Chapter 12
“Have you ever been to a therapist, Mom?” I asked as I dished rice onto a plate.
“You think I need a therapist?”
Yes. “That’s not what I said. I’m just curious.”
“You know what they say about curiosity?”
“That it’s the precursor to discovery?”
“No, that it’s just a nice way to say nosiness.”
“I’ve never heard that one.” She’d probably made it up.
“I haven’t been to a therapist,” she said, for some reason deciding to answer my question after all. “Have you?”
Why hadn’t I anticipated her turning that question around on me?
But since I asked it, I had to answer. “No,” I said.
Because even though I had seen a therapist twice now, it didn’t count.
It turned out that couples therapy with someone you weren’t really a couple with did very little for your mental health.
I arranged her plate of food on the television tray in front of her. Then I dished up a plate for myself and poured a glass of wine.
“It’s rude to drink in front of someone who can’t drink,” Mom said. Her medication made alcohol off-limits.
“I know,” I said, and sat at the table in the kitchen instead of joining her on the couch in the living room. My shoulders were stiff, and I had a kink in my neck that I tried to work out as I sat. I was sure both were from lifting my mom into her various places throughout the day.
“Can you turn the TV on?” she asked.
“I think the remote is right next to you,” I said.
“It’s not,” she answered.
I stood and found the remote on the couch right next to her.
“Oh,” she said, taking it. “You should’ve put it on my right side. My left arm is injured.”
“I will next time.”
“What are we going to do about my car?” she asked as I sat back down. She turned the television on with the question, and it was loud.
“I’m dealing with the insurance,” I said. “Hopefully they’ll cut you a check, and we can get you a new one.”
“What?” she asked.
“Turn it down, Mom,” I said.
The volume changed very little as she pointed the remote at the TV. Then she looked at me expectantly.
“The insurance will take care of it,” I said.
“It’s totaled. Was that man drunk?”
“You hit him,” I said. On the freeway, going at least seventy. She changed into his lane without looking first. Or at least without seeing. She flipped, he flipped, they were both lucky to be alive.
“He wasn’t there. Then he was.”
“I know,” I said, because that was the story she’d told me many times. It wasn’t the story the other driver told, or the witnesses. “It was an accident. I’m glad you have good insurance.”
“This rice is crunchy,” she said.
I sighed. I wouldn’t know. I hadn’t been able to take a bite of my food yet. I did now. She was right. The rice was crunchy.
The space was like a big warehouse—all cement floors and exposed metal beams. In the center was a big boxing ring.
And around the edges were lines of punching bags of various shapes and sizes.
The boxing ring was empty, but several people were punching bags, and the noise echoed through the room along with voices and music.
I’d pulled my hair up into a ponytail, like I always did, and wore spandex shorts and an oversized T-shirt, which I rarely did.
My shoes were too clean, showing how little I used them.
At home I hadn’t had time to work out much in the last year or so, what with prepping to open a restaurant and then actually opening that restaurant.
I was surprised I had the foresight to bring my shoes at all, but I remembered thinking that I would probably need an outlet here, like running.
I did need an outlet. That’s why I’d come today.
Tara had sent me the address, and I’d realized that punching something might actually be good for me.
Help me. Definitely more than the fake therapy sessions had.
I hadn’t spotted Elijah yet in my scan of the room. He wasn’t at the punching bags. He and his preppy polo shirts and loafers were nowhere to be seen. He had told me ten, right? I checked my watch, it was five minutes until ten.
“Sutton,” a jovial voice said from behind me. I turned to see Michael walking in the glass front door, Tara trailing behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“Something you two should be doing,” I said.
He tilted his head. “Boxing?”
“Working out?” Tara asked.
“No, therapy homework.”
He laughed, then with that same laughter in his voice said, “She still hasn’t figured it out? I’m so shocked.”
I narrowed my eyes at his sarcasm. Now was when I was supposed to tell them I was finished. That I didn’t want to do this anymore. Why did his smug look and Tara’s lowered-eyed reaction make me say, “We still have two more sessions,” instead?
Tara smiled at me. “Yes, we do. Don’t count us out yet.”
He shrugged like he didn’t think two weeks was going to make any difference. I waited to feel terrible that I had recommitted to this thing. It wasn’t like me to go back and forth like this, but I didn’t feel bad. It felt good that I was seeing this through. That was like me.
I looked past him. “Where is Elijah?”
“Is he not here?” He moved toward the back corner of the large room, where I could now see a door leading to a windowed office. “Eli!”
