Jessica Conant-Park - Cook the Books

My next client, Danny, was someone I really liked. He was my age, twenty-six, and worked long hours in construction. His father owned the company and, according to Danny, was a real bastard, a demeaning, tyrannical man who subjected his son to one harsh criticism after another. Claiming that it was for his son’s own good, the father demanded that Danny work twice as hard as the other workers to prove himself to his father. In my opinion, Danny was no more than a slave to his father, yet Danny killed himself to live up to his father’s standards.

Today my client showed up with his entire left hand wrapped thickly with gauze. “Danny, what happened?” I asked.

Danny smiled and waved away my concern. “Ah, it’s nothin’. I just got hurt a few days ago.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His curly black hair was damp with sweat, and his ruddy cheeks were flushed from working outside in the cold all morning. To get to our appointments, Danny told his father that he was taking a business class. He’d never have let his father know that he was going to therapy. “Therapy is for sissies,” the father had told Danny.

I eyed Danny’s hand. “That looks serious.”

“Nah. I cut myself with an electric saw. Just a nick really. My dad had me wrap it up, and I went to the ER after my shift.”

“What time did this happen?”

“First thing in the morning. Can you believe it? What a way to start of the day, huh?”

“And you usually work from six in the morning until four thirty in the afternoon?”

Danny nodded as he looked at his bandaged hand.

“So your father wouldn’t let you go to the emergency room for what? Eight hours?”

Danny nodded again. “I needed fourteen stitches.” He hung his head. “But I wanted him to know that I could tough it out. That I’m the son he always wanted. And it’s not like it didn’t stop bleeding or anything. I wrapped it myself and it was fine.” He laughed softly. “It’s nothing new, though. I get hurt all the time. You know, when I was a kid, there were two bullies who lived up the block from us. One time they beat the crap out of me. I was ten, and these kids just pummeled me. For no reason whatsoever. Just because they were assholes. And they thought I was a loser. I mean, I was a scrawny, funny- looking kid, but I never did anything to them. The older one broke my cheekbone, he hit me so hard.”

I never would have guessed that Danny had ever been less than the strapping, handsome man who sat in front of me. I wished that I could sic him on those bullies today. “What was your father’s response when you came home so injured?”

“He smacked me on the back of the head and told me it would make me a man.” Danny paused. “And he said I better not cry or he’d finish what the kids started.”

“Oh, Danny.”

“When my Dad went out later that afternoon, my mother took me to the hospital. But I didn’t cry once.” He forced a smile. “When I was healing and all black- and-blue, my dad would point out my bruises to his friends and act all proud of me. Like I was worthy of being his son because I’d been in a fight. Not that I’d done much fighting back, but he didn’t know that. Look, I’m making it sound worse than it was. My dad really wants the best for me. And he’s right that I need to be motivated. I can be really lazy, and I need to be pushed sometimes. He wants me to be big-time, you know? Take over his company one day.”

It took all of my willpower to control my breathing. I hated hearing stories like Danny’s, which were all too common. I wanted Danny to quit his job and move far away from the father he’d been stuck with, but it was important to help him start making decisions for himself and eventually to realize on his own that his father was abusive. My client’s pattern of driving himself to the ground to impress his father had to end. As Danny continued to talk, I took notes, in part to be able to review them later and in part to keep busy and distance myself as I listened to yet more examples of his father’s destructive behavior. To continue to do clinical work, I’d have to learn to tolerate hearing painful stories, but so far, I found the experience almost overwhelming.

By the time I got off work, I was drained and depressed. What’s more, I was ashamed. Listening to my clients had reminded me that there were much worse things in life than a broken heart. Unlike some of my clients, I had a wonderful, loving family and close friends. Still, I had to acknowledge that even with a healthy upbringing and a stable family system, I had a right to feel upset about Josh. The experts, including the professor who taught my class on attachment, would agree that I was mourning the loss of a relationship and needed to grieve.

It was pitch-black when I got back to my condo. I cursed November’s early sunsets. The dark seemed to exacerbate depression and make bad moods worse. I briefly considered investing in some sort of bright light to shine on my face; my breakup had probably given me a case of seasonal affective disorder. I let myself in the back door and dropped my notepad on the coffee table. I hadn’t yet typed up today’s client notes and was hoping to have time to complete the task after the recipe-testing dinner party. In fact, because of client confidentiality, I was probably supposed to have left the notes in my office, but I’d wanted to get home as quickly as possible to get ready for Kyle, Adrianna, and Owen. Cooking would be fun and, especially after the day I’d had, my spirits needed lifting

Danny’s situation was still hanging over me. When I’d talked to my supervisor about him, she’d reminded me that change happens slowly. Even though it was obvious to me that Danny needed to stand up to his father and make decisions for himself, it would take time before he was ready. She reminded me that some cases were inevitably more gut-wrenching than others: for every eye-rolling Alison, there would be a Danny. I was impatient, though, and the urge to rescue him was powerful.

I fed Gato and Inga, and gave them some cuddles before reviewing the dishes we’d be making tonight. I had two of Digger’s recipes, the one for stromboli and another for pork tenderloin with cranberry glaze, smoked bacon mashed potatoes, and celery root slaw. I’d also chosen a few other recipes from Kyle’s research: a pan-seared swordfish with butternut squash risotto, a ragout of Brussels sprouts and wild mushrooms, and a dessert called aloha fruit salad. I’d chosen the salad because Owen, whose cooking skills were more than limited, could help to prepare it without having the opportunity to burn anything. Adrianna and I were solid cooks, and Kyle could presumably hold his own in the kitchen. The combination of dishes was strange, but they wouldn’t all be grouped together in the cookbook as a suggested menu, which we’d have to keep in mind when tasting them.

I started the stromboli dough, which had to rise for at least an hour. Kyle arrived just as I was setting it in a bowl. He waved at me though the glass window on the back door, and I yelled for him to let himself in. When I smiled and held up my dough-covered hands, he smiled back. Good. Maybe things between us wouldn’t be horribly awkward. For all I knew, he’d even appreciated my enthusiastic, if clumsy, attempt at romance. Tonight could be a romantic evening for all of us. Two couples in the kitchen, whipping up delicious food, maybe sipping some wine…

Contemplating the possibilities, I struggled to push the Josh situation to the back of my mind. Amazingly, I hadn’t told Adrianna about seeing Josh. Since Ade and I always told each other everything, usually as soon as possible and at great length, it was very unlike me not to have immediately called her up after the emotional reunion. On this occasion, however, I just hadn’t wanted to deal with my feelings about Josh, and a big two-hour talk with Ade about my turbulent emotions and the implications of seeing him would only have made the mess more real. The new Chloe was forging ahead!