A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“My work,” Claire said. “I work very hard, and it makes me feel good.”

“Besides work. Tell me what you enjoy — the theater, eating out, sailing on weekends? There must be something.”

Claire shrugged. He was pissing her off again. Every time he did this, she swore she wouldn’t come back, and every time she made another appointment. It was humiliating to be constantly asked if she wanted another appointment; it was like being forced to get down on your knees and beg for more help. A normal therapist would suggest the next week at three, keeping the process going without constantly addressing the issue of needing help. Rosenblatt, she knew, did it to feed his ego.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Tell me again.”

Claire was glad she didn’t have to sleep with him. Fucking this guy would be hell. He’d do his thing, come, and then fall off snoring before his dick was even dry.

“I’m having a hard time with my children,” Claire said.

“Could it be because you don’t have any fun? You don’t play?”

Now Claire was getting really angry.

“Do you ever laugh?” Rosenblatt asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“When?”

“Whenever I see a new Woody Allen movie,” Claire said.

“You’re very defensive,” Rosenblatt said. “I could tell you to relax more, to try and enjoy yourself. But the real issue is why you don’t have fun. I suspect that you simply won’t allow yourself. That’s why you like your work so much. I know what you do for a living. It’s constant torture.”

“Then why don’t you stop?” Claire said, shifting in her chair.

“Why don’t you stop?” Rosenblatt asked. “Because you have to punish yourself. Because everything has to be taken so seriously. Because it would be wrong for you to enjoy anything.”

Claire shrugged. So Rosenblatt was right, big deal. So what? Most people didn’t have fun. She didn’t need to have fun. She liked being miserable. That was her fun.

“I’m right,” Rosenblatt said.

“Perhaps.”

“The question is, What horrible thing did you do? What made you so guilty that you’re not allowed to have any pleasure? What crime did you commit?”

Claire didn’t answer.

“We’re out of time. Would you like to come back again next week?”

“I’m afraid I’m pretty much tied up for the next few weeks,” Claire said.

“You’re afraid, that’s right. How about on the twentieth?” Rosenblatt asked. And then, before Claire had a chance to answer, he added, “I was thinking it might be useful for you to bring your son in with you. I’d like to meet him. No big deal. One session.”

Claire didn’t say anything. As much as the problem was Jake, she didn’t want to involve him in all this stuff, not yet.

“It would be helpful,” Rosenblatt said.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I have some Saturday hours. Why don’t we make an appointment for then. That way, he won’t miss school and you won’t be working.”

Claire scribbled the time and date into her little black book and stood to leave.

“A homework assignment,” Rosenblatt said. “Before you come in again, do something fun.”

T he session wasn’t going well. That happened sometimes. Jody wondered if there was a way to mathematically compute how often it went sour and why. Did men or women have more bad sessions? What were the demographics?

She was definitely coming down with something. When she swallowed, it felt like razor blades were shredding her throat — not a sensation that inspired her to be particularly chatty.

“You look tired,” Claire said.

Jody nodded. She’d been up half the night deciding to tell Michael that she’d only work part-time from now until she left for California. That way it would be easier to spend time with Claire. But there was something dangerous in her thinking, something that worried her. She remembered in eighth-grade gym class, during sex education, the teacher stood in front of them and talked about masturbation. “It’s not dangerous,” she said. “It’s not a bad thing, unless you start avoiding social activities in order to do it.” In other words, playing with yourself was a mini-perversion, a bad habit that, like having a drink before dinner, was basically all right as long as you kept it in check.

“Do you want to talk a little bit about your plans?”

“Not today,” Jody said. “I have a sore throat.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said that. Claire would think she was a hypochondriac. Oh, so you’re worried about going to L.A.? Well, have a sore throat, and if that’s not enough to stop you, what about chest pains or shortness of breath? Hey, I even have a little dizziness left from the last nut case, you want it?

“Do you have a fever?” Claire got up out of her chair and pressed her palm to Jody’s forehead. Jody tensed. Shrinks were not supposed to walk across the room and take their patients’ temperatures; they weren’t even supposed to believe in physical illness. According to almost any self-respecting shrinky-dink, even cancer was something you willed upon yourself.

“You look flushed‚” Claire said, moving her hand from Jody’s forehead to her cheek.

Jody hated it when people touched her. She hated it when near-strangers kissed her goodbye or hello, when her friends insisted she hug them. Everyone read her discomfort as a marker of immaturity, but in fact it was something more — a refusal to partake in false intimacy. She wished Claire would just keep her hands off her.

But Claire stood there for a minute or more with her hand on Jody’s face, looking worried.

“It’s fine,” Jody finally said.

“I think you’re coming down with something. Do you have a headache?” Claire went to her desk, rummaged around, and found some aspirin. “Here, I want you to take these,” she said, going out of the office into the bathroom and returning with a tiny cup of water. “Go on,” she said, and Jody was obligated to swallow the pills even though she really wanted to say “no thanks” and hand them back.

“Finish the water,” Claire said.

Jody swallowed the rest. “Do you believe in illness?” she asked.

“Do I believe in illness?” Claire asked. It was a standard shrink technique to repeat a question. Penny for your thoughts. Question for a question.

“Do you think people actually get sick as opposed to wanting to get sick or getting sick to avoid something?”

“Of course people get sick,” Claire said. “In fact, most people don’t admit they’re sick. Everyone used to say things were psychological in origin; but now, especially here in the city, between TB, AIDS, cancer, and who knows what, it’s pretty clear that we’re not all that crazy and repressed. There’s a lot of denial.”

“I was sick when I was a little kid,” Jody said. This was something she’d never discussed with anyone.

“What was wrong with you?” Claire asked.

Jody tapped the side of her head, “My ears,” she said. “I had surgery, even x-ray treatments. Any moment now I could get a brain tumor from all the radiation.” Jody smiled. “My earliest memories are medical.”

“What was the problem?”

“Don’t exactly know,” Jody said. “According to my mother, I was losing my hearing and they decided to shrink the tissues by x-raying them. See my teeth?” Jody rolled back her lip and flashed a row of gray teeth. “They didn’t know that if they give you tetracycline before your permanent teeth come in, they show up gray like this.” She flashed her teeth again. “It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if there hadn’t been another kid before me. According to Barbara, my parents got me to make them feel better after the kid died, and then I got sick and they freaked. It was too much. Nine years with one sick kid and then the new one turns out defective too.”