A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

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No relationship is more charged than that between a psychotherapist and her patient — unless it is the relationship between a mother and her daughter. This disturbing literary thriller explores what happens when the line between those relationships blurs.
Jody Goodman enters psychotherapy with questions of career and love on her mind. But Claire Roth, her therapist, keeps changing the focus of their sessions to Jody's parentage — Jody was adopted; Claire gave up a baby for adoption who would now be exactly Jody's age. As the two women become increasingly involved, speculation turns into certainty, fantasy into fixation. Until suddenly it is no longer clear just which of them needs the other more — or with more terrifying consequences.

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“We’ll get a big hairy dog, and every night you can walk it around the neighborhood. It’ll get rid of your love handles.”

“And my love life. So, how many million bucks is it all going to cost? That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?”

“Less than a larger apartment.”

“How much?”

“They’re asking three-thirty, but the agent says they’ll take less. I figured we’d offer two-ninety.”

“And how much can we get for the apartment?”

“Three, maybe three-fifteen. But if we come down a little, we’ll probably find a buyer right away.”

“And how much do we have in the bank?”

“Sam, we’re not paying cash.”

“If you want me to take the idea seriously, we have to talk seriously.”

“You’re intimidating me.” Claire pulled onto the shoulder next to the driveway. Suddenly she didn’t want Sam to see the house. She felt like he wanted to take it away from her.

“This is it?” Sam asked.

Claire started crying.

“So pull in already.”

She put the car in park.

“Honey, go into the driveway and let’s look around. We came all the way out here. It’s fine if you’ve changed your mind, but we might as well have a look, don’t you think?”

Now Claire was really crying — over Sam, the house, Jody, everything. She wished there was no one and nothing.

“Is it unlocked?” Sam asked, opening the car door. “Do you want to come with me?”

Claire shook her head no, and he got out of the car and walked down the long driveway. She watched him try the front door, then pull a credit card from his wallet and pop the lock open. Once inside, he turned and waved at Claire, giving her the thumbs-up sign, and then disappeared. Claire was still strapped in — the seat belt cutting against her neck — thinking of ways she could gain control over her life. Get rid of Sam, the kids, and the apartment. Drop Jody. Get her own place uptown — or even out of town, it didn’t matter.

After Sam had been gone for twenty minutes, Claire started to worry. An escapee might have camped out in the empty house, or Sam could’ve fallen down the stairs that led to the unfinished basement, slamming his head against the cement floor at the bottom. She got out of the car, went to the front door, and rang the bell. “Sam?” she called. Hearing no answer, she pushed the door open and stepped inside the house for the first time. “Sam, are you here?”

“Upstairs,” he hollered.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

Relieved, she went through the dining room into the kitchen. It was aqua all right, but pretty — the sort of look a decorator in Manhattan might charge a fortune to accomplish.

“Come upstairs!” Sam yelled.

Claire slowly went up the dark stairs. “Where are you?”

“In our bedroom,” he said.

Claire started down the hall toward the back of the house.

“Wrong way,” he said, suddenly behind her. “I like this one better. It looks out onto the front yard.” She turned back toward him, stopping to stick her head into the bathroom; the tub was cracked in half.

In the small front bedroom, Sam pulled Claire toward him. “Is this what you want? Is this your fantasy?”

She nodded.

“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t have whatever you want?”

Claire didn’t answer.

He ran his hand up Claire’s leg, under her skirt. “I think we should try it out,” he said, curling his fingers inside the elastic band of her underwear.

“Sam, I don’t know,” she said, pushing him away.

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asked, unzipping his pants.

“There’s no furniture.” Claire crossed her arms and stood awkwardly in the center of the room, her underwear caught halfway down her thighs, the lining of her skirt rubbing against her bare ass.

When Sam reached out, uncrossed her arms, and began unbuttoning her blouse, she didn’t resist.

“The bathroom tub’s cracked in half,” she said. “We’d probably need a new one.”

“Big enough to fuck in,” Sam said, unhooking her bra and rubbing his face against her breasts, sliding his hand under her skirt and pulling her underwear the rest of the way down. “And a lock on our door.”

Naked, their flesh stuck to the varnished floorboards. As they flip-flopped from top to bottom, positioning and repositioning themselves, their skin made thick peeling sounds. Later, in the car on the way home, it would be red and raw, their hips and buttocks covered with abrasions not unlike burns; they would shift uncomfortably in their seats. But at the time, in the moment, they hadn’t noticed.

When they walked into the apartment at five, Frecia was furious. “I don’t know where you’ve been,” she said, her accent heavy with anger. “But as much as I love these children, I got a life of my own.”

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “An emergency came up.”

“Emergency my eye,” Frecia said, looking at their satisfied faces.

“Here’s cab money,” Claire said, pulling out all the cash in her wallet and handing it over without bothering to count. “Did anyone call?” she asked.

“A girl called Jody. She said she was checking on your big emergency.”

“Anyone else?”

“Your friend Naomi,” she said. “She wanted to know if selling her husband and children was illegal.” Frecia turned to Sam. “And your office, mister.”

Claire went into the bedroom to call Jody. The answering machine clicked on; she hung up without leaving a message.

Sam came up behind her and tickled her neck. “I suppose I should call the office,” he said.

Claire handed him the phone. “I’m going for a walk,” she said. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Why don’t you order some Chinese for dinner. Adam likes lemon chicken.”

Sam nodded as he spoke to his secretary.

“See you,” Claire said, putting on her coat and sliding her tote bag over her shoulder — in it was her purse, the camera, all kinds of stuff. In the elevator going down, she decided it was too heavy. She pulled out her purse and the camera and left the rest with the doorman.

Buttoning her coat, she walked west across Eighth Street, crossing Sixth Avenue, heading down Christopher and West Fourth, then turned left onto Perry Street. She pulled her scarf close. Checking the numbers on the brownstones, she made her way to 63. She had it memorized: Jody Goodman, 63 Perry Street, Apartment 4B, New York, New York 10014. The building was an old brick-and-limestone fortress; the entrance was a wooden double door, three steps up, columns on either side. The door swung open and a young woman stepped out, startling her.

“Are you looking for something?”

“No,” Claire said, stepping back.

The woman walked off, and Claire caught the door just before it closed. She stepped into the anteroom, checking the names and numbers on the mailboxes. 4B GOODMAN. The lock was broken, the flap hanging open, the mail nearly falling out. What was she doing there? Did she want to show Jody the pictures of the house, to explain that now, finally, they would be a family. Someone came out the inside door and Claire slipped in. Taking the elevator to the fourth floor, she stood outside the apartment as though she expected Jody to open the door and ask why it had taken her so long to get there. The hallway was deserted. Claire reached into her pocket and comforted herself by rubbing her fingers back and forth across the smooth gloss of the photographs. She stood outside the apartment far longer than anyone should just stand anywhere; was that how burglars and rapists worked? She pressed her ear to the wall, heard nothing, then rang the bell. Claire thought that perhaps Jody was inside, knew Claire was there, and was purposely ignoring her. “Jody,” she called, knocking on the door. “It’s me, Claire. Open up.” She thought of hurling herself against the door over and over again, screaming, demanding to be let in. Do you know who I am? And if she huffed and puffed and knocked her way in, what would she do then?

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