Brady twitches at the immature display, happy to be irritated despite her good looks. “So your schedule is flexible?”
She folds her arms. “Not really. That’s why I quit.”
Brady pauses the interview to scan the rest of her resume. She’s been out of college five years and held four jobs. She never should’ve made it through the screening process. He makes a mental note to discuss the infraction with Meredith, then glances at his iPhone, pretending to read an important email. “I’m going to have to cut this short. Something’s come up.” He shoos the lady with the tight ass out of the room, relieved. He’s an asshole, but he’s an equal-opportunity asshole.
Watching the scene play out unnerves me. I recount all the times when, in the middle of a conversation and without any prompting, Brady looked at his phone, then dismissed me because “something popped up at work.” This lady was a rude, job-hopping idiot. What was my offense?
Eve
Rory looked so whacked when I ask about children there has to be more to the story. As soon as her car is out of sight I get on my laptop. It’s what everyone did when my mom died. They switched to a whisper as I passed, but teenagers don’t whisper well. They want to be heard so badly. Did you read The Townsman? She didn’t leave a note. Or, Go Boston said she might have been on meth. Or, The Globe said Wellesley College didn’t even pay her and she was there, like, all the time. My friends were happy to throw in details the articles missed. I assume it was Lindsey who made my dad’s excessive travel and my mom’s evening chardonnay common knowledge. And I heard Jake tell Noel that my parents had been fighting, a detail that had to come from John since they were bickering about a summer vacation the last time he was over.
I google Rory Murray. There are millions of hits, tech geniuses to porn stars. I narrow it down by adding a common word from the articles on my mother. Tragic. And there it is, Rory’s misfortune for the world to read. I clutch my hand to my neck. The picture alone tells a story of what she lost: a good-looking man with his arm around a younger Rory as she holds up a newborn baby, beaming.
Holiday Tragedy, Avoidable Death of a Toddler
November 26, 2005
SAN DIEGO, CA, United States—A two-year-old child died today in a tragic traffic accident in the Gaslamp District on 6th Street. According to preliminary investigations, Steve O’Malley, 34, fell asleep behind the wheel of his 1998 Mitsubishi Montero, hitting Emma Murray, who was in a stroller pushed by her mother on the sidewalk.
The child was pronounced dead at the scene. The mother, Rory Murray, 29, was taken to the hospital suffering critical injuries, including a leg broken in four places.
According to sources in the department, charges will be pressed against O’Malley, who had allegedly been on the road more than nine hours straight.
Everyone has a history. Sadness isn’t mine alone. It only feels that way because my friends are too young to know the kind of pain that leaves you physically heavier than before. I wonder if there’s a calculus equation for that? I look at the clock on the computer, surprised it’s past four already.
I’m ten minutes late for round two of therapy. This time I picked a man. He’s probably thirty years old, so his corduroy blazer with faux-leather elbow patches doesn’t match his age. I can tell it’s something he wears to look wise, but instead he looks dorky. After sharing the basics, I dig right in with my epiphany. “Everyone I go to school with will be devastated by something someday.”
“That’s an astute observation,” Dr. Jahns says. “One that takes some a lifetime to figure out. Congratulations.”
It’s weird to be congratulated on understanding that everyone has a private hell to hide, but I accept the compliment. At least he didn’t come back with This too shall pass or You can’t change what life brings, but you can chose what to do with it. I’m tired of the feel-good shit.
I wait for Dr. Jahns’s next question but get nothing. His practiced eye contact suggests this silence is a strategy of some sort. Won’t he be disappointed to learn I’m in no hurry. We remain mute three minutes. I know it’s three minutes exactly because there’s a clock on the wall the size of an oven, probably to make sure weepy patients are aware when their session has ended. I fill the quiet time pretending we’re in a staring competition. Dr. Jahns does pretty well considering he doesn’t know we’re playing.
He finally loses the chicken fight by asking me to describe my current state. “I don’t know,” I say, thrilled by the victory. “My mom did everything. I guess I’m afraid of how I’ll get on without her.”
“So you’re scared for your well-being?”
“I didn’t say scared,” I correct.
“I’m sorry, you’re right, you said afraid. Let me rephrase, are you afraid for your well-being?”
He succeeds at making me sound like a dumbass. Current score: 1-1. “Yeah, I guess,” I say, looking at the clock. Forty-eight minutes until I can bail on talking doctors for good.
“Mmm. What about lonely? Do you feel lonely?”
“Duh.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Tell you the definition of lonely?” He folds his arms but says nothing. Another standoff. I don’t want to sit through a round of silence, so I add, “We spent a lot of time together. Now she’s gone. And it’s not like anyone understands.”
“So it sounds like lonely and scared are closely related emotions for you. You depended on your mom, so without her you’ve lost a key support. Losing that foundation would, quite understandably, make you feel isolated and unsure.”
“Good summary,” I reply in a voice my mom would call patronizing. It’s fun to be a smart-ass with this guy. Maybe I’ll come back just to mess with him.
“How did you feel about suicide prior to your mom’s death?”
Is he for real? “Great. I loved it. I thought suicide was awesome.”
He tips his head to the right. “Did my question irritate you?”
I tip my head to the left. “Yes.”
“Because you found the answer obvious?”
“Because I found the question pointless.”
“Huh. Okay. What should I have asked?”
I stop. That’s actually a decent comeback. Another point for the talking doctor. “What you’re really wondering.”
“What am I really wondering?”
“If I know why she did it. If there’s some big secret I’m hiding.”
He raises his eyebrows like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. As if. “Is there?”
“No. I don’t know. I-I thought she was happy.” How did this get back to a serious conversation?
“So you didn’t know your mom was having a tough time?”
“And for the second time—no.” He underlines something on his notepad. Hopefully it’s the fact that I didn’t know, so he’ll fucking drop it.
“Right.” He looks right at me. “So why did you think your mom was happy?”
He’s got me there. Up until three months ago I thought everyone was more or less happy. “I mean … I like … assumed it, but then, I never asked her.”