Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [61]
“So Carl spent most of the session nodding yes? That's—”
“Unreal? Yes, but more like unrealistic because, of course, he politely wedged in a dig about having to be the one to ‘fix the fiasco’ of the July 4th plans and be the one left to make all the phone calls. Then Dad comes to his rescue. ‘Carl's handled all this well. Stood up to the plate.’ Yaddayaddayadda.”
Molly finished her tea and dumped the ice in the plant next to the table. “You know, you might want to cut Carl some slack.” She didn’t rush the words. She just let them dissolve into meaning, melting like the ice in the plant. “I’m not saying Carl's actions were heroic. But his hand was forced. He had no choice in this decision. But he did what he had to do.”
Maybe he's beginning to understand what it means to feel powerless.
Good.
27
How old were you when you lost your mother?”
I unwrapped my watermelon Jolly Rancher and popped it in my mouth instead of flinging it at Ron's forehead. “I didn’t lose her, Ron. She died. That's a lifetime of being lost, don’t ya think?” I ironed the wrapper with my finger. “Aren’t we supposed to be past euphemisms by now?”
Dr. Ron and I verbally sparred on Wednesdays. Somewhere between the sarcasm and the silly, serious happened. He tolerated my not-always-so-wise-cracks, and I allowed him his psychobabble.
“That depends. Are you past needing your used candy wrappers to be wrinkle-free?” He grinned and handed me a small wicker basket off his desk. “Toss the trash in here.”
“I’ll hold on to it. I have a feeling I’ll be overdosing on Jolly Ranchers this morning,” I said. “Is there a twelve-step program for the sugar addicted?” I reached into the candy cache on his desk for two lemons and a sour apple.
“I think that would fall under the umbrella of Overeaters Anonymous. So, you’re covered.”
He moved from behind his desk and sat in the chair across from me. He set the digital timer for forty-five minutes, placed it on the lamp table next to his chair, and said, “The recommended time limit for therapy torture.”
“If it wasn’t so true, it would be funny.”
“Well, I’d hoped for at least one of your pseudo-smiles. Guess you’re picking flavors to match your disposition.” He licked his thumb and flipped through pages of his legal pad. Yuck. Even doctors have gross habits. I did that thumb thing, too, when I looked for a number in the phonebook. Anytime I did it around Carl, he gave me the “that's a disgusting habit; please wash your hands before you touch anything else” lecture. One thumb lick, and Carl flipped right along with my pages.
Ron stretched his legs and propped his feet on the edge of the oversized padded leather ottoman between us. He glanced at the pad, uncapped his pen, and said, “Let's get started. I want you to pretend I’ll be picking your mother up from the airport this afternoon—”
Eyebrow lift and a smirk. “Good luck with that one.”
“Key word here is pretend. I want you to describe her to me in such a way that I’d be able to walk right up to her.”
Maybe this session wasn’t going to be an emotional jack-hammer cracking through decades of petrified feelings. I allowed myself the luxury of a deep breath and began to sketch my mother using words as my watercolors. “Don’t look for someone who looks like me. She's taller. Was taller? Anyway, maybe tall is relative because she was probably only five feet, five inches.”
I closed my eyes and scanned my memories, a slideshow of collected images. Some throbbed in their vividness, others glimmered too briefly to capture. “She has brown eyes. Not coffee brown. Muted brown like a camel-colored suede coat. Her hair's almost the same shade. Straight, thin, left side part, cut in a sort-of bob.” I opened my eyes. “This length.” I ran my fingertips alongside the middle of my neck. “She had a mole right here.” I pointed to the left side of my forehead. “She always said she wanted to have it removed, but then … well, cancer trumped mole. Otherwise, her skin was beautiful. Ivory with a sprinkle of