Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [77]
Maybe she’ll think Jake died in a horrible restaurant fire.
What is the single thing I want most in life? I sit there staring at the blank page with an uncomfortably empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, realizing that I have absolutely no idea. I once thought I knew exactly what I wanted in my life, but no longer. How could someone go from knowing, or thinking she knows, exactly what she wants in life, to having absolutely no idea? The door opens, and Dr. Dobransky-Pullman breezes in.
“Don’t worry if you haven’t finished all the questions, Mira. We can go ahead and get started anyway.” She holds her hand out for the clipboard and then gestures ahead through the door. I lead the way down a short hallway into a large room. Inside there is a large desk and a couple of chairs. Against the opposite wall, a long cream-colored sofa and two leather armchairs surround a low, walnut coffee table. She gestures to the sofa. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
Yeah, right.
Dr. Dobransky-Pullman makes for one of the leather club chairs but, before sitting down, she unbuttons her blazer and smoothes the collar of her white silk shirt. She sits carefully, crossing her legs and balancing the clipboard on her knee. As she looks over the questionnaire, her face is expressionless. She’s wearing sheer stockings, the expensive kind, and sharply pointed high-heeled shoes. I can see that her legs are tanned even though it’s the middle of winter. I feel self-conscious in my jeans and pullover sweater and have the sudden urge to sit on my hands so she doesn’t see my short, bitten nails.
It is hard to tell her age. She’s wearing a lot of makeup and has the flawless clear skin of a model, but she has thin lines around her eyes and mouth. She could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, I suppose. One thing, however, is clear. This is a woman who is used to taking care of herself. What else would one expect from a life coach? After all, you’re hardly going to put your life in the hands of someone slovenly, poorly dressed, or ill-kempt. Somebody who looks like me, I can’t help but think, looking down at my sagging socks and scuffed clogs.
“So,” she says, suddenly looking up from the questionnaire, “you’ve recently made some changes in your life, I see. What sort of changes might they be?”
“Well, I just moved here from New York a few weeks ago. I mean back here, with my father. My daughter and I, that is.”
She looks straight at me with her deep, penetrating brown eyes and nods. “What’s your daughter’s name?” she asks softly.
“Chloe, her name is Chloe.”
“Pretty name. And how old is Chloe?” She is now looking down over the form again and appears to be studying my answers.
“Eleven months. Her birthday is next month.”
“Well, that’s a milestone, isn’t it? So,” she says, taking out a notepad and clicking open her pen. “Tell me, why is it that you and Chloe have made this move back to Pittsburgh?”
I give her the abbreviated version of the events leading up to our big move, including most of the Jake and Nicola saga, but deliberately omitting my anger-management fiasco. She listens carefully, not taking her eyes from my face except to make a note here and there.
When I’m finished, I take a deep breath and slump back into the pillows of the couch, exhausted. Dr. Dobransky-Pullman inclines her head and gives me a warm smile. “Well, that was tiring, wasn’t it?” she says. I nod glumly.
She lets the silence