Maintenance, that’s what Dr. Weinberger calls it. I just call it a joke: no matter how often we come, we never seem to make much progress. Honestly? I think maybe he gave up on us after the first six months. He tells me to be patient, but I never have been much good at that game.
Dropping onto the sofa beside her, I grab Variety off the coffee table, and slap it nervously against my knee. Andrea opens a copy of Highlights, flipping right to the picture puzzle. She traces her fingertip diligently over the page, searching out clandestine candlesticks and slices of bread. Too bad she can’t locate our good doctor. No sign of him yet, which means we’re left to our own anxious devices; perhaps time alone together in purgatory is part of Weinberger’s grand plan.
“I don’t like it here,” Andrea complains, not looking up from the magazine.
Trying to be the adult, I ask, “Why not?”
Through auburn lashes she pins me with an I-can’t-believe-you’re-such-a-dork gaze.
“Maybe he’ll have more of those rings,” I suggest, resorting to blatant bribery. “You know, those sparkly ones you like so much.”
She sighs, rolling her eyes intolerantly. “Michael, those are baby rings.”
“You didn’t think so last fall.” When we first started coming here, she collected them weekly, tucking them into her jewelry box like captured treasure.
“I’m a lot older now, Michael.”
“Well, then maybe I’ll buy you an ice cream after.”
“We’re going to the Dodgers game after. Remember?”
“Of course I remember,” I snap irritably, even though for a moment I did forget that I have something approximating a date later tonight. “I’ll buy you an ice cream there, okay? At Dodger Stadium.”
She smiles, the brilliant sun unexpectedly brightening the dark sea of our moment together. “Hey! Maybe Rebecca will take me to get it!”
And there it is again, when I least expect it. Rebecca O’Neill, the Rosetta Stone to my daughter’s troubled hieroglyphs.
***
“School’s out in a few weeks, right?” Dr. Weinberger asks.
He looks to Andrea, but she just stares into her lap, toying with the zipper of her Barbie backpack, making it clear that I’d better answer. “Yes, that’s correct. End of the month.”
“Any great plans this summer, Andrea?” Weinberger rubs his fingers over his salt-and-pepper goatee.
Andrea answers with more lap staring, then gives an indifferent shrug.
I answer for her again. “Thinking of a road trip.” I cut my eyes sideways to gauge my daughter’s reaction. “Back East. Maybe.”
“Excellent,” Weinberger says, nodding. “To see your father?”
“He’s ministering at a church in Texas,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “Thought I might take Andrea to see him. So he can meet her.”
“And what does your father say about this plan?” he asks.
“Haven’t laid it on ole George just yet.” Weinberger smiles in understanding because he knows that my father and I are permanently on the outs.
Andrea surprises me by speaking up. “He won’t like me ’cause he didn’t like Daddy.”
“He’ll love you.”
“But he never liked Daddy,” she argues. “And everybody liked Daddy.”
“Andie, sweetheart, that’s a different story, okay? A whole other situation. He just didn’t understand Daddy.”
“Why not?”
My stomach clenches, my whole body flexing with coiled fury. Because he’s a cold-hearted, judgmental bastard who wouldn’t know goodness if it jumped up and bit him on the ass? Fortunately, I manage to keep quiet and count silently to ten.
Still, I’m not sure how to answer her question; after all, Andrea knows little of my father, little of how his emotional distance mapped out my youth and defined it. Finally, I settle on this: “Some people in this world don’t understand love, sweetie. Not like we do in our family, okay?”
“I think what your father is saying, Andrea,” our counselor clarifies, “is that sometimes there are issues for gay couples.”
“But Michael might not always be gay,” she pipes up, helping. “He told me so. So maybe now his daddy will be okay with me.” Her innocent hopefulness as she glances back and forth between us makes my heart twist inside me.
“I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” I explain with a cough, ignoring the curious expression on my psychiatrist’s face. “But I know he’ll love you. I do know that.”
“But how do you know?”
“Because I do.” Because you’re pure and precious and I won’t let him hurt you, not like he did me.
“That’s not a real answer,” she counters with all the saucy muster of an eight-year-old.
“He’ll be meeting his granddaughter,” I explain gently. “And think of how much Grandma Richardson loves you.”
She presses her stubby fingers into her eyes, closing them, and I wonder what I’ve said to bring out her avoidance maneuver. The Eyeball Gouge is something that we see here frequently at sessions; whenever she gets uncomfortable or upset she blocks us out this way.