I Liked My Life(36)

I can’t believe anyone considers this lady a real doctor. She should have a distinct title like Talking Doctor so people know not to trust her with a scalpel. I’ve spent the last thirty minutes explaining that time doesn’t heal jack shit, but she doesn’t get it. Whether it’s my birthday or Mother’s Day or prom or random, lonely Tuesdays, time is my worst enemy. It slaps me over and over by reminding me how permanent a mess I’m in.

Someone needs to publish a list of things not to say to people in mourning and start it with Time heals all wounds. Runners-up include: Everything happens for a reason; God only dishes what you can handle; I know how you feel, I lost my—whatever—; It’s good to have an angel on your side; and, my personal favorite, How are you feeling? To that brilliant question, I want to yell back that I don’t have the goddamn flu. My suggested response to someone grieving is no response at all; just shut the hell up.

I call Dad on my way home to explain that therapy isn’t for me. His temporary ass-wiper puts me right through. “I’m not going back,” I reply to his overly animated hello. Every time we talk he’s either trying too hard or not even listening. The man doesn’t know how to act normal.

“Why not?”

“It was cheesy. She was all, ‘You know it’s not your fault, Eve.’ So I’d be like, ‘Yeah, I know, but I wish I knew why she did it.’ Then she’d say something asinine like, ‘It’s normal to ask yourself questions like that,’ and I’d say, ‘Yeah, I know.’ The whole thing was a waste of time.”

“Who did you see?”

“Dr. Cliché.”

He laughs, which makes me feel weirdly proud. “Well, how about trying your next session with someone else on the list?”

“How about not going again?”

He makes a tsk sound. “I’d like you to try one more time. You might find someone you relate to.”

I agree to that. I don’t want to give him an excuse to skip out. He needs a shrink more than me.

“Listen,” he says, “if we’ve reached a verdict, I need to hop back into this meeting.”

I love the idea that there’s a group of people my dad left hanging to take my call. “Sure, but one quick thing. Don’t bring food tonight. I’m cooking.”

“You don’t—”

“Love you,” I say. “Bye.”

I’m glad I’m not working at the Y, but he was right about needing more to do. I think it’s possible daytime TV kills brain cells. I’m only a week into The Young and the Restless and most of the cast have already slept together. The only entertaining part is imagining my mom’s take. I have yet to see anyone pause to put on a condom. All of these people must have gonorrhea by now. Or It takes an awful lot of Botox to always look that surprised. Or He’s a second-rate personal trainer. He doesn’t drive a BMW. Fun as it is to crack up with a ghost, I’m getting dumber sitting on that couch.

It was Paige who suggested I cook. I don’t know how she knew I was lounging around all day in pajamas, but she showed up yesterday obsessed with the idea. It’s a logical thing to take on. I’ve been my mother’s sous chef forever. Before I was tall enough to reach the counter, Uncle Dan built an adjustable shelf for the island so I could be in the action. I don’t know how he thought of it. Aunt Meg doesn’t cook, so there has never been anything for Lucy to watch.

I unpack the groceries and wash my hands. Mom preached that the best cooks keep it simple. Spinach with a little garlic and salt, rice simmered in chicken broth with pepper. Fish with lemon. Easy peasy. With the warming drawer full and the table set, I head outside to light the grill. I’ve watched Mom do it a million times. It hasn’t been touched in months, so the gas clicks several times. When it finally catches, flames shoot straight up, scaring the crap out of me. I jump back, touching my eyebrows to make sure they’re still there. Holy shit. I exhale, looking at the grill as if it were a living thing that just tried to kill me, then I laugh—a loud, creepy laugh that doesn’t sound like mine. What a rush! That’s what my mother’s death took from me—I’m now only truly present during extremes. Anything ordinary is dull.

I go back in the house to grab a smoke from my purse, hoping to keep the surge going. I’m not hooked or anything; it’s just something to do. I usually wait until Dad is in bed, but it’s windy enough he won’t smell it on me. I flick the butt when I hear his car coming down our long driveway. The fish is done. I shut the grill and bring it inside.

He can’t hide his surprise at the set table. I follow his eyes as he takes in the new seating arrangement. Dad used to sit at the head of the table closest to the door, with Mom and I on either side. We’ve been preserving her spot, even though it makes no sense to have two people sitting kitty-corner. Tonight I busted out, putting both plates on the far end of the table across from each other.

He looks tense but manages to sit down and say, “Dinner smells great. What are we having?” His point is clear—he can make the change, but he can’t handle a whole conversation about it. It’s better than having him walk out the front door.

The whole scene is awkward, like I’m on a date with my dad. I take a scoop of each dish as I run through the menu, then pass it to him for a helping. Our exchanges are clumsy; it’s supposed to be a circle. Tomorrow I’ll set the plates with food already on them.