22
Wendy has a notepad on her lap. I find my eyes drifting toward it, wondering what she’s written about me so far. Neurotic? Fixated on a dude? Boring? Winning smile and killer balayage?
“So, what’s going on, Penny?” Wendy asks with a smile.
My mind is a blank. “Ah, nothing much. I’m feeling pretty good.”
“Okay, great. Anything you want to talk about today?”
“Um, sure… You know the actor Lucas Webb? Well, he fell through the hole in my wall and broke his jaw.”
Her eyebrows fly into her hairline, and her mouth hangs slack for just a moment before she collects herself. Part of me feels like I’m winning at therapy. If I can shock a professional…
I tell her all about the mishap with Lucas and Jack, which leads to the disclosure that Jack is not, in fact, with Yelena.
Which leads to talking about the warmth that has infused every look Jack and I have shared in the days since Jack fought the sheet.
Which leads to talk about the work on his case.
“Will you tell him you’ve developed feelings for him?”
“I mean… I don’t know that I’d say feelings? I like him. He makes me laugh. I feel comfortable around him. Except for the sexy-time tension.”
“Sexy-time—”
“So, yes, I like him. A lot. And I’m attracted to him. He’s got these, like, deep dimple things when he smiles that make me want to…um. Yeah. But ‘feelings’ is a strong word.”
“Okay—”
“I could tell him, but what if he just wants a hookup? What if he’s not interested in a relationship? That would hurt. Or, worse, what if he’s interested in a relationship, and I have to tell him I’m not ready for anything because I’m trying to fix my damage with you?”
“I wouldn’t say fixing—”
“Defusing a super-sad bomb?”
“N-no. I wouldn’t phrase it that way, either. But I will say it’s admirable that you want to work on your mental health.”
My lip twists. “Tell that to my mom.”
Wendy pauses and then writes something on her notepad. “You’ve mentioned her twice in the context of not approving of therapy. Her approval is important to you.”
Apprehension tingles along my scalp. It wasn’t a question, but I answer. “Yeah. Doesn’t everyone want their parents’ approval?”
“What happens when she disapproves?” Wendy asks, pen poised over her pad.
I bite at the inside of my cheek, and my gaze locks on that pen. “Nothing. She just wouldn’t be happy. I feel bad when she’s unhappy.”
“You feel responsible for her feelings?”
“She’s my mom.” She writes and I hurry to add, “But this is all not a big deal, truly. Usually it’s…” I shrug, the words not coming, my ribs feeling too small for my frame. “It’s fine. She’s got strong opinions.”
“What happens if you don’t go along with those opinions?”
“Nothing. I mean occasionally, she’ll take matters in her own hands.”
“Do you have an example of that?”
“Like with my visit recently, she kind of tricked me into going to look at a haunted house and then pressured me into a coffee date with a realtor ghost, so I can move back home…” I clock Wendy’s confusion and explain in more detail, watching the groove between her eyes get deeper and deeper.
“Are you aware that you can love someone and still make choices that disappoint them?”
I open my mouth to defend Mom…and close it.
My throat is tight. I understand Wendy doesn’t approve of Mom’s antics.
I don’t approve either! But she’s my mom.
I remain silent, bracing for her next question, sure I’ve just unlocked a new facial expression.
But Wendy surprises me by changing the subject.
“Can I ask: you’ve mentioned your mother, friends, coworkers, your neighbor… You haven’t mentioned a father. Was one in the picture?”
I snort. “Yeah, not long. My dad left Mom and me when I was fourteen years old. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.” My voice cracks halfway through the statement, to my great surprise. “He— He left.”
“I’m so sorry, Penny. That is a painful thing to go through.”
I shrug, laughing self-consciously. “It’s okay. It’s ancient history. I’m over it. It’s—” My voice fails me again. “Sorry, I don’t know where this is coming from. I’ve always just been angry about it instead of whatever this is.” I brush at my eye.
“Anger is a foot soldier for sadness,” Wendy says.
“Your next pillow, have them needlepoint that instead of a bird,” I joke.
Wendy remains quiet.
“I— I mean, yeah, I was sad. It wasn’t fun to go through. I remember thinking, ‘How can you abandon someone you love like that?’ And then I realized… I guess he didn’t. Love us, that is.” Another tear. Fuck. And another. I bow my head, resigned to full-on waterworks.
