Chapter 18 Now
Now
Dimple
Dimple’s jumper is pink today. A fuchsia, really.
It’s distracting. I want to tell her it’s distracting, but I know that normal people don’t do that.
That level of honesty is for people who live on the periphery and I very much want to be an in-the-thick-of-it everyday Jane.
The kind of wife and, one day, mother who hosts the social events of the season and who everyone says “God, isn’t she great? ” about.
I try not to let the desire for this overwhelm me.
For the unlikelihood of this to overwhelm me.
I try not to think of my useless fallopian tubes, my inevitably dwindling egg count.
I try not to think of how easy it seemed to be for my mother.
So easy, in fact, that neither Claire nor I had been planned in the first place.
And here I go, thinking about her again.
My mother. I try not to do that too often and have become quite accomplished at it over recent years.
But the worse I feel about myself, the more I feel her hostile ghost. And now Dimple is reopening the doorway to the cardboard box of memories I have of her tucked away in the recesses of my mind.
It’s painful, Dimple forcing me to pull back the heavy curtain of my trauma like this. I don’t like it. I want it to stop. And yet—
“You once told me you had a generally positive impression of your childhood.”
“Mmm.”
“I notice that you struggled in our last session.”
I shrug. “I suppose I did.”
She tilts her head, sighs. Today she wears her hair in loose curls and the longest strands only just about tickle the tops of her shoulders. “Are you just verbalizing your agreement with me for ease, or do you actually agree?”
I shift. “No, I agree. I mean…even though I’m estranged from my mother, I never really thought things were that bad back then.
I know they weren’t great, but I always supposed they were fine.
I guess I suppressed a lot.” I pause. “You asked me to talk about where the real difficulty started with her—my mother—and I started, but I—I clammed up. I froze, I know I did.”
“Why do you think that was?”
My sister’s screams echo in my ears and I feel my little bones clattering against hard wood.
“It’s just difficult to talk about,” I say.
Dimple’s mouth twists to one side in thought. It’s a strangely comforting gesture. I like it when I can tell that people are being careful, being considerate of me. It’s nice to be considered.
“What exactly is it that you want out of our sessions?”
This isn’t what I was expecting her to ask. I blink in surprise and rummage for words. “I—I thought we’ve been over this. I don’t want to hurt anyone again.”
“I’m going to ask you a challenging question, and you’ll have to forgive me in advance for the bluntness of it.” She pauses. “Are you sure that’s true?”
It’s like she’s taken the smooth palm of her hand and struck me with it. It stings. “Of course it’s true. Why do you think I’ve been coming here, pouring money down the drain, if it’s not true?”
She narrows her eyes and leans back in her chair. When she speaks again, there’s a gentle provocation in the high pitch of her register. “If someone had hurt your sister, badly, what would you want the outcome to be?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Just entertain me here for a moment. I know your relationship with your sister is important to you, and that you feel deeply bonded with her. There’s a fierce protectiveness and love there.”
“That’s true.”
She spreads her hands. “So, if, in theory, someone hurt her—badly—what would you hope would happen to that person?”
I’m beginning to understand the trap she’s laying for me, and I resent her for it.
“What would you hope would happen to that person?” she asks again.
I lick my teeth and pause.
“I would want them to hurt, too,” I say.
“Even if it means hurting them?”
The tree over her shoulder takes my attention for a moment. I need a second of Zen to compose myself.
“Even if it means hurting them,” I agree.
“So,” she says, seemingly satisfied, her elbows coming forward to rest on her knees, “I think it’s safe to say that you’re not here because you never want to hurt anyone again.”
“That’s an extreme example. That’s not fair.”
“I know,” she says, offering me a small smile. “I’m just trying to get us to address the root of things. To help you as you need to be helped. Everyone is capable of desiring violence. What exactly is it about your situation that needs to change?”
She’s right. She’s always right. “I need to be confident that I can control myself.”
“And how do you think we do that?”
“By unpacking where my lack of impulse control comes from.”
“And how do we do that?”
“By talking about my past.”
“And?”
“By talking about my mother.”
“And?”
“By talking about what my mother did to my dad.”