Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [79]
I nod, and take a deep breath, silently damning Richard, my father, and Fiona.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. It was an honest mistake, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, taking another deep breath. Don’t start hyperventilating, I tell myself.
“Now, what do you think?” she asks, glancing at her watch and giving me a tentative look.
I look at her blankly.
“Mira, I was asking you if you felt ready to begin another chapter in your life.”
“Another chapter?” I stare at her, having no idea of what to say.
“Yes. Are you ready to begin another chapter in your life?”
Then, as if reading my mind she says, “Mira, I know that you may not feel particularly ready, but you’ve taken an important step in coming here today.” She leans forward, resting her forearms on her knees, and looks directly at me. “Now, I’m going to suggest something pretty radical. Even if you don’t feel ready, I’m going to ask you to pretend that you are. Sometimes feelings follow behavior. If you act a certain way, then very often you actually start to feel that way. We are going to jump-start your life.”
With a final glance at her watch, she tells me, “We should probably explore why this was so hard for you, but unfortunately we are out of time for today.” I leave the office with specific instructions as to what I need to do before next week. Dr. D-P, as it turns out, is big on lists. My first assignment is to buy a “Life Notebook,” in which I’m to record my assignments, the first of which is to write down five things that would make me happy and to do at least two of them before next week. In addition to that, I’m to write down five professional goals and five personal goals and a description of where I see myself in five years. She also apparently is big on the number five. Dr. D-P says that it’s not at all unusual for women in my position to feel lost and unsure of themselves. I’ll figure out what I want eventually, she tells me. When I give her a dubious look, she laughs and tells me that she has seen far worse cases than mine. It makes me wish that I’d come clean about having basically failed at my court-ordered rehabilitation.
I want to believe Dr. D-P. I want to believe that doing the things she asks of me will make a difference. She seems so cool and confident, so in control of things. Would it be so wrong to believe that she might be right?
chapter 17
The following week, Ruth and I are sitting at the Coffee Tree on Walnut Street. When she heard I’d been sick, she’d brought me some matzo ball soup. After the last Gymboree class, I suggested meeting for coffee the next day, and she’d accepted. She made me swear not to tell her Jewish mother, whom I’ve never met and who doesn’t even live in Pittsburgh, that she’d bought, rather than made, the matzo ball soup.
“No seriously, there’s a mafia-like code of conduct among Jewish mothers everywhere governing the cooking and dispensing of matzo ball soup,” Ruth says with a nervous backwards glance. “If it ever leaked out that I bought it,” she says with a wry smile, “I could be excommunicated.” Can Jewish people really be excommunicated?
“Okay, here’s what you need to do,” Ruth tells me. We are working on the second part of my assignment for Dr. D-P, the “where do I see myself in five years” part.
“You need to come up with a plan that allows you to do the thing you love—obviously cooking—while being able to balance and maintain a significant family commitment. That’s easy,” she says, pausing to take a sip of her double latte. “There are probably lots of things you could do. How about being a caterer or a personal chef? Hell, you’re practically mine. Or maybe you could come up with one thing and make it and sell it mail order. There’s probably a huge market for online foodstuffs. Fudge, fruitcake, things like that.” Carlos toddles over to a neighboring table and proceeds to gnaw