“I don’t want anyone thinking you’re available.”
“No one thinks I’m available! I told you no one here has ever tried to talk to me but you (except for Saturday), and I’m starting to rethink our arrangement...”
“Are you threatening me, Claire? You should see how people look at you when you step into meetings or when you walk down the hall. No one ever tried to talk to you because of that damn fraternization policy and they assumed you wouldn’t give them the time of day.”
“I don’t make idle threats.”
“I look forward to being punished. See you this evening.”
“Mr. Statham?” The therapist cleared her throat. “Are you ready to begin now?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. I’d hired a mediator to speak with my mother and me once a week since she and I couldn’t be in the same room for more than five minutes without arguing.
Even though my mother thought this was a brilliant idea, I was beginning to have second thoughts; she didn’t look too composed today—her hair was in a frizzy ponytail, her pants weren’t ironed, and she reeked of beer and ashes.
“Yes, I’m ready.”
“Good.” She clasped her hands together. “We’ll start with a few simple questions to see what we’re dealing with. Mrs. Statham—I mean, Denise—what do you hope to accomplish by these sessions?”
“I want my son to respect me again...I want him to welcome me back into his life so we can start over.”
“Okay...” The therapist jotted down a few notes. “And what about you, Jonathan? What do you hope to gain from this?”
“I have nothing to gain from this...Maybe just to be able to sit in a room with her without yelling. That would be sufficient enough.”
“See?” My mom crossed her legs. “That’s exactly what I was telling you about earlier, Doctor. He only hired you to make himself look good, to make it seem like he’s trying, but he’s really not. He doesn’t give a damn about me, he—”
“Have you told her how many times you’ve relapsed? How many times you’ve been in and out of prison? How you technically should be in prison right now?”
“Damnit Jonathan! I’m trying to make something of myself! I’m working really hard! Stop holding my past against me! I’m—”
“Calm down, Denise.” The therapist handed her a glass of water. “Jonathan, we don’t need to start pointing fingers or assigning blame at this stage. We need to start by taking things very slowly. Surely there is something you want to gain out of these sessions.”
I leaned back in my chair and thought long and hard. “I don’t want to be angry with her anymore.”
“Great! That’s a good start. Now Denise, I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to answer it as truthfully as possible. Jonathan, please don’t interrupt...Why do you think you and your son don’t have a good relationship?”
My mother looked at me and sighed. “I had Jonathan when I was twenty-five...I wasn’t ready for a baby but I did my best with what I had...Me and his father were working three jobs each just to make ends meet and before we knew it, we had another child, a baby girl...One day while we were going over more overdue bills, a few of his friends came over and asked if we wanted to try some meth—to stop stressing out so much you know? We both did it and—”
“They went from users to chronic users to two of the most sought after meth dealers in the whole state of Ohio. It’s a very heartwarming story.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m thinking about turning it into a Christmas play.”
“Jonathan, let her finish...” The therapist sighed.
“Anyway,” my mother said, “I was a horrible mother...I know that, and I’ve owned that but...I was on drugs...I wasn’t myself. I didn’t mean to leave my kids hungry or neglect them...It’s completely my fault that they were taken away from me, but I’m clean now and I want a chance to be the mother I should have been back then.”
“Very good start, Denise. Jonathan, how do you feel about what your mother just said?”
“What do you mean ‘how do I feel’?”
“How do you feel? Do you think she’s sincere?”
“My mother has been clean for what? Two months now? By the end of this month, she’ll be back in rehab and won’t even remember that this session happened—which is quite fitting, because you’re not the first therapist I’ve hired and she doesn’t remember any of the other therapists either...So, I feel rather...I feel nothing.”
“She apologized for leaving you and your sister hungry. She—”
“The word ‘hungry’ implies wanting something to eat—knowing that it’s only a matter of time before some type of food is placed in front of you. My mother did not leave us hungry. She left us starving. We went days, sometimes weeks, locked inside our trailer with just rice grains to eat. It wasn’t until I realized that I could climb out the window and get to the dumpsters that I realized what the word ‘hungry’ meant.”