Chapter 10
“Imagine there was no ‘should’—what would actually work for you?”
I can see the wheels turning for Shauna, taking my unexpected question in, even as her wife, Cassie, blinks back at me, unsure.
I’ve found that most often in couples therapy, there’s one pusher and one watcher. Usually one person insisted on coming, then made the appointment, then is the one with a lot of thoughts and feelings that they spill out in the first half dozen sessions or so. Often the other person is just as off kilter, but doesn’t (or can’t yet) articulate it.
That’s how it’s been with Cassie and Shauna. They’re empty nesters, and Cassie’s the one who insisted on starting therapy. She’d shared right from the first session how Shauna didn’t help around the house; Shauna didn’t give affection; Shauna spent too much time on her phone; Shauna didn’t want to retire even though she and Cassie had agreed on it.
Shauna acknowledged every time that she should do more, pay attention more, give more. But she didn’t know how.
And that’s how today started too. It’s my last session of the day, so everyone’s already exhausted, and right off the bat, as usual, Cassie barreled in with “Shauna should’ve been on the call with me last night because then she’d know all the details instead of me having to relay them.”
Maybe it’s Ari rubbing off on me (although that’s a little frightening) or maybe it’s all my frustration with Eli nagging at me (something I haven’t been able to get off my mind), but instead of starting as we normally do, I think everyone needs a reset.
So I ask. I ask her to imagine there is no “should.”
At first Shauna’s a foal on unsteady legs, not quite trusting the question to carry her through. “Cassie’s not being unreasonable ...,” she says quietly. “I did tell her I would do that ...”
“If Cassie wasn’t speaking first,” I prod, “what would you want ? Not what you should do. But if you could . If you could do what you want, what would it be?”
I can see the moment the thought takes a leap. Cassie’s not ready for it, but I am. After weeks of sessions, that one question is going to make it all tumble out.
And it really, really does.
Shauna turns and faces Cassie. “I don’t care if the house has flowers or if we decorate for holidays—so why should I have to do it? I never was affectionate—why should I have to be all of a sudden now that the kids aren’t there to give that to you? I’m relishing the quiet of the kids out of the house—why are you taking that personally? I don’t want to retire—why do I have to?” She turns back to me. “It’s not personal. It’s not aimed at hurting Cassie. It’s just me.”
It’s like watching Dorothy walking into Technicolor Oz. We just had to reveal the possibilities. The permission to chip away at “woulds” and “shoulds” has made space for “could.”
After that tumble, inevitably, there’s a lot of crying. A fair amount of hugging. And for once, Cassie doing the listening. The whole rest of the session is a doozy. Shauna’s words are messy and unprepared and rapid fire, and there’s a lot to parse. But it’s undeniably a breakthrough.
Now, I’m still a realist. I don’t think Cassie’s going to instantly stop all the nagging. I don’t think Shauna is suddenly going to stop ever tuning out. But it feels like real progress.
A reminder that we all can benefit from listening.
I walk out with that duality I often feel at the end of a workday—elated and drained. It’s counterintuitive after sitting all day and mostly listening to people talking, and yet I frequently leave my office as wound up and jazzed up as if I’d spent the day running on a hamster wheel. But I think silence can sometimes be our most active space. We often talk without thinking, but real listening takes work. It’s active in a way I’m not when I’m physically moving but mentally spaced out in a song or a daydream. It’s exhausting but deeply satisfying.
That’s what my job is—little sweeps at the pebbles in our way, until one day, hopefully, the path is clear enough that we can walk without stumbling. That’s what today’s session with Cassie and Shauna really felt like.
And in this moment, I realize what I want most is to text J about it.
I’ve been hesitating to reach out to him again over the last few days after that first burst of texts. While he said not to be a stranger, I didn’t want to overstep. I was scared to overstep. I talked myself out of so many potential texts, overthinking whether it was something he’d find interesting or whether it would be too much. I didn’t want to push on the fragile newness of it all.
But I need to stop doubting my gut instinct. And I don’t want to doubt that he meant what he said, because he’s never given me any reason to. I picture my own voice saying back to me, Imagine there is no “should.”
And so I take out my phone.
Nora: Do you ever finish editing something and step back and think “wow, I did a great job there”?
J: If I answer “yes,” does that make me conceited?
Nora: No! I ask because I’m feeling happy with how things went with some clients today, and I wondered if that same feeling translates to your job. So if you’re conceited then I guess I am too.
J: Nah, I know you’re not conceited, just based on your writing. You’re like the person who would actually help out in an exit row in a plane emergency and somehow still stay calm about it.
Nora: I think the very definition of being in the exit row is that you agree to help out.
J: See! You saying that is exactly what I mean. Just because someone agrees doesn’t mean they actually do it.
J: Come on, don’t you think most exit-row people are just looking for the legroom, and then when the plane actually goes into the ocean, they’ll be the first ones jumping out?
