An Anonymous Girl(45)
I’m about to voice my concerns when Dr. Shields puts her hand over mine.
Her voice is low and soft. “Jessica, I’m so sorry. I got so wrapped up with my research and I didn’t even think to ask about your family. Has your father begun a new job search?”
I exhale. My family’s impending crisis is like a dull, chronic pain; it’s always lurking in the back of my mind. “Not yet. He’s waiting for the new year. Nobody hires in December.”
Her hand is still over mine. It’s so light. The slim white gold-and-diamond band looks to be the tiniest bit too big for her finger, as if she’s lost some weight since it was first placed there.
“I wonder if I could be of help . . .” Her voice trails off, as if she is in the throes of an idea.
My head jerks up. I stare at her.
“I mean, that would be amazing. But how? He’s in Pennsylvania, and the only job he’s ever had is selling term life insurance.”
She withdraws her hand. Even though hers was cold, its removal feels like a loss. Suddenly I’m aware that my own fingers are icy, almost as if she has transferred a bit of herself to me.
She plucks a single raspberry from the platter and lifts it to her mouth. Her expression is thoughtful.
“I don’t usually share personal details with subjects,” she finally says. “But I feel as though you are becoming more than that.”
Her words send a thrill through me. I haven’t been imagining it; we really do have a connection.
“My father is an investor,” Dr. Shields continues. “He has a stake in a number of companies on the East Coast. He’s an influential man. Perhaps I could put in a call to him. I don’t want to overstep, though . . .”
“No! I mean, you wouldn’t be overstepping, not at all.” But I know my father would feel like a charity case; his pride would be destroyed if he found out about this.
As usual, Dr. Shields seems to sense what I’m thinking. “Don’t worry, Jessica. We’ll keep this just between us.”
This is so much more than just a generous check. This could save my family. If my father got a job, my parents could stay in their house; Becky would be okay.
Dr. Shields doesn’t seem like someone who makes promises lightly. Her life is so together; she’s totally different from anyone I know. I have the feeling she could truly make this happen.
I’m almost dizzy with relief.
She smiles at me.
She reaches for the phone and places it in front of me.
“Shall we do a run-through first?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, December 11
Every family generates its own particular dysfunction.
Many people believe that once they cross the threshold into adulthood, this legacy can be shed. But the maladjusted dynamics that have been imprinted upon us, often since childhood, are tenacious.
You have provided me with crucial information that engenders an understanding of the tangled interactions resulting from your familial patterns, Jessica.
Have you wondered about mine? Clients do typically speculate about their therapist’s lives, superimposing images onto a blank canvas.
You have experience in theater. How close have you come to accurately envisioning the cast? Paul, the powerful father. Cynthia, the former beauty-queen mother. And Lydia, the high-achieving older daughter.
These character sketches will provide context for the following scene.
It is lunch time on a Tuesday, the day after you visited my home. The occasion is festive: the mother’s sixty-first birthday, although she proclaims it to be her fifty-sixth.
Here is what can be observed:
The mother, father, and daughter are led to a corner table for four at the Princeton Club on West Forty-third Street.
For many years, the fourth chair was occupied by the younger sister in the family. It has remained empty since the terrible accident during that daughter’s junior year in high school.
Her name was Danielle.
The surviving daughter settles into her brown quilted leather chair and shifts ever so subtly so that she is equidistant between her mother and her father. The waiter does not need to take an order to know their preferred drinks; he quickly brings a tumbler of Scotch and two glasses of crisp white wine to the table and greets each member of the trio by name. The father shakes his hand and inquires how the waiter’s son performed in his last high-school wrestling match. The mother immediately takes a long drink of wine, then pulls a gold compact from her purse and examines her reflection. Her coloring and features are similar to the daughter’s, but the passage of time has robbed them of their luster. The mother frowns slightly and touches a fingertip to the edge of her lipstick. Orders are placed, and the waiter withdraws.
Here is what can be overheard:
“It’s a pity Thomas couldn’t join us,” the mother says as she closes her compact with a snap and replaces it in her quilted purse with a clasp composed of gold interlocking C’s.
“Haven’t seen much of him lately,” the father states.
“He has been so overworked,” the daughter responds. “The holidays are always the busiest time for therapists.”
The statement is elastic, allowing its recipients to infuse it with a meaning of their own choosing: It could be the stress of shopping and travel and elaborate meal preparations that prompts patients to seek extra help; or shorter, darker days could serve as the culprit, causing a worsening in depression or the onset of seasonal affective disorder. But as any therapist can tell you, the driving force behind an increase in both scheduled and emergency appointments during December is the very familial relationships that are supposed to conjure peace and joy.