The Pith :: Therapy [2]

The clinic my mother had been visiting was in a small building conveniently conjoined with her lawyer’s office. There were three stiff, plum colored chairs along the blank, white wall that was adjacent to the receptionist’s window. Old and outdated Time, People, and Newsweek magazines were stacked upon a table between two of the purple chairs. My mother went up to the receptionist and was greeted with an acknowledging smile and given a clipboard slated with a stack of “standard procedure” papers. As she sat down to fill them out I took the seat next to her. I couldn’t avoid thoughts comparing the atmosphere to that of a dentist’s office. If only I had seen jolly, dancing toothbrush cartoons on pamphlets and posters, my mind might have found more comfort. I avoided eye contact with the receptionist so as to make it clear I was not here by choice. My eyes scanned the plastic tree sitting in a corner that led to what I supposed was the therapist’s office. A title on one of the Time magazines to my left said:

AMERICA’S BORDER

Even After 9/11 It’s Outrageously Easy to Sneak Into

            I saw I wasn’t the only thing being probed and unwillingly trodden on.
            We waited for about fifteen minutes; evidently, we were early. When we heard a door open and the sound of two female voices disrupt the subtle rattling of the air conditioner, my mother handed the receptionist the finished clipboard. I looked at my maternal figure and my face must have retired any thoughts of eagerness because she prodded my arm roughly with her knuckles and told me to smile.
            I felt like the premature wrinkles on my forehead might take flight and join her laugh lines in convincing her and the rest of the world that pretend-happiness was the key to self-gratification. Ever since I was little my mother had been telling me to smile. I guess it’s all about impressions. Even though as a child I was far from auditioning for a Little Miss Sunshine Pageant, I was few steps up from a pronoun, I suppose.
            I rested my fingers on my temple and brow and kicked my left leg out nonchalantly. The first woman walking from around the corner looked middle-aged, pushed, old and haggard beyond her limits. She was wearing what most would consider “stay at home” clothes: grey stretch pants with apparent granny panty lines and a baggy t-shirt. Her hair fell in wisps from the barely retaining bun on top of her head. The blond coloring was dull and faded like an old newspaper left to the elements and blended in well with the grey hairs. Her eyes were sagged with the weight of whatever her reason for being in that office was. They seemed to be in that glowing stage before the sparkling tears form around the rim of the eyes.
            The second woman was young with plain features and well dressed. Her motions seemed calm, measured, and yet still resolutely business-like. Her voice was steady, sure, and well articulated.
            I did not pay much attention to that words that were said in the moments that it took for the first woman to leave. I observed her reactions to the younger woman and her body language upon leaving. She seemed to be a bit less burdened, but maybe this was all she had going for her. After all, some people just need someone to listen. Her head seemed weighted down, it appeared as if she struggled to lift it to eye level with whomever she was speaking with. She kept the full force of her central movement away from my mother and me. She never looked at us. I suppose I would have done the same, and if she had looked at me I wonder if I would have reflected her gaze. Were we both just ashamed of being here?
            As the older woman left, the younger turned towards our plum chairs and gave a smile that I was sure she was trained to display as assuring.
            “Hello, Maria. And this must be… Angelica? Or Zenaida?” If only she had regarded me as a pronoun; our battle grounds could seem a bit more even.
            “Hello. Yes, I brought Zenaida with me today.” My mother stood up. I looked at her to observe the overly inviting smile spread like a fungus across her face before I joined her in standing.
            “Oh, well, how are we doing today? Come on back; I’m glad you came.” She led us around the corner and down a narrow hallway to a small room at the end.
            “Yep.” That was all my mouth wanted to say.
            Her office was painted a carefully picked, aesthetically relaxing sea foam green. A couch and matching chair of rich burgundy were laid out so as to be seen immediately upon entry in the room. I supposed this also was meant to be a soothing tactic. I took the couch and tried to occupy as much space as possible. I noticed where there was a desk and large, comfy swivel chair. I rested on the side of the couch furthest from the desk. My mother sat in the chair that partenered my couch, resting comfortably, looking as if the battle was already half won.
            The therapist then introduced herself as Kate and sat in her swiveling office chair. I wondered if a first-name-basis foundation was also supposed to add security. She proceeded to say that I didn’t have to go through a solo session with her just yet. Then she addressed my mother and asked what she wanted to discuss with me present. The session would be divided into two fifteen minute segments; once with the both of us and the other with just my mother.
            Given a nudge from the therapist, my mother launched into household tales of woe and misunderstanding. I listened vaguely, making tiny mental notes of rebuttal about each subject she touched upon. The last subject outlined by my mother was how I was receiving the divorce of my mother and Him. This seemed to be what the therapist was waiting for.
            “What do you think of your father leaving?”
            I shrugged.
            “Were you angry?”
            Obviously, I thought. But instead I said, “Sure, I was, initially.”
            “She writes angry poems.” My mother decided to interject. I then remembered that she had told me she had showed my most recent poem to her therapist. Joy.
            “Do you use writing often to let out your emotions?”
            “I do.”
            “That’s a good tool. Your mom has said, though, that it can pose a problem. She wants you to talk to her more and that’s really why we’re here. We need to better that communication within your family. But writing is a very healthy and natural way of expressing your anger.” Thank God. I had always strived for normalcy.
            The rest of the session which included me was much of the same. After my necessary time had expired, I sat in the lobby area awkwardly faced in front of the receptionist. I observed the comings and goings of characters much like the middle-aged woman I had seen departing earlier. They were all plain people trying so hard to plainly exist.
            When my mother came out, the therapist bade me goodbye and my mother made an appointment for the next week. The walk to the car was silent. When we entered the vehicle my mother thanked me for agreeing to come with her. A few pauses passed and she was in tears. She told me all the confusion she was feeling after He left and how it was so hard to even say his name let alone think about him excessively. She apologized to me for all the hurtful things she had ever said since he left. She told me of his influence on her and her disposition during their twenty-odd years of marriage. I was assured that no word she spoke out against me would ever mean that she didn’t love me.
            I listened. I listened and I thought. I thought and I felt.
            The moments passed with more of my characteristic muteness.  I stared at the dust in the dashboard, illuminated into rust colors by the setting sun bursting rudely through the windshield. In a matter of minutes my lackluster posture was fracturing my vertebrae. I could feel them popping out of my back. My face felt like a harlequin mask. I wanted to pry it off and cast it into some bin for teen angst at the Goodwill. Yes, in a matter of minutes my conscience had poked its nose out like a rodent blinking at the daylight after an extended hibernation. I looked up from my musing revelations into my mother’s watching eyes.
            “Could you help me out? We need to start discussing things. I just don’t want our family to fall apart. You need to tell me what you think and if something bothers you. I can’t handle all of this on my own… Can you do that for me?”
            I paused.
            “Sure, I can do that.”
            It was a start and I was made willing. My defense mechanisms were wearing down and “I” was starting to sound less and less appealing. I had found that “you” was quite a more effecting pronoun to be heard.