Nora: I’ve never even considered that as a possibility.
J: You’re never going to be able to look at people on a plane the same again.
J: Sorry? (Not sorry?)
I’m grinning at my phone, but I’m jarred back to reality (and realize I should probably not walk and text at the same time) when I hear a voice call my name.
“Nora! Share the joke, please.”
I look up and see Kwan laughing at my walking/texting/grinning while sitting at a table outside the coffee shop around the corner from our building. Lucy is curled up at his feet, as though she’s a small cat and not a forty-something-pound dog. He’s got a drink that looks like it’s more whipped cream than coffee, and a deck of cards is dealt out in front of him, along with some poker chips. There are also cards waiting in front of the empty chair across from him, so whoever was there seems to have gotten up.
“Do you think people in an exit row would actually help in an emergency, or are they just there for the legroom?” I ask him, hoping to get another opinion.
“I think it’s given to frequent fliers as a perk, so I’m not guessing anyone is factoring in helping out,” he says definitively. He laughs again at the scowl that’s overtaken my face, and it takes him a few seconds to realize I was serious. “What, you were expecting everyone to be as nice as you?”
“Oh, she really is the nicest!” I hear behind me, just as two hands sharply come down onto my shoulders.
I swivel my head and see Eli, grinning mischievously behind me. This is who Kwan is playing cards with? Come on . He’s just desperate to wriggle his way into everyone’s good graces.
“Hi, Eli,” I say, attempting to take all exasperation out of my voice and probably failing miserably. I take a step back, because—loath as I am to admit it—his nearness jars me, especially since the image of him in his towel is now unhelpfully flashing through my mind. His physicality always seems to throw me off, and I hate that I now have an even more arresting image to accompany it.
But Eli clearly doesn’t notice, because he sits back down in his chair, across from Kwan, and pulls up his cards again. “Ready for me to beat you handily?” he asks, ignoring me and restarting the game.
Kwan looks back up. “I was having a bad day,” he explains, while he and Eli throw in chips and turn over cards without saying another word to each other. It seems like they’re playing some version of poker. I can see Eli’s whole hand since I’m standing behind him, and I fight the urge to whisper what he’s holding to Kwan.
But once the chips are in, Kwan looks up at me again. “My daughter was going to come up this weekend, but now she’s too busy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say genuinely. As a widower who lives alone, Kwan is always counting the days until he can go to Baltimore to see his only child or excited for her to come visit. “It’s hard when plans fall through like that.”
He nods while throwing in another chip and laying down a card. “I ran into Eli as I was coming out to walk Lucy. Perceptive kid.” He raises his eyebrows at Eli, who shrugs the impending compliment off by staring at his cards even more intently. “He said he wanted someone to play poker with, but I think he could tell I was a bit bummed.”
“You’re underestimating my desire to take your money,” Eli drolls.
“I wouldn’t bet against Kwan, though,” I say, wanting to defend him. “He plays pool with my best friend a lot, and those two are ruthless together.”
“Yeah,” Kwan chimes in, “I could hustle you in pool much better than cards.”
“Well, thank goodness we’re playing cards,” Eli says with a smirk. I can’t help but notice this smirk is a friendlier version than the one he gives to me, more mischief and less irritation embedded in it.
Kwan puts his cards down with a smug look at his hand, which includes three jacks. “Not ‘thank goodness’ for you!” he says, breaking into a belly laugh that shakes the table. The glee is glowing from his face. For being such a softie sweetheart, Kwan really is a treacherous competitor. I’ve seen him with Dane at the pool hall, and you’d think they were in a blood feud based on how seriously they both take it.
My eyes flick to Eli’s cards, and I realize he actually has Kwan beat—three queens. But before I can even make a noise, Eli folds.
“You got me,” he says, miming disappointment.
I’m frozen watching Eli. Kwan notices nothing as he merrily gathers up all the chips while Eli quietly shuffles the deck again. He’s not hamming it up, but he’s not hyping Kwan’s win either. Did he not see his own cards?
Not possible.
He let Kwan win. Subtly. Without fanfare. I would’ve expected any moves to win over the neighbors would be overt—hammering in his memories of his grandmother or buying people’s affection with treats. Letting them think they won a game of cards would fit right into that tactic.
But I can’t help but admit that this isn’t that; this isn’t about winning over or scoring points. This is a dollop of kindness.
It’s strange to realize this abrasive man has a tender spot.
It’s hidden under all those layers of confidence and surety, but it’s impossible not to see now that he’s accidentally shown his hand both literally and figuratively.
Before I can delve into the pit that that thought has created in my stomach, my phone buzzes. I look down, hoping to see another text from J, but instead it’s a text from my mother.
Tina: Emergency!!! I need you to call me!
