He puts the notepad down. “Asked her what?”
“Asked her anything. I mean, I asked if I could have stuff or if she could do stuff for me. You know, Can you … take me here, wash this, make that, buy these? I thought I was this great kid since I always said please and thank you, but I never asked how she was doing.”
“I see,” he says. That’s doubtful. I don’t think Dr. Jahns got out much in high school. I picture him as the mathlete in the Star Wars T-shirt eating lunch alone. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing; I’m just saying he probably wasn’t a very demanding kid. “And you feel badly about that?”
“Yeah. She constantly asked how I was doing, and it never crossed my mind to ask back. Isn’t that sick? It’s not like I held out to spite her. I really never thought, ‘Huh. I wonder how Mom’s doing.’”
“Sounds like you behaved the way every teenager in the world behaves.”
“Well, that’s screwed up. Who cares about clothes and curfews and prom dates? I feel so stupid I ever did. Like, even if she hadn’t committed suicide, even if it’d been a car accident or something more normal, it was always a possibility I could lose her. My friends totally don’t understand that they could come home one day to, like, a different world. And, I mean, I watch the news and stuff. I knew people died. I just never realized people I loved could die. That my mom could die.” I start to cry. Waterproof mascara is a total sham.
He hands me a tissue, but presses on. “So now you feel like you understand more than your friends?”
“I know I do,” I say, resting the back of my head on the couch. “They’re all so totally clueless. Everyone thinks I’m depressed or whatever, but I’m not. I finally get it and they still don’t. I can’t pretend to give a shit that Lindsey gained five pounds, or Noel broke up with Katy when they were dating for, like, one freaking day.” Snot streams from my nose. I grab another tissue. “I’m so pissed for not realizing how pointless all of it was sooner. Now she’s gone and I missed my chance.”
Dr. Jahns waits until my crying dies down. “Keep in mind that if you never answer the door, people will stop knocking.” He sounds like my mom. The clock reads two minutes past five. I’m the weepy patient who needs to be reminded to leave. “Will you come back next week?” he asks, as I grab my bag.
I’m impressed he knows there’s a chance I won’t. “I think so,” I say and he smiles.
“Oh, and Eve, we don’t come into this world all-knowing. That’s what life is for.”
Brady
No one knows who their partner will become after they marry. I once worked for a man who ran a ten-person finance team until he had a random dream where a crucifix floated above a box that had a question mark seared to the side. He woke up certain the Lord was unhappy with his life. He quit his job to become a math teacher, gave up booze, and dropped out of our sporting pool, suddenly disgusted by gambling. Not long after, Maddy ran into his newly ex-wife at the supermarket. She said she got a divorce because finding the Lord made him boring as all get out, which was an unforgivable sin in her book. Thinking on it, I wonder if Maddy considered divorce as a possible alternative. I’d take joint custody at this point.
I proposed to the woman Maddy was in that exact moment. I married a phase and she did too. We changed. We adjusted to each other’s changes. Those tweaks sparked further change and so on, to the point where it’s impossible to unravel who I was before Maddy, what changed with her influence, and what my prevailing personal opinions are now that she’s gone.
“If you can’t articulate what’s different since your wife passed, how about telling me what’s stayed the same?” Dr. White asks.
It’s an unmanageable task given our gnarled history. I’m terrified to untangle it; I don’t know that I’ll like the scraps tied solely to me. “Christ … I don’t know. I’m still considered talented at my profession. I work out. I have Eve.” He’s visibly unimpressed. “What do you want me to say? I’m still a Republican allergic to penicillin?”
Dr. White scratches his head. I failed even the moron version. “I’m looking for something you enjoy already that you could do more with,” he clarifies. “I’d like you to foster a passion. The Fourth of July is tomorrow. Have you thought about how you’re going to spend it?”
“Probably at the office. Eve usually hangs out with friends.”
One eyebrow lifts. “Are you sure Eve wants to be with friends tomorrow?”
I adjust my posture, embarrassed to admit I’m not. “I’ll ask. I can’t imagine she’ll opt to spend the day with me.”
“Ask, but either way, don’t work. Maddy won’t be here next Fourth of July either, and working every holiday is not a wholesome solution for a lifetime.”
“So you’re suggesting I host a barbecue for one? Set off sparklers alone in the driveway?”
He sighs the way I do when Eve takes something I say to an unreasonable degree. “Nooo. I’m saying if Eve is busy, work isn’t your only option. You said you like to work out, so go for a long run. Maybe there’s a holiday road race you could do. Rent a movie. Read a book. Relax for a change. But don’t go to work. Your healthy new routine isn’t at the office.”
*
I wake up with a plan, as if my brain spent the night plotting while the rest of me slept.
Once I find the damn thing it’s easy to get into a rhythm with the outdoor sweeper. It’s nice to do something where the result is immediate, visible. Each time I extend the broom, dried leafs, sticks, and dead bugs move the hell out of my way. Cause and effect. I’m in a bit of a trance when Eve wanders outside searching for me.
“Look at you,” she says, offering a mock round of applause. I unbend my shoulders to attention, happy the tennis court is almost clear. Her surprise is fair enough. Our fifty-thousand-dollar investment became an expensive lawn ornament once Eve started playing year-round at the country club.
“No time like the present,” I say, more chipper than I feel. “You in?” I’ll be pissed if she says no, but manage to hide my emotions more effectively than I did on her birthday.
“It’s funny,” she says. “I woke up craving a game too. Let me change.”
Huh. That was easy.
Besides announcing the score, we don’t speak the entire match. Eve fights hard; I fight hard. No freebies. It’s a physical display of our current relationship: back and forth, control shifting almost every play. The final set runs eleven rallies before either of us earns a two-point lead.
“That was great,” she says after winning match point.