Though loosened up after their tequila shots, Nate still didn’t tell Danny exactly what he’d held back from Jennifer, just that, yeah, she was angry that he didn’t want to get into it. Danny didn’t press him on details, still flying high about the new partnership, and they ended their little celebration within the prescribed hour time slot. Nate expected Danny to complain about having to leave, but the adoring dad instead gushed about how much fun Raffi had in the bathtub and the stories he’d read to his spirited son after tucking him in. It was a sweet moment that left Nate feeling a bit empty, so he sat at the bar alone and downed another beer—which only made things worse.
Exiting the bar into the mid-August dusk, Nate realized he needed to stop the pity party and take action—any action. Maybe more buzzed than he thought, he leaned against his truck parked in the small lot behind Bailey’s and impulsively called Jennifer. If she was smart, she wouldn’t answer—but he hoped she would. What he would say then, he had no clue. He knew one thing: Whatever he did end up saying would probably be wrong.
“Nate?”
His mouth went bone dry. He cleared his throat. “I said I’d call you tomorrow. It’s tomorrow.” Brilliant, Cronin.
“What’s going on? You sound strange.” Nate could hear the clanking of utensils against metal. She must have been cooking dinner.
“Me? No, I’m good. I’m … awesome. Feel like company later?” It was official: He had no control of what was coming out of his mouth. Nate cringed at his slapdash request. He was met with silence on the other end of the line, followed by more kitchen noise.
“Sorry, I’m making an omelet,” Jennifer finally said.
“What kind?” Another cringe. More silence. The dancing couple entered the parking lot hand-in-hand. The woman gave Nate a tipsy little wave.
“Nate, I …” Jennifer trailed off. Nate strained to hear her as the couple’s car rumbled out of the lot and onto Hollywood Way. She continued, “Look, I might as well just say it now. I can’t keep doing whatever it is we’ve been doing lately. I thought I could, I wanted to give us another chance, but …”
Nate stood straight. “But what?” he asked, forcing an issue he knew was better left unforced. He heard the clunk of her frying pan landing in the sink.
“I need some time alone to make some decisions,” she said, finding her voice. “Some real decisions this time. And so do you.”
Nate started pacing the lot. “Don’t tell me what I need. I want you—I don’t have to think about it.” His words sounded fuzzy but, he hoped, only to him.
“Well, you have a funny way of showing it,” Jennifer answered with the impatience Nate had coming to him.
He leaned back against his truck, took a breath, told the truth. “Jen, I’m doing the best I can, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. Not for me. I know this is difficult. I know … things have been difficult, but please … just respect what I’m asking for.” When Nate didn’t respond—didn’t know how to respond—she added, “My food’s getting cold. I’d better go.”
“Sure, fine,” Nate managed. “Whatever you want.”
At that very moment, it wouldn’t have surprised Nate if they never spoke again.
It was only around eight when Nate returned home, though it felt a whole lot later. Cody obviously felt the same way: He greeted Nate at the door like he hadn’t seen him in, well, a dog’s age. He jumped up on Nate, slamming his big paws into his chest, causing Nate to fall to the living room floor. Cody covered him in slobbery kisses while Nate tried to regain his bearings. He gave up and leaned back against the wall as the dog continued his buoyant tongue bath. It made Nate smile—Cody so often made him smile—and appreciate once again how utterly loyal a dog could be, whether you’d earned it or not. They were truly love machines. People, not so much, thought Nate. They were too complicated, too unpredictable, too demanding. Why couldn’t we just be like dogs?
As Cody settled down, Nate pulled himself up off the floor and crossed into the kitchen. He checked the automatic pet feeder to make sure Cody had eaten (he checked every night as if the dog would ever miss a meal), then stood gazing into the open refrigerator looking for something to eat himself. He decided he wasn’t hungry—there wasn’t much to choose from anyway; a Trader Joe’s run was needed—and went upstairs to shower instead. Climbing the stairs, Cody at his heels, Nate thought about what a long fucking day it had been and how the bright spots—the exciting partnership with Danny; starting the job for a, well, interesting new client—were thoroughly overshadowed by the fissures with Jennifer and Amy. It was like the clouds blocking out the sun. He knew that however you sliced it, he’d seriously gotten in his own way. What would Lena the psychic—or better yet, a mental health professional—say about that? Maybe it was finally time to get ahold of a good shrink and find out. The thought scared the living crap out of him, which was as good a reason as any to do it.
When Nate stepped out of the shower he glanced at his cell glowing on the counter and saw that he’d missed a call. It was from Amy, think of the devil. As he toweled off, he weighed if he wanted to hear what she had to say or if it would be better to close out the day without one more thing to think about. He sighed, hit the speaker button, and played Amy’s message.