I knew there was damage there. I knew it was a sore spot in my psyche. But this? There’s a geyser of hurt that’s built too much pressure to remain below the surface anymore.
I accept a tissue, knowing I’m going to have a headache after this visit. And then I explain why my dad left: “Mom finally called him out on his cheating, though she’d known for a while. And that was it for him.”
“How did you feel about that? Your mother calling him out.”
I blow my nose noisily, then wave my tissue-clutching fist in a faintly frustrated gesture.
“I— He wasn’t the greatest father, but I loved him.
That’s what you do when you’re a kid, right?
You love your parents. And he… He taught me some stuff, I guess.
How to throw a ball. How to plant things without killing them.
I helped him with his landscaping business for a few summers before he bailed. ”
I snatch another tissue, my voice growing thicker.
“But for every kiss I got on a feverish forehead, there were twenty angry freak-outs over nothing. Tension whenever he came home in a bad mood, Mom crying after finding out about another woman. I could tell Mom was unhappy with him, but—” I shake my head.
“She was worse after he left. Miserable. We struggled a ton with bills. She kept saying she should’ve just kept her mouth shut.
” I slam my rolled-up ball of tissues into the little trash can to the left of my leg.
“Why do you—?”
“Even a broken pot holds some water, I guess. Better than no pot at all. I don’t know.
” I fold in on myself. My tone is clipped.
This raw nerve needs a respite. I pull my hair over my shoulder and thread the strands through my index and middle fingers aggressively, like a monkey trying to self-soothe.
“We talked about the Vaughns last time, and you were alarmed by the idea that in a healthy relationship, the parties choose one another each day. Do you think that, maybe, some of your fears related to relationships and commitments are grounded in this trauma? That one of the most foundational relationships you can have—the one you have with a parent—resulted in you not being chosen? That a parent-child relationship should be exempt from the ‘choose each other each day’ idea, but when things became difficult, your father didn’t choose you? ”
I drop my hair and sit back, feeling as if I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.
The day is a hazy one, like the entire week preceding it. The clash between summer and fall has led to a streak of weather that is by equal turns unbearably warm and extraordinarily damp. It’s a match for the discomfort I feel inside following my therapy session a few days ago.
I adjust my hair clip to pull more hair off the back of my sticky neck and lean against the copier, listening to the loud whining of the beige beast. All the rooms on this side of the building face the onslaught of the glass-amplified sun each morning.
Doesn’t matter how little light peeks out from the clouds, the air-conditioning is no match for the mini-greenhouses the conference rooms and copier room become.
My stomach calls my name, and I ruthlessly ignore it, promising myself a wrap from the cafeteria in—I glance at my cell—half an hour.
Instead of counting down the half hour till noon, I turn my attention to the framed minimalist motivational posters on the wall and sigh.
Less than five weeks left to finish the global project, earn myself a raise, and get myself approved for a mortgage so that I can formally offer for my place before my lease is up.
No pressure.
DON’T DECREASE THE GOAL.
INCREASE THE EFFORT.
The poster shouts at me in white block letters on a black background.
Fuck you, poster.
The global project has legs, but Monday—when The Professor is back from his vacation—is looming large.
I feel like a woman possessed, working all hours to get the framework built out, thinking through every angle I possibly can.
Rochelle nods approvingly whenever I share status updates with her, but the downside to all of this, besides killing myself with work, is that work on the wall has slowed.
Jack seems to be similarly wrapped up with a case, so we agreed to table the remaining wall demo until the coming weekend.
“I told them,” my coworker Donna says, just outside the copy room. “I said if I don’t get that title, and the payday to go with it, I’m walking. And they gave it to me, like that.”
“What’s your title going to be? Finally a director?” Donna’s favorite lunch buddy, Judith, asks as they pass. I barely hear Donna answer in the affirmative.
Fucking Donna got a promotion and a raise?
She spends more time gossiping than doing work, her voice is nails-on-a-chalkboard unpleasant, and she takes every opportunity she can to henpeck everyone around her.
The Vanna White of the company also loves showcasing other people’s efforts as her own.
And I know for a fact she refuses to work evenings and weekends.
What the hell kind of ladder am I trying to climb if Donna is beating me up it?
I grab my printouts and walk to my desk, flopping the stack of copies down with a thwack. Three years and no increase. Rochelle said she’s tried. And yet Donna gets a raise? I sit heavily, slumped in my chair.