Chapter 28
But of course, the first wisps of a plan are quickly derailed by a text I wake up to early Tuesday morning.
J: I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I can meet up when you’re in London. My mum fell and broke her hip, and it’s been quite a crazy week dealing with that and also arguing with my father about her care (a long story for another time). I’m not sure I’m in a position right now to steal away even for a coffee. I hope that’s okay, and I’m sorry to cancel on everything so last minute—I really am. Maybe someday soon there’ll be another opportunity for us to meet in person.
I try not to deflate. After all, I probably should’ve guessed that Eli wouldn’t have time for even the party when he’s knee deep in arriving home to family drama. But I can’t help but feel disappointed that the easiest avenue for me to tell him has been derailed.
I also notice I have a text from my mother asking me to call her “when I’m done hanging out with my less cute and much more judgmental neighbors.”
I choose to ignore that particular drama for now.
I spend the day slogging through, trying to focus on my patients. But after the few days I’ve had, I’m grateful I’m seeing Ari in the evening.
It’s a doozy catching her up on everything, and she listens intently as I tell my winding tale. When I’m done, she leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers and tapping her chin. She looks so deep in thought I don’t want to bother her.
“One of the things I like most about having therapists as patients is that I don’t have to explain too much when I get theoretical,” she finally says, and I’m surprised that that’s where she’s going after so much information was dumped on her. But she keeps talking. “I’ve always liked Carl Rogers and the idea of self-concept. Who we imagine we are creates a kind of feedback loop into how we see ourselves, and that then influences who we actually are.”
“You’re into self-actualization?” I say with skepticism. I can’t imagine opinionated Ari thinking anyone ever actually reaches their full potential. I’d have thought she and I were in that same sort of camp of believing that we’re all always works in progress, muddling through the best we can.
“Oh god no,” she says with a laugh. “But I like some parts of the self-concept idea. I take the more skeptical view that striving for that is often what makes us act how we act in front of various people. The role we’re playing with a particular person can really influence our behavior. So this is such a fascinating concept to me—two versions of the same person being so different.”
“Happy my misfortune is interesting for you,” I crack, and she laughs, as though this is a delightful experiment she’s getting to undertake.
“Are you familiar with Rogers’s theory of unconditional positive regard?”
“Radical acceptance without judgment,” I say, nodding. “I’m not sure I buy that that kind of therapy is actually helpful to anyone.”
“I agree,” she says, almost looking impressed, like she’s the teacher and I’m the pupil. I wonder if Ari could’ve been a mentor to me if I didn’t, ya know, need her as a therapist. “I’ve always sort of thought it was impossible outside of a clinical setting, but I kind of wonder if that’s what you and Eli were giving each other when writing back and forth. You had an intimacy due to the columns that allowed a sort of unusual freedom. I think one of the many reasons he was so different in reality—besides, of course, the vastly different contexts of your interactions—is that that kind of perfect acceptance is impossible to maintain when faced with actual humanity.”
“I never assumed he was perfect,” I counter, a little annoyed at myself for feeling immediately defensive.
But Ari waves my statement away, like that wasn’t even an option. “Of course not. I think the thing that I find interesting about this whole situation is that you almost were able to perform a kind of clinical test without even knowing it. You sort of disproved Rogers’s theory, because that kind of environment can’t stand up to a true two-sided relationship. It’s why radical acceptance could work in a therapy session, but no one in the patient’s actual life could ever live up to that—and then how disappointing, right? You don’t want your therapist to be the person who accepts you the most.”
“Glad I could be such an interesting case study in outdated therapy theories,” I mumble, and at that she smirks again, like she’s enjoying the volleys.
“I always liked Albert Ellis more,” she says, and I snort. Of course she’d like the therapist most known for rationality. I guess this is why we get along so well. “Focus on the moment. Take immediate action,” she says with a sly smile. “Do you know what my favorite quote of his is?” I shake my head. “He said, ‘Neurosis is just a high-class word for whining.’”
I give a surprised chuckle, and she just smiles.
“Look,” she says, “the point I’m making is people are capable of change. And I think Eli’s been trying to, just as you have. But that unconditional positive regard has to be given to yourself, first. Work on accepting yourself . He’s been searching for that, too, and I think you’ve probably helped him through your writing. By having this anonymous bubble, you’ve been able to give each other a kind of support that’s incredibly healing and motivating. That’s been good, but it can’t ever be enough because it’s not rooted in reality. So now it’s time to get to the scarier bit. And you’re ready. You’ve known for quite some time you needed to move your life forward and stop being so afraid of failure. Do what you want for a change.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have time right now,” I say, throwing out the easiest excuse. “He’s made that pretty clear.”
She shakes her head, like I’m willfully ignoring her point. “He’s scared of losing you—both versions of you, even if he doesn’t realize yet they’re the same person—and probably also of asking too much. Figure out how to not let him push you away. I know you can do it.”
The conversation plays in my head on a loop. I think about it as I try to fall asleep on Tuesday; as I tiredly get ready the next morning; as the time ticks away on Wednesday with clients. Ari’s words are churning through my mind and building me up.
I’m still thinking about it in the car on the way to the airport when I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. I pull it out, irrationally hoping it’s Eli.
But of course it’s my mother. I should’ve known ignoring her wouldn’t make her go away. I have to stop hiding from everything in my life and start being more deliberate. And I guess it needs to start here.
“I text you on a Tuesday and you can’t bother to reply? It’s Wednesday night!” she says, the pout coming through in her voice.
