I’m jealous. Not a cute, envious-from-afar jealous, but a raging this-is-total-bullshit jealous. How ironic: I’m dead and we’re still having the same damn fight, only this time arguing opposite sides.
While Eve leaves the table to look at places online, and Brady tosses the wrappers from dinner, I vent. Paris, now? I’ve had to beg you to take even a couple days off to go to Florida for the past twenty years, and suddenly you’re game to gallivant across Europe? I’m ranting, not even thinking I can get through his noise with my thoughts, when suddenly he fights back.
Yes, Paris, he thinks. And you don’t get to be upset, Maddy. There were other ways to get me to change besides taking your life. You wanted to send a message? You wanted to demonstrate that I wasn’t engaged? Grateful? That work isn’t everything? Well, message fucking received. And the prize for sending it so dramatically is that you’re not here to enjoy it.
It’s the first fight Brady’s won in a long time.
Eve
Reading Mom’s journal is total crack. I can’t stop. The selections Dad deems Eve-appropriate are the lame ones where she’s all Mary Poppins. The ones I read while Dad is at work are her, the real her, uncut. She was tired of serving our every whim without any recognition. It’s all right there:
December 14, 2014
Even my wrists are tired from this day. Eve’s school had winter festival, and I got roped into baking ten dozen cookies, which would’ve been fine if I didn’t also agree to individually wrap each one in a red cellophane baggie with a ribbon. When will I take Brady’s advice and learn to say no? I was up until two a.m. tying the damn things.
I awoke with a cold coming on. In between sneezes, Brady casually mentioned his boss Jack leaves tomorrow for the holidays, so he needed a gift today. I went from the festival to the liquor store, which was completely insane, and bought a bottle of Dom. The stupid carrying case alone was thirty bucks, but whatever, it got the job done. I dropped it off at Brady’s office and made it back to school in time to watch Eve’s talent show, which took forever because some kid on an oboe thought it’d be a riot to see how long he could play before someone made him get off the stage.
Brady and Eve came fluttering in tonight, starving as usual, and after dinner, as I cleaned the kitchen alone, I realized that my mother never did anything for anybody and Meg and I turned out fine. So who’s the crazy one—the lady who spent her life doing whatever the hell she damn well pleased or the one running errands full-time for two people who don’t even appreciate it?
I remember the day because I was annoyed Mom didn’t videotape the lame lip sync I did with Lindsey and Kara. “I reminded you this morning to bring the camera,” I scolded. She mumbled something about the only predictable thing in life being human imperfection. Reading the day from her point of view I see she was a punching bag and my dad and I gave her a daily workout. I’m starting to wonder why she didn’t jump sooner. I’m never getting married or having kids. We suck.
I return the journal to the nightstand, depressed, and head to my first therapy appointment. The conversation is totally pointless.
“Keep in mind, Eve,” the counselor says, uncrossing and recrossing her legs for the hundreth time, “time heals all wounds.”
I can’t believe anyone considers this lady a real doctor. She should have a distinct title like Talking Doctor so people know not to trust her with a scalpel. I’ve spent the last thirty minutes explaining that time doesn’t heal jack shit, but she doesn’t get it. Whether it’s my birthday or Mother’s Day or prom or random, lonely Tuesdays, time is my worst enemy. It slaps me over and over by reminding me how permanent a mess I’m in.
Someone needs to publish a list of things not to say to people in mourning and start it with Time heals all wounds. Runners-up include: Everything happens for a reason; God only dishes what you can handle; I know how you feel, I lost my—whatever—; It’s good to have an angel on your side; and, my personal favorite, How are you feeling? To that brilliant question, I want to yell back that I don’t have the goddamn flu. My suggested response to someone grieving is no response at all; just shut the hell up.
I call Dad on my way home to explain that therapy isn’t for me. His temporary ass-wiper puts me right through. “I’m not going back,” I reply to his overly animated hello. Every time we talk he’s either trying too hard or not even listening. The man doesn’t know how to act normal.
“Why not?”
“It was cheesy. She was all, ‘You know it’s not your fault, Eve.’ So I’d be like, ‘Yeah, I know, but I wish I knew why she did it.’ Then she’d say something asinine like, ‘It’s normal to ask yourself questions like that,’ and I’d say, ‘Yeah, I know.’ The whole thing was a waste of time.”
“Who did you see?”
“Dr. Cliché.”
He laughs, which makes me feel weirdly proud. “Well, how about trying your next session with someone else on the list?”
“How about not going again?”
He makes a tsk sound. “I’d like you to try one more time. You might find someone you relate to.”
I agree to that. I don’t want to give him an excuse to skip out. He needs a shrink more than me.
“Listen,” he says, “if we’ve reached a verdict, I need to hop back into this meeting.”
I love the idea that there’s a group of people my dad left hanging to take my call. “Sure, but one quick thing. Don’t bring food tonight. I’m cooking.”
“You don’t—”
“Love you,” I say. “Bye.”
I’m glad I’m not working at the Y, but he was right about needing more to do. I think it’s possible daytime TV kills brain cells. I’m only a week into The Young and the Restless and most of the cast have already slept together. The only entertaining part is imagining my mom’s take. I have yet to see anyone pause to put on a condom. All of these people must have gonorrhea by now. Or It takes an awful lot of Botox to always look that surprised. Or He’s a second-rate personal trainer. He doesn’t drive a BMW. Fun as it is to crack up with a ghost, I’m getting dumber sitting on that couch.