18. Then
Then: December 1st
T oday’s Sunday, which normally means going to the early service at our church, but Mom slept in again. I guess all those hours she’d spent in the kitchen on Thanksgiving was too much for her. Since then, every morning she stays in bed until at least ten, sometimes later. It’s almost eleven, and she still hasn’t gotten out of bed. We missed both church services today. I thought her new meds were working. I thought she was sleeping better. And that’s when a new thought hits me: what if she isn’t taking her meds at all?
I’m passing the time reading in the living room while keeping an eye on my mom’s door, waiting for her to emerge. Eventually Dad folds up the newspaper he is reading in the chair and clears his throat before asking if I want to go for a drive.
Dad tries to take me out to practice driving every weekend. It’s something I’ve started looking forward to because it’s one of the only things we do together, just the two of us. He hasn’t mentioned it, but I think he feels the same way.
Unlike Mom, Dad prefers to drive with the radio either completely off or at the lowest volume possible. It’s been snowing since we started, but we are breaking soon for a late lunch. Dad and I make small talk as usual. He’s in the passenger seat with his eyes on the road straight ahead. Snow covers the ground as I pause at a red light in town.
“Hey, Dad?” I start. He glances over at me for a split second then goes back to staring straight ahead.
His head slightly bobs in response, “Yes, Sweet P?”
“Um, how are you and Mom doing?” This is a topic I never bring up. Things seem fine-ish, other than Mom sleeping a lot again. I don’t want to stir the waters, but it's always there on the tip of my tongue. Mom is always around when I’m with Dad, unless we’re doing driving practice, and I’m never brave enough to ask in front of her. I feel like she’d give an entirely different answer than Dad would, and I want to hear the truth from him.
Dad is always straight and honest with me. Not that Mom isn’t honest, but she’s, well, her. And unfortunately, I don’t always trust her judgment.
He fidgets for a moment with his beard. Typically in the winter he grows it out. I’m not sure if he just likes the look of it or it provides extra warmth, but either way he won’t be shaving it any time soon.
“Oh, um, we are actually doing okay.”
Short and to the point. The light turns green, and I ease onto the gas as I turn left onto a side street. We are headed to our favorite deli in town called Sam’s Sammies (clever, I know). They have the best bread for their sandwiches and their soup is always delicious. Every time I try a different soup it’s suddenly my new favorite.
When Dad doesn’t elaborate I press on. “So… does that mean you two aren’t getting a divorce?” Mom had seemed so distraught th at day, but neither of them have brought it up since, and as their daughter, I feel like I have a right to know. If things are fine between them, great—but if not, if Dad were to take the house… where would Mom go? Surely, he wouldn’t do that to her. To us.
He clears his throat, clearly not expecting the conversation to continue. “No, we are not separating. Um… I’m trying to get your mom to agree to come to counseling, but haven’t had much luck.”
Counseling? As in a shrink? What for? I know that Mom has been trying new medications, but talking about going to someone for therapy is entirely new and foreign to me.
“You’re seeing a shrink?” I ask, confusion in my tone.
“Yes…” There’s a slight hesitation in his voice I can’t quite pinpoint. He clears his throat and continues, “And she’s not a shrink, she’s a therapist. She’s actually really great, I think you’d like her.”
This is the first I’m hearing about any of this. I guess it isn’t exactly my business, but he’s the one that brought it up.
“Why?” For some reason I can’t fathom my dad talking to another stranger about his personal life. He doesn’t even talk to me or Mom about anything remotely private, why in the world would he be meeting with a stranger? It doesn’t make sense.
Unless… no. No, no. Absolutely not.
He said she. She. And whoever she is, Dad thinks she’s great.
I slam the brakes so hard he gasps, and a car from somewhere behind us honks at me, loudly. I don’t care. My head is spinning. My vision starts to blur. Dad is yelling something at me, but I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anything.
Someone is screaming. Is it me? Is it Dad? Is it someone else? I need to get out of here, but there’s nowhere to escape. I am trapped. Cars are still honking and someone is still screaming at me, maybe it is Dad. I turn to him and yell back.
“Are you sleeping with your therapist?” I yell.
His eyes go wide in shock. They transform in a matter of seconds. Shock. Anger. Hurt. Fear. But nothing to show that what I said isn’t true.
He opens his mouth slowly to say something, but he doesn’t have to. His eyes already told me everything. I can’t believe it. I’m going to be sick to my stomach.
Horns are blaring, my brain is screaming, and my dad sits there and says nothing as usual, too stunned to move or do anything to remedy this horrific situation. I yank off my seatbelt and throw open my door right into traffic, right into the chaos of everything.
I am numb. I force my body to move, but it can’t. I stand in the middle of the street, freezing cold and in a panic. I’m hyperventilating but don’t know how to stop it. My head is pounding louder than my heart. Tears freeze along my cheeks, and I silently beg God to let my lungs freeze up too.
Because if I weren’t breathing I wouldn’t be feeling this way. I wouldn’t have just found out that my dad, my dad, is having an affair with his therapist . Someone that is supposed to help you with your problems, not destroy an entire family. And Mom has no idea. Mom…
Suddenly something dry and warm wraps around me and pulls me out of the street. It feels like a blanket, but I’m still numb. I’m being lifted into the air and placed down into a seat. It’s still warm from where someone was sitting. I hear a buckle click and doors slam from all directions. The car begins to move again, but I do not.
I am incapable of feeling or thinking anything right now. I close my eyes, and I succumb to the black.