Sam chuffs, much like a dog. Ruth shoots him a glare. Eden kicks her feet out, and Rachel just sits there, motionless.
“Sam, I understand that my questions might seem rhetorical or, perhaps, irrelevant. But I ask them for a reason. What are your expectations for our sessions?”
“I don’t have any,” he says. “I don’t believe in therapy. I believe in moving forward.”
“And are you?” I counter. “Moving forward?”
He throws up his hands. “I’m trying.”
“That’s good,” I tell him. “That’s very good.”
I glance at Eden, who is concentrating on her feet, and Ruth, who is shaking her head, and Rachel, whose head is down, and I decide not to push them further. I have seen this kind of resistance countless times. Pushing is counterintuitive and can lead to a total shutdown. Patience and persistence are far more effective.
“Why don’t we begin the individual sessions? Ruth, Rachel, Eden, help yourself to anything. If you’re hungry, there are snack bars and crackers in the cupboard. And the remote control for the television is in the drawer of the coffee table. Sam, if you’ll follow me?”
I walk to the door of the family room. Sam looks at Rachel for a long moment, then smiles at Eden. “See you later, piece of pumpkin pie.”
The girl jumps from her seat and throws her arms around Sam’s waist. He gives her a brief hug, then pats her back.
“’Bye, Dad,” she says. “Have a good day at work.”
“I will, honey. You take care of your mom and Aunt Ruth, okay?”
Eden gives her father a dubious look, and he chucks her under the chin. She reaches up and pulls at his tie, forcing him to bend over, then she whispers in his ear. I can just make out her words.
“Do you think Dr. Meyers can help us?”
I force myself to look at the floor. Sam glances at me—I feel his gaze upon me—but I pretend I didn’t hear his daughter’s words.
“I hope so, honey,” he says to her. “I really do.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
SAMUEL DAVENPORT
“Am I supposed to lie down?” he asks, jerking a thumb in the direction of the couch. We are in the room I use for my private sessions, a small space with good light from a south-facing window. On one wall is a couch, and catty-corner to the couch is an easy chair. A straight-backed chair faces both, and a desk sits in the corner, out of the way.
“You’re welcome to lie down if you’d like,” I tell him, and he snickers. “You can lie down or sit or remain standing. Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
He paces the length of the room in three seconds, turns and gazes at the Kertész print hanging over the couch.
“Melancholic Tulip,” he says.
“You like Kertész?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not particularly. I mean, he’s good. But I prefer Ansel Adams. I guess that makes me a cliché.”
“Ansel Adams is a wonderful photographer,” I say. I walk to the desk and fetch a clipboard from the top drawer. My notes are sparse, usually a single word, but they help me to recall my sessions. I go to the straight-backed chair and sit. “I have an Ansel Adams in my house.”
“Original?”
“Clearing Winter Storm,” I say, and he whistles.
“Nice.”
I wait a moment. Then, “Would you like to sit, or do you prefer to stand?”
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said in there.” He gestures toward the door. “About not believing in therapy.”
“This is a safe place, Sam. You’re free to say whatever you want to say. As long as you’re not verbally abusive.” I give him a grin. “I’m not easily offended. The fact that you’re here tells me you have, at least, some modicum of belief in therapy.”
“My parents went into therapy,” he says. “A month later, they filed for divorce, so, as you can imagine, I’m not a big fan.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask.
“I’m here because of Rachel.” He stares at me, a challenge.
I meet his stare. Samuel Davenport is a very handsome man, with dark-brown hair and brown eyes and a strong jaw. In the past twenty minutes, I have determined that this is a man who is used to being in control, who despises chaos, who has, for his entire life, had the world on a string because of his looks and charm. But the huge crevasse between his eyes betrays him. He never expected the horrible hand life dealt him, and he no longer knows how the world, how his world, is supposed to work.
“Your wife is in crisis.”
“I didn’t need to come here and spend whatever it is you’re charging me to know that!” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“I told you, Sam. I have a thick skin. I don’t want you to edit yourself. But in order for me to help you, and Rachel, I need you to . . . I need you to open yourself up to the possibility that this is a good thing. If you come into this guarded or doubtful or suspicious or without any faith at all, I won’t be able to help you. You’ve made a commitment to come here. For your wife, for your family, and whether you think so or not, that means you’re also here for yourself.”
His head drops to his chest. I watch as he takes a few deep breaths, in and out. His shoulders relax for the first time since he’s been here. He raises his head and looks around, as if seeing the space for the first time. Then he wanders to the easy chair closest to me and sits.
“Ruth thinks it’s my fault. I know she does. She’s probably right. I shouldn’t have given Rachel the bottle of pills. I just, I never thought she’d . . . I mean, she seemed coherent, and she seemed like she wanted to be in control. I thought that was a good sign.”
Samuel Davenport is omitting an important piece of information. I don’t know what it is, but I can tell by the expression on his face. He changes the subject, and I allow it.
“I love my family,” he says. “I loved Jonah.” He shakes his head. “I love Jonah.” I nod, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at his lap. “He’s my son, you know? He’ll always be my son. He was supposed to . . . he was . . . he was going to carry on my name. That sounds so stupid, doesn’t it?”
“No, Sam. That doesn’t sound stupid at all. A son to a father is a remarkable and unique relationship.”
“I love Eden just as much.”
“Of course you do. But a father’s relationship with his son is different than with his daughter. Just as a mother’s relationship with her daughter is different than with her son.”
He continues to stare at his lap. I look at the blank page in front of me; my pen is poised but remains motionless.
“Sam?” He raises his head, but his eyes don’t meet mine. He stares at a spot just past my head. “Tell me about Jonah.”
He smiles, a genuine smile. “Jonah was a great kid. Funny, you know? I mean, he was only five, but he had a great sense of humor for a five-year-old. He would come up with the canniest observations about things. Way beyond his years.” The crease in Sam’s forehead deepens. “I’m trying to think of an example—there were so many. But I can’t think of one. How can I not think of a single one?” He shakes his head. “He’d say this, whatever it was, and Rachel and I would look at each other, like, what the fuck? Excuse me, I’m sorry.”