Tara fell in step beside me. “Hey, thanks for doing two more sessions. It really means a lot to me.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, because that was true. It had been nice to see her these last few weeks. Something I hadn’t expected when I came back. She always had a way of making me feel lighter.
“Is this really therapy homework?” she asked.
“It is.”
“The therapist told you to box?” she asked, confused.
“She told me to support Elijah in his dreams,” I said.
“And he told you this was his dream?”
“Is it not?” I asked.
“I mean … I didn’t think so … it could be, I guess.”
“If Michael won’t agree to therapy, maybe at the very least you can convince him to do the homework we’re assigned: five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact a day and supporting each other in some way.”
“Maybe I can tell him my dream is therapy.”
I laughed. “Yes, do that.”
Through the windows, Elijah’s head poked up from behind a computer as we approached.
“Do you have any stories about Tara?” Michael asked, holding the office door open for us. “From high school?”
“Please, no,” Tara said.
“I’m sure you’ve heard them all,” I said.
She was an average student who liked to have fun and party.
I didn’t go to many parties, where any good stories I could tell probably occurred.
The stories I had about her were not ones I wanted to share: How she talked me through breakdowns about my dad.
How she invited me to sleep over when she could tell I was struggling with my mom.
How we binged television shows and made food boards to get our minds off problems. How she quit piano because I wasn’t a good friend.
“You kept me grounded,” Tara said.
“I did?”
She nodded.
Michael turned to Elijah. “Your fiancée is here.”
“Funny,” Elijah said, but then he smiled in my direction. “You actually came.”
“I told you I would,” I said.
“And I’m learning that you are good with follow-through.”
“Stop,” I said.
“You’re not good with follow-through?”
“No, stop learning things.”
“But I thought you were quitting,” he said.
“I’m not,” I spat out. “Two more sessions.”
He raised his brows. “Really?”
Tara laughed. “Because she’s the best friend ever.” She pulled me into a side hug.
I hadn’t been the best friend ever, at least not all the time and especially not lately.
Michael shuffled some papers on the desk, then held a stack in the air. “We just came by to pick up the forms for the tournament sponsors.”
“Tournament?” I asked.
“Yeah, they’re having a big tournament here next month. It’s so much work,” Tara said. “You should come.”
“Yeah, maybe, if I’m still here.”
“It was good to see you,” she said, heading for the door.
“You too,” I said, as both she and Michael left, papers in hand.
Elijah clicked a few keys on his keyboard and then brushed his hands together like he was finished with whatever he was working on. A pile of papers labeled as score sheets sat on the desk nearest to me. “You guys still score matches by hand?”
“Yes, and it’s a pain in my ass. It will be ten times more painful for the tournament. Adding and crunching and grouping contestants. Don’t get me started.”
I almost said that an iPad for each judge and a shared Excel program would take half that pain away.
Or even better, someone had probably already developed an app for this.
That was very likely. But I was staying out of this.
By next month, we’d be done with our therapy wager and I would most likely be gone.
So instead, I said, “I will not get you started.”
“So, you’re not quitting, after all, huh?” That annoying little gleam was back in his eyes.
“Don’t,” I said. “It’s for Tara and no other reason.”
“Didn’t think there was another reason.” He came out from behind the desk. “Don’t you look adorable.”
“Do your compliments always sound like they should be directed at small animals or children?”
“You’re in a good mood today,” he said, obviously meaning the opposite. “You don’t want to be here?”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to be home, that was for sure.
My mom was on one this morning. She’d spilled her juice again, and this time I’d seen her do it and it seemed purposeful.
Her eyes meeting the glass seconds before the back of her hand did.
I tried to tell myself that maybe she was having double vision, was dizzy, but I wasn’t sure anymore.
“I won’t be offended if you want to leave. I can even truthfully tell Dr. Franklin that you came and saw the place.”
I took a deep breath. “No, I … I said I would.” My eyes caught on his stack of scoring sheets again. “Unless you’re busy with tournament prep. I can leave.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, I am, but I need a break.”
Were both of us unwilling to be the one to say we didn’t want to do this? Or maybe we were both unwilling to say that we really did. “I’m here. Let’s get this over with.”
“Not exactly enthusiastic participation, but participation.”
I gave a breathy chuckle. “It’s all I have today.”
“I’ll take it.”
I eyed the boxing ring as we walked out of the office. “Am I going in there?”
“Only if you want to, but that’s normally a session two or three thing.”
“I don’t want to.” I didn’t need to be on display for the whole gym. There were at least half a dozen people working out.
“Have you ever punched a bag before?”
“No,” I said.
“Then let’s get you punching things.”