“Nate, it’s your moth—it’s Amy,” she began. “We have to talk this out. We’ve come this far—don’t let it end now.” There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “Please call me. Whenever you’re ready.” And just when it seemed as if Amy was going to hang up, she added, “I love you.”
Did she think those three little words would wallpaper over everything? That love, whatever it meant in a situation like this, would conquer all? It clearly did for Amy—she had always been his mother. But Nate hadn’t always been her son, not until the last handful of months. No matter, he could practically hear the ball bouncing into his court.
Nate put down his phone and gazed out at the room that his dad had slept in for so many years. It was now a mix of Jim’s older furnishings and Nate’s newer stuff, a decidedly eclectic combo of functionality over style. For so much of Nate’s life, he’d been a visitor to this space, a kind of friendly interloper. It had been a place to snoop around—looking for what, Nate never knew—when he was a kid and Jim was away at work or out with a friend or on the rare date. Jim never ostensibly hid anything in his room: He always kept his wallet and spare change there for the taking atop his dresser, the occasional Playboy magazine—when Playboy and magazines were still a thing—on his nightstand in full go-for-it view, and nothing in the shoe and sweater boxes that lived on his closet shelf except, well, shoes and sweaters. Still, to a child, there was magic and mystery in the unknown and, though Nate rarely uncovered anything of consequence, there was the thrill of the hunt.
The flashback made Nate smile, the room he now sat in seeming so much physically larger in his childhood memory than it did in his adult reality. He’d also spent so many sad, emotionally draining hours in it during Jim’s last months that it amazed Nate that he was now able to sleep in the room with so little issue. If he couldn’t conk out it had more to do with his own day-to-day setbacks than any lingering scenes of his father’s stalwart suffering within those same four walls. Though Jim’s death was still so fresh in his mind, whenever Nate thought of his father it wasn’t as he last saw him—a once vital and handsome man undone by pain and disease—but rather as one of a lifetime’s worth of snapshots forever stored in his brain. He conjured up a younger, dynamic, and jaunty Jim, with his wide smile, glowing eyes, and irrepressible charm. The man who taught him how to throw a ball, shave his face, grill a steak, drive a car, unhook a bra (yes, he did), and spot wisdom. The man who was there for him every day of his life—from child to teen to young adult. The man who he missed so terribly that as much as he tried to remember him, he also tried to forget. The man Nate wondered if he could ever truly and completely forgive. Or, more to the point, if he even should.
Nate fell back onto the bed next to Cody, stared at the ceiling, and closed his eyes. He immediately started to dream that Jim was alive and well and married to Amy, but that they lived in Jennifer’s guest house—as did Nate and Jennifer. Everyone couldn’t have been happier. Nice while it lasted.
Nate found himself a psychotherapist named Mira, a soft-spoken, super-direct woman in her fifties with a compact, comfortable office in Glendale, a busy L.A. suburb about ten minutes from Eagle Rock. He probably could have saved himself a lot of time and effort by just confronting Amy and Jennifer head-on, opening himself up as much as possible, listening—really listening—to their sides of things, and then reconciling his relationships with them or not, as the case might be. Still, if he could have done that in any kind of meaningful way, he wouldn’t need a therapist—which any evolved, proactive, and objective person would agree that he undeniably did.
Nate had spent the better part of his second day working at Charla’s thinking about giving in to therapy. That is, when the actress, this time in a bedazzled aqua jogging suit (did she even jog?), wasn’t interrupting Danny and him with breathy questions about various plants and unsolicited anecdotes about her years on Days of Our Lives. Nate wondered if, for all her seemingly grand self-possession, she wasn’t lonely and just happy to have a couple of friendly guys to talk to (make that: talk at). The thought made Nate warm to her and wonder if she’d ever had any children—beyond the ones she had on TV. Imagine finding out someone like Charla Kent was actually your mother.
Meantime, Danny peppered Nate with a barrage of practical and creative ideas for their partnership, undoubtedly inspired by input from the business-savvy Alicia, who, Danny confirmed, was thrilled and “one hundred percent onboard” about their new collaboration. Nate could picture Alicia’s pretty, heart-shaped face bursting into a grin and the happiness she must have felt at that special moment for her husband. On the other hand, how great it had to have been for Danny to be able to share the news with someone he loved so much. Nate did want what his friend had, even if it felt so elusive.
When Nate got home around six, he checked his health insurance website for covered psychotherapists nearest his zip code. Of the dozen or so providers that popped up on the screen, he picked Mira. Not only did she have a warm, maternal face (okay, it didn’t take a shrink to explain that one) but she listed later office hours than the others: Tuesday through Thursday until nine p.m. He left a message on her voicemail and was surprised when she called him back about an hour later. Nate stumbled his way through an introduction, told her a little—very little—about why he wanted to see her, and, heart thumping double-time, waited for Mira to ask him some questions.
