A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“I just don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to pick up and move myself and everything I own across the country. It makes no sense on one level. Why would I want to do that?”

“Because that’s what you have to do in order to get what you want,” Claire said.

“Maybe not. Maybe that’s not what I want. Maybe I should stay in New York or go home to Washington. Maybe I should just live in Washington for my whole life.”

“You’ve got too much personality for Washington,” Claire said.

Jody looked at Claire as if to ask, How do you know? Claire smiled. There was something about Jody that made it impossible for Claire to play it completely straight. She couldn’t; she didn’t want to. She glanced at Jody and tried to figure out what Jody was really like, outside the office, with her friends, with men.

The relationship between patient and therapist was supposed to be a micro-moment, a mirror of the patient’s interaction with the world at large. The therapist was supposed to be the authority figure, the good mother, the perfect listener, the best kind of friend — the one who never talked about herself. The dynamics were so heavily invested with potential meaning that it was impossible for the relationship to mirror anything except itself.

“So,” Claire said, “in these next weeks, now that you’re not working as much, we can really get down to it.”

Jody looked at her blankly.

“You don’t have as many restrictions on your time. It’ll make things easier.”

“I guess,” Jody said.

There was a certain doubt on Jody’s part, a lack of trust. What was she afraid of — the process, the attachment, her own potential? Or Claire? Claire looked at Jody and Jody looked away. The richness of grilled American cheese rose in Claire’s throat. No, Jody shouldn’t be afraid of Claire. Claire loved her. Claire caught herself and repeated the thought more slowly: I love Jody. I do, she told herself, as though there were some part of herself she had to convince.

“I’ve never told you this,” Claire said, “but I’m very glad I met you.”

Jody looked at her like she was crazy.

“I enjoy you,” Claire went on. “You’re lovable.”

Jody shrugged.

They were quiet.

“How about tomorrow at ten-thirty?” Claire asked. “That way you can sleep late.”

“I guess,” Jody said, getting up and heading for the door.

Maybe she shouldn’t have done it; maybe she should have kept her mouth closed. What kind of trouble was she asking for? “See you tomorrow,” Claire whispered softly, sweetly.

“Yeah, right,” Jody said, pulling the door closed behind her.

“T he ring. Where’s the ring?” Jody said, looking at Ellen’s well-manicured but unadorned fingers. They were in line outside an undersized, overpopular, and not really very good restaurant in Soho, waiting for the privilege to have what would probably be their last brunch together for a long time.

“Which would you be more inclined to accept? One: I gave it back to Rob with a note saying he was too good for me and that I was a fool. Or two: I sold it to buy myself a really great suit at The Baby Grows Up.”

“What’s behind door number three?” Jody asked.

“Traded it for drinks and drugs at a bar I can’t remember the name of. Tried to use it as a miniature cock ring and it shattered into a thousand pieces.”

A guy in black leather shorts standing in front of them turned around, stared for a second, then pretended to be looking down the street.

“Hard choices,” Jody said. “I pick number two.”

“You don’t think much of me, do you? I’m hurt, genuinely hurt.”

“Are there any parties of one?” the maitre d’ asked, stepping out onto the sidewalk. “Parties of one?”

“One’s not exactly a party, is it?” Ellen said.

“What happened?” Jody asked.

“We had a fight. It was supposed to be one of those romantic strolls down by the water. He said I should stop acting like a whore and settle down. I pulled the ring off and threw it in the water.” Ellen smiled. “Or so he thinks.” She tapped her purse. “He called me a worthless bitch and tried to hit me. I ducked. And that was that.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jody said.

Ellen shrugged, and wiped away a little runny makeup. “So, what’s with you? How’s the shrink?”

“She told me she was glad we’d met. ‘You’re very lovable,’” Jody said, imitating Claire’s voice.

“You know, the odds of having a really good shrink are about the same as having a perfect childhood. Something’s wrong,” Ellen said. “Either it’s her or you.”

“Or both.” Jody didn’t want to say things that Ellen could use as proof of the strangeness of the relationship, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to tell someone. The stuff with Claire was just too good, too interesting and confusing, to keep to herself.

Without warning, Jody grabbed Ellen and pulled her under the restaurant’s awning. “Up the street,” she said, nodding north, “looking in the window. I think it’s her.” Jody hid behind Ellen and peeked out. “I swear, I think it is.”

“Which one?” Ellen asked, excited, as though at any second she’d race over and ask for an autograph.

“Tall, blond, hair up, sunglasses. Is it? I can’t look.”

“This way, please, ladies,” the maitre d’ said, holding open the door. As they went in, Jody turned around and took a second look. She couldn’t be sure.

“You should’ve gone over and said hi,” Ellen said, as they were seated at a tiny table next to the kitchen.

“We would’ve lost our place in line,” Jody said. “Besides, she’s not exactly the kind of person you meet and say, wow, she’s really nice. She’s a little stiff, maybe more than a little.”

“I’m not convinced that blond business is real,” Ellen said.

“Usually she wears it in a bun.”

“In a bun!” Ellen said. “Just like Betty Crocker! What, wrapped in a cinnamon swirl? ‘We’re out of time for today — I have to take my hair out of the oven. See you next week, we’ll make braided breadsticks.’” Ellen started laughing hysterically, and people at other tables looked over. Jody was afraid the waiter would come by and tell them to keep it down, or leave.

“Sometimes she keeps me late,” Jody whispered. “She makes me stay overtime.”

“Detention?” Ellen said. “No way. They’re supposed to throw you out. Bing! Hour’s up, you’re outta here.”

The waiter put a basket of bread down on the table and handed them each a menu.

“Great,” Ellen said. “Do you take credit cards?”

The man nodded. “We take all kinds.”

“Except with Claire,” Jody said. “If you’re in the middle of something, if the next victim’s not in the waiting room, she lets you stay. Five, ten minutes, sometimes a whole extra session.”

“Oh my God,” Ellen said slowly, staring at Jody. “Don’t you see? She’s brainwashing you. That’s it. She’s indoctrinating you into a cult. Who knows when you’ll stay the whole afternoon. She’ll take you out for tea and poison you. My poor little pretty,” Ellen said, throwing her head back and laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. Jody was petrified. “There’s nothing that can be done to save you, it’s already too late.”

“Listen,” Jody said. “I know it’s different, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. In some ways things have changed since I started seeing her. I’m happier. She likes me, and that makes me feel good.”

“And what happens when you leave? All that goes out the window. You’re on your own, kiddo.”

“I doubt it. We’ll talk. I’ll visit.”