“I had patients and then I had to get ready for my trip.”
“What trip?”
I sigh. I’ve told her at least fifteen times. “To London.”
“Oh, for the blog.”
“The column, Mom. In a paper.”
“Well, your little friend was extremely rude to me,” she says, changing the subject to the one thing I know she’s been dying to say. I’d love to hear her call Tom my “little friend” to his face. I can only imagine what he’d have to say to that.
But I need to fight my own battles. I’m grateful to have friends flanking me, but I need to have this conversation myself.
“He wasn’t wrong, Mom,” I say, bracing for the argument I’ve been avoiding.
“Of course he’s wrong. We’re your parents. We raised you. It’s not a big deal for you to help us.”
“I’m happy to help you; of course I am,” I say truthfully. “But you can’t make messes with the explicit belief that I’ll just clean them up. It’s not fair to me.”
“That’s not—”
“It is, though.” I barrel forward before I lose my nerve. “I told you not to pull out tiles on your own. I even suggested a few contractors who could help you. I’ve also handled all the financial-planning stuff. But you don’t want my help; you just want to do whatever you want without having to deal with any consequences.”
“But, sweetie, we appreciate everything you do to help,” she coos, as though she can soften the issue at hand through flattery, like one of the Waldos coming to lick her face after they’ve torn apart a cushion.
“I love you, and I’m here for you, but you guys are also capable of thinking through some of your own issues. This isn’t something I can help you with,” I say definitively.
“Since you’re not in your apartment this weekend, can your father and I stay there?” she asks. “And the Waldos, of course.”
I sigh. She’s not listening. She’s probably never going to listen. But I can change my own behavior. I’m going to take Ari’s advice and start right here with doing what I want. I have to stop ignoring and obfuscating. I need to set my own boundaries.
“No, Mom,” I say. “I’m happy to send you the names of the contractors again so they can fix the tile properly. But I need to focus on my trip. I love you, okay?”
She’s silent for a moment. This isn’t ever the way our conversations go, and I’m wondering if she has to reorient some wiring in her brain that’s used to being turned off while she hands things over to me.
“Okay, honey,” she finally says, acquiescing in the face of an unknown variable. “If that’s how you feel.”
“It is. Thanks for understanding. I love you, and I’ll see you when I’m back from London.”
There’s so much racing through my mind that I find it hard to even attempt to sleep on the flight. It’s all churning in my gut as I deplane, jet lagged and loopy, Thursday morning into Heathrow.
I breeze through the airport, quickly moving through customs and then easily onto the Heathrow Express into central London. (Way to make New York and our terrible hour-long subway ride from the airport look extra janky. Thanks, London.) From the moment I land, every conversation around me reminds me of Eli, British voices and mannerisms surrounding my senses.
It makes me miss him.
I’d replied to Eli’s WhatsApp message on Tuesday and said I totally understood. I didn’t hear from him again—in either form of texting.
But it doesn’t mean I should stay silent too. If I’m doing what’s right for me, doesn’t that include letting other people make their own choices instead of me burdening myself to make them preemptively? If I can say no to my mother, at the very least I can say hello to Eli. He doesn’t have to respond, but I can give him the chance to know I’m thinking about him.
Fuck it, I’m going to text him. I don’t have to say I’m in London, and I certainly don’t have to mention Eleonora, but there’s no reason to not simply check in and say I’m thinking of him.
Nora: Hope everything’s been okay with your mom. Just wanted to say hi.
My phone pings so quickly it’s almost startling.
Eli: You’re up early.
Shit. My lack of sleep made me foggy enough that I didn’t even think about that. It’s ten in the morning here, but that makes it five at home. But before I can berate myself for being a weirdo, he texts again.
Eli: Scratch that.
Eli: I think the response a normal person would be going for is “thank you.”
I smile as the train lurches to a stop.
Nora: Who said anything about normal?
Eli: Definitely not the guy who behaved like a total chump and has been mooning around wishing he could text you after dramatically declaring “no new friends.”
Nora: Well, luckily I’d already declared us friends, so I’m fully ignoring that.
Eli: Never thought I’d be so grateful for a woman telling me I’m ignorable.
I step off the train, a grin on my face, and into the vaulted openness of Paddington Station, wrought iron arches beckoning me up escalators and spitting me out into the bustle of the street.
There’s some sun poking through the clouds as I make my way and walk to my hotel. I’ve always loved the dramatic coexistence of central London—stucco and brick-fronted mews row houses from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries are buttressed against glass office towers that have sprung up in recent decades. The hustle, diversity, languages, and verve remind me so much of New York, but the winding streets and low-rise historic features jutting out of every corner give it its own incomparable touch.
I’m grateful for the Look Left written on every crosswalk as small cars, curved black cabs, and red double-decker buses zip around, fighting traffic together.
I turn onto a small cobbled road and see the white-columned-portico row building that houses the hotel I’ve been booked in. The lobby is all polished marble and dark wood, velvet couches lining the bay windows. It’s all somehow cozy and stuffy at the same time, that uniquely British brand of elegance. Although it does have the modern touch of letting me check in from my phone, so I instantly pad my way to my room and crash onto the fluffy bed, ready to get a nap in before this afternoon’s lunch. But back to texting first.
Nora: I’m glad. And I really do hope everything’s going okay.
Eli: Better now.
Eli: At least until I’m changing a bedpan again.
I send a heart emoji and leave it at that. I set an alarm for an hour and doze off, sleeping better knowing that Eli’s not lost to me completely, even if I have no idea how to deal with whatever comes next.