Neighborly(16)

But I’m not going to tell him. Better to let him be my distraction, to let his spirit of optimism and his presumption of a world worth trusting suffuse me.



“Crudité again?” he asks that night as he drops into a kitchen chair, grabbing some of the cheese I’ve cut up and sticking it on top of a cracker. He doesn’t actually mind, or if he does, he’s never said it.

I didn’t only cut up cheese but some vegetables, too. It’s a balanced meal, sort of.

I’m a lot better than I was earlier. After our nap, Sadie and I took a bath together, read books, listened to music, and I don’t even know what else we did, but the hours passed and most important, we didn’t have to leave the house. It was just the two of us.

Even when it’s good with Sadie, even when she’s not having any of her outbursts, there’s a pressure I feel: to keep things good, for her to remain happy. It’s a low-level hum, the pressure, like having a bug burrowing in your ear canal. Listening to that all day can suck the life out of you, though I never want Sadie to feel my lack of energy. If she did, then how could she stay happy?

When Doug comes in, the bug dies, just like that.

Sadie’s in her high chair, and I’m feeding her the last of the puree cubes. I’ll have to make the new batch tomorrow, no excuses.

My breasts are heavy with milk. I missed my last pump session. It’s not that I was sleeping or that I forgot; it’s that I just plain didn’t want to hook myself up to that god-awful machine. It doesn’t hurt anymore―my nipples are inured―but having to occupy Sadie in some way for fifteen whole minutes while I’m indisposed, holding the breast shields to my nipples, seemed especially onerous today.

“How was Mommy and Me?” Doug asks.

“I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. That’s not the same as lying. “I was tired.”

“You skipped class for no reason?”

“You say ‘skipped class’ like I was going for my PhD. It’s Mommy and Me. We were going to sing ‘Old MacDonald.’ I’ll go next week. I think I’ll be able to catch up.”

He pops another cracker in his mouth. “Someone’s touchy.”

“Just tired.”

“You know what might help? Some relaxation.” He drawls out the word, and I know he’s not thinking what would help me, he’s thinking how long it’s been since we last had sex.

I play dumb. “After we put Sadie down, you want to start a new show? We could have a Netflix marathon.”

“Whatever.” His tone is mild.

I want to tell him about the notes.

I can’t tell him about the notes.

Because either they’re about the trash, in which case I’m to blame, or they’re about something else, where the question of blame is much more nebulous.

No, they’re just about the trash. I have to believe that. And soon, the writer will get a new hobby and leave me alone, and no one will ever have to know the rest. Not even Doug. Especially not Doug.

Session 1.

“You’re a doctor, right? So you can prescribe medication?”

“I have a doctorate in clinical psychology. So yes, I’m a doctor, but no, I can’t prescribe medication.”

“I was told you’re an expert in trauma. Are you?”

“It’s one of my specialties, yes.”

“What are your other specialties?”

“Would it help you to know that answer, or do you think maybe you’re a little uncomfortable being here and you’re trying to delay? That’s a perfectly normal thing to do in a first session. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do, period. No one likes talking about their pain.”

“I’m not perfectly normal.”

“I imagine you want what we all want. To be valued. To connect. I know you’ve been through a lot, but you have the same needs and desires as everyone else. It’s all about how we fulfill them.”

“That sounds profound.”

“Are you being sarcastic? It’s OK if you are.”

“So, everything’s OK in this room?”

“Emotions are OK in this room. You just need to learn the healthiest ways to express them. My job is to make this a safe place for you. But I need you to tell me how to do that.”

“I can’t tell you that. I can’t even tell you the whole story.”

“I know from your intake form that the trauma happened when you were a child.”

“I’m not even sure it’s a trauma.”

“Let’s take a step back. Slow down and start over. What brings you in today?”

“I want to feel better. I need to get over what people have done to me.”

“That was then, and this is now. You didn’t have control then. You have it now. You just aren’t convinced of that yet.”

“And your job is to convince me?”

“No. It’s to cede control to you. We go at your pace. You pump the brakes when you need to. You tell your story the way you want.”

“Why do I feel like you’re doing some Jedi mind trick on me?”

“Let’s take a step back. Slow down and start over. What brings you in today? Why now?”

“My whole life is a mess. I thought I’d gotten away from my past, but it just keeps shadowing me. If I’m not careful, I’ll fail out of school, and I can’t seem to be careful. I just can’t seem to care.”