4. Helen
It’s with this same sense of gloom that I go to my appointment with Dr. Sandra the next morning. Her name is actually Dr. Fielding, but she’s not technically my psychologist, although she is a psychiatrist, who lets me talk about my problems problems in exchange for scones.
Let me explain.
Remember that Boston Catholic network I mentioned? One of the only reasons my parents agreed to let me move to Chicago was because of their contacts in the city. And yes, I’m aware that it’s absurd that an adult woman should need permission from her parents. My parents are friends through church with the Sullivans and the O’Malleys, and their sons—Quinn Sullivan and Dan O’Malley—live in Chicago with their respective wives and children. As also previously mentioned, they run a pretty impressive security operation, so my parents were convinced I’d be safe as long as Dan and Quinn kept an eye on me.
I knew Dan and Quinn growing up in Boston, but not well. They were family friends I knew mainly through my parents, too old to be in my group of friends but close enough that I idolized them from afar as part of the cool, handsome, older crowd. They knew me as a kid, an awkward teenager, a sister, and now as a laywoman. We are on the exchanging-Christmas-cards level of friendship but not the hang-out-at-a-weekend-BBQ tier.
So I was surprised how much Quinn—and to a lesser extent Dan, since he had moved back to Boston—took me under their wing when I moved to Chicago. Anything I’ve needed has been provided without question. When I showed up at my apartment for the first time, expecting to spend all morning moving in my boxes, I was met by professional movers who assured me they had everything covered and that I could go relax at a local nail salon, courtesy of Quinn. When I casually mentioned to my mother that my air conditioner was acting up one summer, I had a repairman show up to my house within the hour, his fee already paid.
And when my health insurance wouldn’t cover a therapist, I got a call from Dr. Sandra.
Dr. Sandra is red haired and beautiful, and has a friendly but no-nonsense demeanor that feels somehow softened by her spunky Texas drawl. She has a way of making you feel like you’re talking to a friend, but a friend who will absolutely not let you get away with any horse manure.
Dr. Sandra insists that I can’t pay her since she isn’t my psychologist or psychiatrist, just someone who happens to have a medical degree in psychiatry who meets with me regularly for homemade scones. At first I assumed Dan or Quinn must be subsidizing her fee, but now I’m not so sure. Along with genuinely acting like my friend, Dr. Sandra also seems completely fascinated with my transition out of the order, or my “no-sex cult” as she jokingly likes to call it.
After some gentle prodding in our first “nonsession,” I told her the specifics of my own predicament, surprised at how quickly it all came spilling out. Leaving my community, the path I’d always believed was my life’s calling, reentering the world and not quite knowing how to fit into it anymore. Oh, and the whole issue of being a virgin and trying to date for essentially the first time in my life. (I originally left out the details of having never had a boyfriend or been kissed, not wanting to seem like too much of a loser to Dr. Sandra, though that came out over time. She’s sneaky that way.)
Dr. Sandra listened quietly on that first visit—which I assumed would be our only meeting, a onetime pro bono advice session from a friend of a friend—then recommended that we continue to meet bi-monthly until I “found my footing.” I guessed this was essentially psychotherapy speak for “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” A one-off discussion was not going to cut it for this weirdo.
And now, after almost two years, I’m continuing to see Dr. Sandra, though now only once a month. It’s helpful to have someone to check in with and talk to about my progress. I have Matilda and Nina, and to a lesser extent, my parents, but it’s nice to have someone who doesn’t have a horse in the race, so to speak. Dr. Sandra doesn’t care if I become a sister again or never go back to church or start calling myself Madonna. (Well, that last one might raise at least one well-manicured eyebrow of concern.) She’s simply here to listen.
I spot Dr. Sandra now, waiting on the park bench that’s our spot, unless it’s too cold outside—even by hardy Chicagoan standards. It’s bitterly cold today, as a matter of fact, but we’re both bundled up in hats and gloves and huge puffy coats that make my usual baggy sweaters seem practically skintight in comparison. Plus, I’ve brought along thermoses of my favorite Mexican hot chocolate, along with a flask of whisky in case Dr. Sandra wants to make them a little Irish, too.
Meeting outside is easier unless it’s snowing or gusting with ice-cold wind, since we don’t have to worry about anyone listening in too closely. When we used to regularly meet in a coffee shop, there was one guy who I’m pretty sure was following us so he could write a screenplay about me, until Dr. Sandra got him talking about himself and made him cry in under half an hour. It was impressive, honestly, and a little frightening.
“Helen,” she says today by way of greeting, standing to give me a hug. “Cute shoes. Any sex yet?”
I realize this might sound like a totally inappropriate way for even a pretend-therapist to talk to their pretend-patient, but we’ve been meeting long enough by now that it just makes me laugh. I throw up my hands. “Yep. I’m all cured. Have a good life.”
