Not this time.
This is Mason. The reason he’s asking is because he knows something’s up. So because he’s truly as kind as he appears, and cares as much as he does, I shove the lies aside and speak the truth. “I’m visiting my mother,” I answer, wishing my voice didn’t crack the way it does.
My tears release almost immediately, so even if I wanted to, it’s too late to make up another stupid excuse like she works here in the kitchen― or insist that she’s never assaulted me or mistaken me for her dead sister―that she’s fine, and healthy, and-and everything I wish she could be.
Mason doesn’t say anything. I can’t even be sure he’s looking at me. By now, I’m so embarrassed by my response, and so wrapped up in my long repressed despair; I can’t bring myself to turn his way. The only thing that I’m aware of is that he’s doing the “therapist pause”, that brief moment of silence that permits the patient to divulge something else, regain his or her composure, or maybe cry a little more.
I take door number two for the win and force myself to calm. Some therapist I’ll make.
“I’ve wondered who it was,” he answers simply.
I look up. “What?” I ask, sounding nasal from how hard I wept.
He offers a sympathetic smile, one that assures me he’s listening and reveals a trace of his concern. “Those who choose to work in the mental health field, be it as counselors or medical professionals, often do so to self-diagnose and treat themselves, or further understand those who have hurt them.”
Oh. Well, I knew that. Really I did. But I’m not sure I need reminding. Not when I’ve failed this epically.
He continues when it’s obvious that I can’t. “Your passion suggested someone close to you was inflicted with mental illness,” he explains. “So did your desire to know more, and your commitment to taking your clients to a healthier place.” He tilts his head. “If your mother is here, I take it she’s not in that healthy place you wish her to be?”
“No. But I’m trying to get her there.”
He doesn’t respond, but in his features I feel that he’s pushing for more of an explanation. “I’ve been coming every day to speak with her.” Like a dumbass, I point to the bag at my feet. “I even brought pictures that may help reorient her. It’s something I’ve been doing for years.”
“And has it worked?”
I straighten a little. “Not yet . . . she hasn’t, I mean, she didn’t have a good day. The doctors are trying to get the right meds for her, and adjust the doses . . .” My voice fades the longer I look at him.
“I meant have your efforts ever worked?” he asks me gently.
Mason is a trained therapist, with years of living and breathing in the crazy. His features never give anything away. But they do then. He thinks I’m spinning my wheels.
I want to point out the flickers of hope she’s given me, and explain how there are moments she seems to remember who I am, and all that we’ve shared. I want to find words or examples that my work with her is paying off, and that it’s only because I’ve done what I’ve done that she’s not as far gone as she could be, and that there’s still hope.
Yet there’s something about his soft and knowing stare, the kindness in his voice, and the experience that comes with his title that makes me take a long hard look at these past few years in a way no one ever has. My mother, Flor Marieles―the woman who went from talking to us, to talking to those who aren’t there, who went from taking care of those she loved, to being the one completely cared for, the woman who once called me her beautiful little girl in her soft voice, who now screams obscenities at me, believing I’m her deceased sister―is no longer my mother. That woman is gone, and she isn’t coming back.
So when I answer, I can’t tell him what I want to hear, and what for far too long I’ve needed to believe.
“No,” I respond.
“Her mental health has deteriorated?”
His voice remains quiet, nonjudgmental. Yet it’s because of what he’s forced me to see in our brief exchange―in the two point five seconds I’ve sat next to him― that more tears come. The truth can be so painful, especially when I’ve been the one blinding myself from it.
“Yes,” I admit, my voice once more breaking.