The one she posed, however, was not what he expected: “I have an opening tomorrow night at seven. Would that be convenient?”
Nate figured he might as well take it before he chickened out. Twenty-four hours later, he found himself sinking warily into a pillowy, royal blue couch while Mira, as reassuring-looking as her picture, sat across from him in a matching club chair. He took in the soothing beachscapes that hung on the wall behind her and the hardy, split-leaf philodendron that stood tall and proud next to the room’s single window, and could feel his spine slowly relax.
“Have you ever been to therapy?” Mira asked, pen and notepad in hand.
“No, but I did see a psychic recently, does that count?” For some reason, Nate felt obligated to make her laugh. She broke a faint smile instead.
“Not really,” Mira answered. “Was she helpful?”
Nate didn’t know if this was a trick question. “I thought maybe a little, but I guess not.” He gestured around the office. “I mean, I’m here, so …”
“Is that bad?”
Okay, that was definitely a trick question. “Not yet, no.” Nate was still trying to keep it light, though he wasn’t sure why. Yes, he did, he was nervous as fuck. He felt like he was in one of those dreams where you suddenly had no clothes—and no one notices.
Mira chuckled. A real, audible chuckle. She had an inviting smile, with large, white teeth and full lips. Her eyes closed almost to slits then burst open again. She straightened a silk scarf that was tied around her neck and crossed her legs. Nate noticed she had on the same kind of pointy black high heels that he’d seen Amy wear to work. They looked painful, yet classy at the same time. Jennifer certainly must have had a pair, too, but Nate couldn’t remember. Things were unfolding for him at half speed. He was almost too aware of Mira, of his surroundings. Of how the glossy leaves of the philodendron vaguely shivered, the plant in direct line of the air conditioning vent. Or the way those beachscapes tilted to the right, each frame in need of the tiniest adjustment.
“Alright, Nate,” Mira began. “Tell me how I can help you.”
He gazed at the therapist, carefully assembling his words, aware that the meter was running. Nate swallowed, cleared his throat, leaned his shoulders against the cushy couch pillows, and began. Not at the beginning, but also not at the very end. He took Mira back to that fateful day on the bench at Occidental when Jim revealed what, until then, Nate had thought was the biggest secret—maybe the only secret—his father had ever kept from him.
“How did it make you feel?” Mira asked, pen poised over her pad.
Nate didn’t even have to think. “It was one of the worst moments of my life.” Actually, he did have to think. “Maybe the worst.” Nate added, “Though it was worse for my dad.”
She took some notes and looked back up at Nate. “How do you mean?”
How do you mean? How could he mean? Wasn’t it worse for the person who was dying than for the person who wasn’t? So he asked her just that.
“Well, yes, of course,” she answered, smoothing out her scarf again. “But I was talking about the betrayal. That’s a pretty significant piece of information to hold back from your only child. The one who would presumably have to take care of you, be responsible for you, at some point.”
Nate didn’t know what was more painful: the memory of that day on the bench or the bluntness of Mira’s words. How dare she? She didn’t know Jim. And she just met Nate, what, ten minutes ago? Was this what therapy was going to be like? Supposed to be like? Sit there and take it? If it was, he was out. He crossed his arms, silent.
Mira could obviously sense his discomfort. She swept her legs beneath her chair and sat forward. “I’m sorry if I offended you. It wasn’t a judgment call, it was an observation.” She paused for emphasis. “A factual one, I would say.”
Nate unhooked his arms and folded his hands in front of him. He hated to admit it, but he knew she was right. And, after simmering a bit more, he told her so. He told her what else he knew: that he was defensive of his dad, who was no longer here to speak for himself, but also confused and, yeah, sure, a little resentful.
What Nate didn’t say was that if anyone was going to throw Jim under the bus, it would be him—his son. But was that what he was there to do? What was he there to do?
Mira’s expression softened. She sat back in her chair. “This is difficult for you, isn’t it?”
“What was your first clue?” Nate shot back, instantly sorry for his tone. But Mira looked unfazed, like someone who’d heard it all before—which she no doubt had.
She took a few more notes, which began to unnerve Nate. What the hell was she writing? Mira then closed her notebook, set it on a small side table, and clasped her hands together like she had the greatest gift to share with him. Which maybe, in a way, she had.
“I think we’ve found a very good place to begin,” she said brightly, with probably as much excitement as a shrink was technically allowed to show.
Nate peeked at his watch: thirty more minutes to go. Yikes.