A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” Claire said.

“We’re having it. This has been going on far too long.”

“You’re not my boss. I’m the therapist. I should know what I’m doing without your help.”

“Do you, Claire? Do you even have a clue?”

She went into the bathroom, slamming the door. She brushed her teeth, flossed, then opened the door and shook her finger at Sam. “I’m seeing her, and will continue to see her until either she or I decide that it’s no longer necessary. You,” she said, pointing, “are fucking jealous.” She slammed the bathroom door again and got into the shower. “P.S.,” she said when she was out, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on her pantyhose. “My eight-fifteen is a fifty-five-year-old woman who tried to kill herself last week.”

In the lobby, at ten after eight, Claire ran into the architect and his sister. “My sister, Joan,” he said, introducing them. “She’s a social worker, so she has no sense of geometry, of how things should be. I thought she might like your place.” Claire nodded. Joan laughed.

“My husband’s upstairs, he’ll show you around. I have a patient.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Therapist,” Claire said, pushing herself against the front door.

“How interesting,” Joan said.

Claire waved goodbye and stepped out. Bea was always early and would be waiting for her in the hallway outside the office. On a corner, at a red light, Claire tried to put up her hair; it was still damp, hanging in wet noodles, tickling her neck. Without a mirror, she had no idea of how she looked. It made her more nervous.

“Good morning, Bea,” Claire said as she stepped off the elevator. She slipped her key into the lock and opened the office door. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right,” Bea said, closing the door behind her.

“Are there any side effects from the antidepressants?” Claire asked, glancing at her answering machine. The counter flashed two messages; she was curious to know who they were from.

“My mouth is dry,” Bea said, her lips smacking together with the soft clicking sound one attributes to the heavily medicated. “But the doctor told me it’s normal. The body adjusts. Herbert called last night. He wants to take me out on a date. I do something stupid and all of a sudden he’s sorry.”

“Will you go?”

“Don’t know. I spent time in a mental ward because of him. A nice dinner out won’t fix that.”

She seemed less sure of herself than before. As she talked about Herbert, Claire considered whether it was a loss of confidence that made her seem emotionally absent or if it was the medication. That sometimes happened with psychotropics — people just disappeared. She wondered if she should be taking some herself.

When the session was nearly over, Claire asked, “How would you feel about you and Herbert coming to see me together in addition to our regular meetings?”

“You’d do that?”

Claire nodded.

“Oh, thank you,” Bea said. “I know I’m not supposed to say anything personal, but I bet your family is so proud of you. What I’d give to have such a smart, talented daughter.”

A fucking idiot, Claire thought. If Bea had any sense, she’d be angry with Claire; she’d blame Claire for the suicide attempt and get a new shrink. Instead she was taking the passive route, praising the devil.

“Tuesday evening at six,” Claire said, ignoring Bea’s compliments. The buzzer went off and Claire pushed the button to let Jody into the waiting room.

“I’ll have him here.” Standing up, Bea swayed a little on her feet. “A little dizzy,” she said. “The drugs.”

“See you Tuesday,” Claire said, walking her to the door.

“I didn’t know you did geriatric work,” Jody said after Bea was gone. “What happened to your hair — you start radiation or something?”

Claire raised her hand to the falling bun. “Not funny,” she said, trying to push things back in place. She closed the office door and took her usual seat. Jody looked sicker and thinner; her jeans puckered at the waist, gathered tightly by a thick brown belt. On her forearms was something that looked like a thick, raw rash.

“We have to have a serious talk,” Claire said. “I’ve been thinking that it might be best if you saw someone else. I don’t seem to be helping you anymore.” By now Claire was looking at the carpet. “Things have gotten beyond the point where I’m being useful.”

When Claire looked up, Jody was white, wordless, grinding her teeth against the inside of her cheek.

“We could still be involved in some way. We’d have to work it out. But I won’t abandon you.”

Claire fought the urge to confess that it was all her fault, that she’d done a terrible, crazy thing.

“I do think it might be useful for you to discuss the situation with someone else. I’ve made some calls,” Claire added, lying.

“How dare you,” Jody said.

“I’m trying to help. You need help.”

“ You need help,” Jody said.

Claire didn’t answer. She was trying to pull back, to maintain some composure.

Jody pulled her video camera out of a bag, trained it on Claire, and started taping.

“Put the camera down,” Claire said.

Jody kept filming.

“Please put the camera down. It’s an intrusion. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Why are you doing this?” Claire waved her hand in front of the camera. “Is this an attempt to gain control?”

Jody still didn’t respond. Claire sat back in her chair, her left knee over her right and her arms in front of her chest.

“We’re not going to be able to continue until you put the camera away,” Claire said and then was silent, staring into the lens.

Jody continued to film her for a few minutes. Though acutely uncomfortable, Claire tried not to move or give any indication of her misery.

Finally, Jody lowered the camera. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she said.

“I want to do what’s best for you, Jody. I’m not helping you. Another therapist might be better equipped.”

“Something’s wrong,” Jody said, shaking her head. “Something’s very wrong. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but you’re driving me crazy. You’re killing me. Why don’t you just take a fucking gun, shoot me, and get it over with?”

In all her thoughts, in all her fantasies, it had never occurred to Claire that a daughter could turn on a mother, that a daughter could become a woman’s worst enemy.

The phone rang and Claire grabbed it. “Hello,” she said. “Hello.”

“It’s me,” Sam said excitedly. “We’re selling the apartment. They offered two-ninety-five, and I said yes. The realtor’s not in on the deal, so it’s all ours. You call the agent in Connecticut and offer two-eighty-five and call me back.”

“I’m with a patient,” Claire said flatly, trying not to give anything away, not to Sam, not to Jody.

“I’m here,” Sam said. “Call me when it’s over.”

“I will,” Claire said, hanging up.

Jody was standing.

“We’re not out of time,” Claire said. “The session isn’t over.”

“I’m done,” Jody said.

“Please sit down. Let’s make a time for tomorrow.”

Jody didn’t respond.

“Twelve o’clock. I have a break afterwards, so we can go out for lunch.”

“Bye,” Jody said, opening the door.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Claire said. Waiting until Jody was gone, she frantically flipped through her address book for the real estate agent’s number.

P ots and pans. In January Jody had made a trip to Macy’s, a rare outing. She’d bought pots and pans, thinking that eating properly was part of getting well. For months they sat shiny and unused on top of the stove. Now Jody stood in the center of her apartment and banged the eight-inch frying pan against her body with all the vim and vigor of a bell ringer. Slam for wanting, and slam for now expecting, slam, Claire to help her; for being stupid enough to let down her defenses, the punishment would be severe; she’d have to suffer. She smashed the pan into her ribs, testing the depth of her anger. She fixed the video camera to a tripod, turned the camera on herself, and recorded the howling and wailing, the clash of aluminum and copper against skin and bone. Only when her chest made a strange thin whistle as she breathed and her skin was too tender to touch, only when she was stupid with pain, did she quit. She played the tape back; it came off like a PBS documentary on upper-middle-class white women’s tribal dancing. She watched herself beating herself and was sick. The pots and pans left deep bruises, injury, but no marks of their own. Jody liked that. No one could argue that she was doing it to be noticed.