I reclined on the bench behind the kitchen table, relaxing on my one of my mother’s infamous puke green sweaters that still had the knitting needle poking through the fabric. I stared at the needle. And heard sizzles. And stared.
Clearly, I was having issues. If it wasn’t Snake leaving ten voicemails on my phone begging me to call him back so he could do one more thing to make me want to drown him in the rich kid pond, it was my therapist encouraging me to “face life head-on” and “live with abandon.” Were therapists even supposed to use the word abandon? I was almost positive that was rule number 1 in what not to tell your depressed and emotionally unstable juvenile client. Monday’s session had gone something to the effect of: “Did you complete the homework I assigned?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to write. I don’t want to do anything.”
“Because . . . ?”
“I hate everything.”
“Have you considered that maybe you’re projecting?”
“Yes. I’m projecting hatred onto Snake because I hate him.”
“Maybe it’s not him you hate. Maybe you hate that he is confronting issues within yourself that you’ve been trying to avoid.”
“I hate that he likes that I hate him. And I hate that I like that he likes that I hate him.”
“Take the word hate out of the equation. Replace it with something entirely different. What is the word you would use to describe him now?”
“Bearable.”
“You used that word last time.”
“What can I say? He’s so incredibly bearable that it’s impossible not to hate him.”
“How so?”
“Because he’s the unattainable kind of bearable.”
“Unattainable because of this Carla you mentioned earlier?”
“Unattainable because he needs too much.”
After that came the usual Dr. Rachelle version of divine enlightenment. She told me to confront issues within myself to have a fulfilling experience, to understand the responsibility that was born out of getting too close to someone like Snake, the reward that could be produced from conquering such a feat, and then the big “live with abandon” portion that was so uncannily out of therapist mold I all but disregarded it. She even encouraged me to write again too, which we both knew wasn’t going to happen.
I decided that I wasn’t going to be one of those obnoxious teenage girls who wasted eighty dollars a session griping about my Romeo and Juliet meets Rosemary’s Baby drama over a box of tissues and hard candies. Snake wasn’t worth eighty dollars a week. He was barely worth the minimum wage compensation to put up with him every few days.
Babe.
Kill me.
“Reggie, sweetheart, could you chop some tomatoes for the salad?” Karen called over the noisy stove.
“I wouldn’t trust me with the knives right now, Mom,” I said. “I’m on a revenge binge.”
“Revenge over what?”
I sat up and could feel my tangled hair bird-nesting itself on my head. “I want to blacken the eyes of whoever came up with the concept of dating. Like, you meet a guy who is slightly more bearable than the other available idiots, and you say to yourself, ‘Hey, this one’s not so bad. He’s goofy-looking and thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but I can get past it.’ Then he turns out to be the worst of the idiots, and you’re all alone again until another available idiot shows his face and swings the whole process back into motion.” I sighed loudly, because I wanted her to hear me for once. Hear me for real, not in her dismissive Karen way.
She glanced at me over her shoulder before turning back to the plate of undercooked meat. “Don’t tell me this is about that boy with the scary name.”
“Oh, of course not. The core of the earth would incinerate us entirely if one of my chosen available idiots was a guy who used the word vagina more than once to describe his parents’ relationship.”
“Don’t start with me tonight,” she warned, sprinkling spices on the pork chops. “Start chopping the tomatoes. Dinner will be ready soon.”
I chopped, vertical slices first, then cutting through horizontally for perfect squares.
“Don’t forget your brother is coming to town in two weeks. He’s bringing baby Killian.”
Wonderful. Frankie the chosen one and his Stepford wife would be coming down from New York to grace us with their presence. I didn’t know what I was more looking forward to, Frankie’s baritone solo in our annual car-ride sing-alongs (see: side thorn) or my mother anointing my nephew, Killian, while the theme song to The Lion King played.
“When does the parade commence?”
“Don’t go showing yourself now. Frankie loves you.”
“Frankie loves everyone. Frankie thinks he’s the messiah.”
“Stop it,” she said, setting the table with only two plates.
“What about Dad?”
“He’s at a doctor’s appointment,” she replied, twisting the knobs on the stovetop.
I took a seat at the table, eating a chunk of tomato from the salad bowl. She rubbed her eyes beneath her glasses as she sat down.
“Have you gotten to use your journal yet?” she asked, taking a bite of salad.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not going to let you and Dr. Rachelle force a hobby on me.”
“You’ve written some great stuff in your creative writing class.”
“When have you ever read anything I’ve written?”
She glanced up from her plate briefly, watching me with a hint of longing. “Well, if you would share your work with me . . .”
I wanted to bang my head on the table. Instead, I decided to humor her. “Fine. Last week, I wrote a story with a dog in it.”
“Oh, a dog. That’s nice.”
“It froze to death.”
“Reggie.” The flame of hope went out in her eyes. “You’re such a sadistic girl.”
“Don’t worry, the owner lived,” I assured her. She lifted a brow skeptically. “But then he contracted syphilis.”
She sighed. “We can be done sharing now.”
I watched her take a sloppy bite of her salad, her mouth dripping with ranch dressing. She motioned toward my peas, and I knew I had to take a bite before she got on my case. They were about as disgusting as I’d anticipated. Karen’s cooking hadn’t improved with her stay-at-home schedule. Most of her time was spent knitting, annoying me, and pretending she didn’t miss her job at the daycare. She’d worked there since I was in diapers, and when she’d ended her stint sixth months prior, her Jesus-fused joy was more for appearance’s sake than the genuine kind. Even Dad knew she missed it. One day he suggested she go back, and all she did was shrug him off, mumble something about paying her dues, and continue her knitting. Dad might have known why she quit, but he never told me. I was beginning to think that she didn’t have a reason.
“That’s a hideous sweater,” I said, motioning to the work in progress on the bench.
She frowned and smiled at the same time. “That’s for little Joshua. He’s graduating kindergarten this year.”