“Honey, just you wait. There’s a whole bucket of therapy waiting for you after you have sex the first time. It’s not a magic cure-all, I’m afraid.” She’s smiling, but her eyes are shrewd, studying me carefully, as we settle ourselves under an afghan—one of hers, not mine. I’m still working on my first hat; a blanket would be like my Everest. “What’s going on? You seem…unsettled.”
If Dr. Sandra hadn’t become a counselor, she could have had a career as a psychic, she’s so attuned to reading people’s moods. I sigh. “I spoke to my parents last night.”
“I see.”
That’s therapist-speak for “continue,” so I do. “My mother just made one of her comments, and it kind of sent me into a spiral.”
“What kind of comment?”
“About my life choices. How much of a disappointment I am, etcetera.”
Dr. Sandra studies me. “Did she actually say that, or is that what you inferred?”
“Inferred,” I admit, a little sulkily. “But in my defense, my mother is not one to speak her mind. Not if she can speak in circles around it, anyway. Which really isn’t fair, since I’m the good one.”
“The good one?” Dr. Sandra echoes.
I take in a bracing breath. I’ve mentioned Dean to her before, but never gone into depth on it. “You know my brother, Dean? Well, we’re the classic sibling opposites. I’m the good, rule-following oldest child, he’s the wild, rule-breaking baby of the family.”
That’s maybe underselling it a bit. Dean has been in and out of jail, in and out of rehab. All things considered, leaving my order pales in comparison.
“It’s interesting that you call yourself the good one. That’s kind of a loaded word, isn’t it? And it comes with a lot of pressure, too.”
I shrug, though her words land hard. “I guess I always felt like I had to be good. That expectation was made very clear for me, but Dean’s never been held up to the same standard.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I’m not really sure.” Actually, I have a bit of an idea, but it’s something I’m too scared to say out loud, even to Dr. Sandra. Instead, I deflect. “Maybe because boys will be boys, and girls will be nuns?”
Dr. Sandra obviously isn’t buying it, but she doesn’t push either. “You know, the word ‘good’ can have a lot of meanings. It can be a reflection on people’s morality, or their worth. But like any value judgment, it doesn’t have one fixed meaning. It’s subjective. Maybe instead of feeling trapped by your parents’ expectations of what ‘good’ means, you should ask yourself what it would mean to you—to be a ‘good’ person.”
I blink at her as I take in the words, really process them. What would it mean to me, really, to decide for myself what “good” means? How freeing might that be, to separate that from what anyone else expects from me? Groaning at the weight of it, I put my face into my gloved hands. “Why do you have to be so wise and insightful?”
The corner of Dr. Sandra’s mouth twitches, just a little. She winks at me. “So that you’ll keep bringing me scones.”
I take a deep breath, considering Dr. Sandra’s point more seriously. “You’re saying there isn’t just one way to be good? And I get to decide for myself what being a good person means?”
Dr. Sandra grins, popping a bite of blueberry scone into her mouth. “Wow, it sounds even better coming from you. I am good at this.”
I take a bite of my own chocolate chip confection, pondering. “It’s not like I’m even doing anything bad. I’m boring, by most people’s standards. I go to work, I come home. I knit.” It was Dr. Sandra, actually, who’d gotten me into knitting. I’m nowhere near as good as her, but I’m improving, I think. Not enough for my creations to be seen in public, but improving nonetheless. “When I really want to let my hair down, I have a glass of wine. It’s like my mom thinks I’m out carousing with random dudes all the time.” Realizing how judgmental that sounds, I correct, “Which she would disapprove of. Not me.”
“Are you ever out ‘carousing with random dudes’?”
A sigh. “No.”
“What about nonrandom dudes?”
I level her with a glare. “Do you think I’d be here talking about my parents if I’d finally gotten some action?”
“What’s the problem? Do you believe your mother’s version of you—is that what’s preventing you from making a connection?”
“Maybe.” I shake my head, realizing it’s not right, not fully. “No, that’s not it. It’s more like—there’s this disconnect. Like, I look in the mirror and I see someone who looks fine. I mean, not to be rude, but I know much uglier people than me who’ve had sex, so that can’t be the only issue, right?”
“Of course not. You’re a snack.” Another ghost of a smile from Dr. Sandra. “What’s the issue, then?” More gently she asks, “Are you afraid of sex?”
“I don’t think so.” Realizing how tentative this sounds, I laugh nervously. “I like the idea of it. I like imagining it. I can write fiction about other people doing it.”
A moment passes as Dr. Sandra considers this. “Have you ever looked into the asexuality spectrum?”
I nod. “Yeah. I thought about that. But I don’t think that’s me. I want to have sex.” That is maybe the understatement of the century. “And I know I could just get sex, in theory, but it’s more than that. I want a romantic connection. It’s like…it’s like I started out on the same spot as everyone else, but with every life experience they took another step further and further away from me, until suddenly I looked up and everyone around me was miles away. And I know I should catch up, but how?”
Silence. Then Dr. Sandra sighs. “Well. I guess you start by taking it one step at a time. No one’s expecting you to run a marathon on your first time out the door. But you aren’t going to get anywhere by standing still.”