Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [75]
Richard snorts. “Oh, please, you are not. You’re depressed, and that makes you feel tired and sick. Mira, Chloe needs you. Do you expect Fiona to quit her job and take care of your daughter?”
“No, but . . .” I let the sentence hang there unfinished because there’s a lump in my throat. I can’t tell Richard that I think that Chloe is better off without me. If I say it, it might be true. “That’s probably what she wants anyway,” I snap at him, deciding that the best defense is a good offense. “They hardly even let me see her,” I tell him, pulling the covers over my face. “Look, I’m reduced to listening to my own child on this damned baby monitor.”
“You need to go and see someone, Mira. A therapist. You’ve been through a lot, and all of us can use some help every now and then.” I sneak a look at him from under the covers. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His voice is tight, and his head is in his hands, his fingers gently pulling at his hair. “One of the problems is that you’re bored. You don’t have enough to do.”
I don’t respond. I don’t trust myself. Suddenly, I’m furious with Richard for not understanding. I feel him get up from the bed. He walks to the door, and I think maybe he’ll leave me alone when he says, “You know, that was the root of her problem, too. You don’t want to become like your mother.” His tone is sad and, to make it worse, he lets his words hang there for a second, long enough to suck every ounce of air from the room. A moment later I hear his heavy step on the attic stairs.
You don’t want to become like your mother. Richard, having exhausted all traditional means, has delivered this last blow in order to shock me into action. But what he has failed to realize is that he’s just given voice to something I’ve long feared. Now that it’s been said, I can do nothing but lie here, stunned and sapped. The baby monitor beside my bed suddenly kicks in, and I can hear him in the kitchen, talking to Fiona.
“Well, I suggested it, but she’ll never go to therapy,” Richard is saying. “Mira is too proud.” My father doesn’t say anything in my defense. I know he’s there because I can hear him crunching his Grape-Nuts.
“I gave her a name,” Fiona says. “But I guess she never called. I didn’t want to ask.”
“Look what happened when she was court-ordered to take anger-management classes!” says Richard.
“I worry about her poor little girl,” Fiona continues. “There are some people who just never get over these sorts of things. My cousin’s sister-in-law never got over her husband’s leaving her. Her kids were running wild in the streets. They got into all kinds of trouble until finally she just couldn’t take it anymore. Gave all three of them to her ex-husband and let them be raised by the woman he left her for. Now, how about that?”
Finally, Dad pipes in. “Well, Mira doesn’t even have that luxury, Fiona.” Gee, thanks, Dad.
“She’ll get out of bed eventually. She’ll have to, if you stop feeding her. I’d start marking the liquor bottles, though. That would be the next step.” This from Richard, whose voice is suddenly louder, as if he is standing right next to the baby monitor speaking directly into it. I can almost see his tight-lipped grin.
chapter 16
As soon as the house is quiet, I venture downstairs and take out the phone book, intending to make a list of all the therapists within walking distance. As it turns out, there are quite a few, five by the time I’m finished with the Ds. I’ve stopped at the Ds because I’m intrigued by a small ad proclaiming in an elegant typeface: DEBRA DOBRANSKY-PULLMAN, PHD, CERTIFIED LIFE COACH. ARE YOU READY FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE?
I skim through the other ads and don’t see any other psychologist in the book advertising as a “life coach.” That she answers her own phone and has an opening this afternoon at two o’clock probably should make me a little uneasy, but, I tell myself, she has a legitimate office, a PhD, and is close by. Besides, one session certainly won’t obligate me to continue. Even if she’s a total flake, how much damage can she possibly do in an