we have to be able to trust each other and I never felt comfortable with you alone in the office with me. I
am
sorry about that. You never gave me any reason I could put my finger on. It was just a feeling. I am all for logic, but I have to trust my intuition, too. All you seemed to bring to your sessions was anger and I saw little else.”
She
had
been wrong about me. Then she kicked me out of treatment and made herself right.
Shit!
“I am sorry I could not help you. We talked extensively about strategies you can use in your life, which I hope you will act upon. I still think those strategies will benefit you.” She held her head with one hand, like she was countering pressure from inside that might push her forehead out. “We are all just trying to get through life as best we can,” she added.
I swallowed a stone. It hit my stomach. “What? What did you say?” I’d heard her, but I wanted to hear it again.
“I said that we are all just doing the best we can.”
I hadn’t expected tears. Not from me.
Never
from me. The salt water broke me open. “I’m scared, Dr. Cir—Dr. Papua.”
She looked at me with forgiving eyes then. She looked at me like she saw something new and hopeful. That really made me feel like shit on a shoe, piss in a drawer. I cried in stupid sobs that I hated myself for but could not stop.
“What if
this
is the best I can do? What if this is
it
? What if I’m never any less miserable than I am now?”
Her shoulders relaxed a little bit and her face softened. Somehow, that made me think of Mama when I was really little, when I was still a skinny kid. “Gidget,” she said. “You are showing me something instead of useless anger.”
I didn’t answer. I just slipped sideways on the couch and wrapped myself around a pillow and cried and cried. I felt like a skinny little kid again, letting go like that and letting the fat hot baby tears just roll and roll. When the tide finally drew back, Dr. Papua looked at me with a kind, gentle smile that shot me right in my moose face. Her look
killed me.
Georgette really died with that one pure look of forgiveness. Georgette really was dead!
But the filing cabinet was full of magical Lazarus juice.
“You know, Gidget, maybe we
do
have some more work to do together. I was harsh with you. I should have worked this out with you instead of taking the easy way out. You have been through a lot of therapists, I know. That prejudiced me. I expected that I was just the next in line, but you showing up here like this…” She spread both hands out in a gesture that meant, “Welcome back.”
That’s when I felt cold. That’s when I got the first whiff. “This is excellent. I really want…uh, but first…this may be hard to explain…”
Over & Out
M
y two-year-old son wailed, “No!” from his crib. His cry told me he was asleep. It was another bad dream. I rubbed his back, my touch so light I just smoothed his pyjama top. Frankie sucked his thumb hard. One eye rolled open for a moment, like a vacant nod to a passing stranger. He was on his way back to deeper sleep, though the intensity of his self-soothing hardly abated. He bears the mark of a dedicated thumbsucker — a tough little red callous at the knuckle of his left thumb — and I worry that he might screw up his teeth if he keeps it up too long. If Josy were here, he would be toilet trained by now.
Emily slept through Frankie’s nightmare. Teenagers seem exhausted all the time, or maybe that’s just Emily. The alarm clock by her bed doesn’t even wake her for school some mornings. Even when she is awake and getting ready for school, she seems distant, as if she is still dreaming in a small, warm place. She is stronger than me, but fathers don’t have the option to act sullen.
I tip-toed into the bathroom, avoiding the squeakiest floorboards. When Josy and I bought the slouching house on Seaside Road, she and the real estate agent went on and on about how great the old floors were. Now with two kids, it seems the bare, shiny floors are for sliding and banging up knees and elbows. I can’t walk the floors at night without thinking I’ll wake the children.
When Josy still lived here, I don’t remember worrying about the noise the floors made. It was as if two adults roaming a creaky house cancelled each other out with the white noise of living. Why is antique so valued when old sucks so much? Why do we hold on to things we should have thrown out long ago? Do our atoms mix so much over time with other people and things that, in some unseen way, we mistake the things we own for ourselves?