With any other person, I’d immediately scramble to pick up my phone, but with my mother I know it’s probably nothing, so I can take a second to say goodbye. I lean down and first pet Lucy, who looks up at me contentedly.
“I’m off home,” I say to Kwan. “If you need anything this weekend, I’m around. Hope your streak continues.”
I look over at Eli to see if his expression betrays anything, but he’s clearly good enough at poker to not let on that anything’s amiss.
Kwan pats my arm. “You’re sweet, Nora. Maybe Lucy and I will come for a walk with you and George on Saturday or Sunday.”
“That’d be fun,” I say with a smile. I turn to Eli. “See you later,” I mumble.
“Looking forward to seeing you on the roof on Tuesday,” he says pointedly with that smirk he seems to reserve only for me, erasing whatever momentary goodwill I’d begrudgingly let seep in.
I can feel my jaw tighten, and I take a deep breath. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
I walk away before I can say anything I might regret.
It’s annoying to have accidentally witnessed his little act that borders on altruism. Even though I know everyone is more than their surface—my work couldn’t possibly let me forget it—sometimes it’s easier to view someone through the single dimension you want to keep them tethered to.
But before that thought can worm its way in, my phone rings.
“Nora!” my mom says, breathless. “I think my new fish tank is broken, and I’m afraid all my fish are going to die.”
I pop my headphones into my ears so I can take out my keys as I approach my building. “Why do you think it’s broken?” I ask, knowing the simplest question will probably turn into the most complicated when it comes to my mother.
“It’s making some gurgling noise,” she replies. “And one of the Waldos keeps staring at it .”
“Tan-and-black Waldo?” I ask.
“Yeah!” she says with amazement, as though picking out the most likely fish starer is a magical ability.
“He likes to watch stuff,” I mention. “I wouldn’t read anything into it.”
I open my own door to George standing there, like a gremlin who knows exactly when I’m going to be home. It would startle me if it wasn’t so frequent. I reach down to give him a pet.
“I just can tell something’s wrong. The fish are anxious. Waldo’s anxious. I need you to come look at it.”
“Waldo is fine,” I say, and George tilts his head at the name, like an accusation because I shouldn’t be speaking any other dog’s name in his presence. “And I don’t think fish can get anxious?”
“What about the gurgling?”
“Is there a manual of some kind for the tank?” I ask. “A YouTube video you can watch? A help desk phone number?”
“Oh, that’s an excellent idea,” she says spacily, as though calling her daughter is the first line of defense for fish tanks and any other solutions are a brilliant but unknowable alchemy.
“I’m sure there’s a warranty,” I add.
“Oh, you know I don’t save paperwork,” she says with an air of disdain.
“Thankfully most things are digital at this point.”
“I appreciate you finding it. You’re the best, Nora.”
“I—” I’m about to say no but cut myself off before I even get started. What’s the point? It’ll be faster to just look up the damn thing for her rather than having her call me fifteen times about it. “Send me a text with the make and model of the tank, and I’ll try to find the manuals online.”
“Where would the make and model be?”
“On the back of the tank?” I guess, now apparently fully pulled into this nonsense. I grab George a little green treat, and he seems to forgive me for mentioning Waldo.
“I’ll find it and send it to you,” she replies.
“Great. And don’t forget to look over that paperwork before Shabbat dinner, okay?” If I have her on the phone, might as well remind her.
“Oh, can you print it out again?” she replies, distracted now by, I imagine, her ridiculous, theoretically faulty fish tank.
“I left it on your desk in a manila folder,” I remind her. “It should be right there.”
“I think your dad was organizing,” she says. “Anyway, gotta run because I think Waldo wants to go out. I’ll send you a photo of the fish tank later, okay?”
“Okay,” I sigh. At least maybe if she gets distracted by Waldo, she’ll forget about this fish tank.
“Bye, love!” she says and hangs up before I can even respond.
I think about Cassie and Shauna and resign myself to adding a note to my to-do list to print out the bank forms again. I have to remind myself that getting my parents in a better financial position is just clearing the path. She’s not going to change, but I can get us all to a better place. I’ve got to get us there.
My phone dings again, and I expect to see photos of the fish tank, but instead it’s the most wonderful opposite of that.
J: By the way, I attempted to google stats on exit-row help, because I can’t help myself.
J: Unfortunately there’s nothing concrete, but I did find an article from the Journal of Air Law and Commerce (which, yes, is a real thing that I bet only extremely cool people read), and it’s called “Taking Exit Row Seating Seriously,” and it’s all about why we shouldn’t let exit rows become a perk. And I think it’s right up your alley hahaha.
J: However I did stumble across my new favorite statistic, which is that almost half of all men believe they could land a plane in an emergency (vs. 20% of women), and that’s the most wild, unearned bravado I’ve ever heard. So the journey was worth it.
I smile, grateful that at least this attempt to make a path is turning out even more delightful than I could have expected.