THE FURNITURE FOR my home office is going to be delivered tomorrow, and my first counseling appointment is tomorrow, and I have no way of knowing if each of those two events will take place on or about the same time.
Since I haven’t told anyone about my counseling appointment, I can’t really ask someone to stay at the apartment to wait for the delivery because I have no story to tell.
This is what happens with secrets. You box yourself in.
I mentioned in passing to A.J. that I was thinking about a counselor, but I didn’t tell him that I had an appointment, and it wouldn’t matter anyway because he has a big meeting about some promotion they’re doing in Old Town and he can’t miss it.
He’s pretty much taken over everything about the studio.
Jovana is never there.
The good news is that he has taken over most of her clients.
The bad news is that he’s working lots of hours and he doesn’t have the free time he used to have.
So now I have to make up some stupid story that will eventually be found out, and not only will I not have told the person about the counseling appointment, which is a lie by omission, but I will have lied by telling them whatever excuse I come up with, which will be a lie by commission.
At least that’s how I remember the nuns telling me it works.
That’s why you aren’t supposed to keep secrets.
And although my mother would not be happy to hear it, it really isn’t the lie or the sin or the omissions or commissions that bother me. What bothers me is that you’re supposed to be able to live your life the way you want to live your life without all these stupid games. I’m not in fifth grade anymore. This whole thing is just plain stupid. It’s my life. If I want to go to a counselor, I should just tell the world that I’m going to a counselor. There shouldn’t be any need for secrets about it.
Mom always says that until you learn a lesson, it just keeps getting harder and worse. This must be one of those lessons, because I went from never thinking about secrets and all that stuff to having it on my mind all the time.
And this is a secret that I decided to keep myself, unlike the other secrets that were foisted upon me.
Yes, I said foisted.
That’s something I need to talk to the counselor about. If you had asked me a couple of weeks ago if I were one of those people who had a life full of deception and secrets, I would have laughed at you. I’m one of the most open people I know. I talk to people about stuff all the time. People I’ve never met. No one has ever accused me of being shy or close-lipped or whatever it is that Grandma used to call it.
Since I started paying attention, it seems I do have a life full of this stuff. It didn’t happen just because I started paying attention. That’s not how life works. So I’ve had this stuff in my life for a long time, and I just didn’t realize it.
And if my life is full of this stuff, and I wasn’t even aware of it, then just think about all the secrets Bernie must have kept. She had a whole career people didn’t know about. I’m sure when she was volunteering her time at the church or at the soup kitchen, the fact that she was a pretty prolific erotica writer never came up.
I wonder if the priests knew.
I wonder if she felt the need to go to confession. She was old-school Catholic; they used to go every week.
I wonder if she did all that volunteer work as her way of making up for the erotica stuff.
I wonder if writing erotica is technically against the rules of the church. Maybe it’s like being gay. You’re allowed to be gay; you just aren’t allowed to act on it in a physical way. Or the whole divorce thing. You’re allowed to divorce; you just aren’t supposed to get married again.
I really need to brush up on the rules. I’m sure they’ve changed since I was in school, and I’m sure that I’ve messed them up in my memory.
I’ll have to make a note to ask Mom about it.
I don’t think I’m ready to call Billy and ask. Even if we have known him since we were kids, he’s officially Father Parker, not Billy, and asking him about erotica would just be weird.
I guess I’m not as grown up as I keep giving myself credit for.
The problem is that one lie or secret leads to the next. If I call Suzi and ask her to wait for the furniture delivery, what is my excuse? If I tell her I have to work, and she mentions it to her grandmother, and her grandmother mentions it to Adeline, then I’ve put my job in the middle of it. Although I’m pretty sure that would never happen and that even if it did, nothing would ever come of it, why put your job at risk?
Isn’t it interesting that I’m doing favors for people all the time, but when I need a favor, I’ve got nobody to ask?
I was trying to decide if I was going to cry about that when there was a knock on my door.
Connie, my neighbor with the “big blue balls” welcome mat, asked, “Hey, cutie, could I ask you a big favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could you move your car? It would make it a whole lot easier to pack up my rental truck if I could park it where your car is. My car is right next to it. I could park it in the middle and have room.”
“No problem, let me grab my keys.”
“When you pull out, kinda hang there so that nobody pulls in. Could you do that?”
“Sure.”
Connie took off running.
By the time I got to my car, he’d pulled his car out and was headed for the rental truck.
I pulled my car out, he slipped the truck into the spot, backing it in like a pro, and jumped out.
I found a spot at the end of the row, about six apartments down.
“Thanks. I’ll have the truck here all day today and all day tomorrow. Buddy of mine owns the rental place. It was easier for both of us to do it this way. Hope that doesn’t screw you up.”
“Not at all. I have an appointment tomorrow, and I’ve got a furniture delivery coming at some point. I’m sure they can just pull up and put the blinkers on. They don’t have to park any place special. Other than that, I got nothing going on. I can walk down to my car. No big deal.”
“If you’re going to be out for your appointment, who is waiting on your furniture? Are they gonna need your space?”
“I don’t have anybody to babysit my apartment. A.J. has to work. I’m just going to hope that I’m home.”
“I’m gonna be here all day tomorrow. Put a note on your door, and give me the key. I’ll let the furniture people in.”
“Really? Could you do that for me? That would help a lot.”
“No problem.”
“Okay. I’ll put the tip for the delivery guys on my counter in an envelope. That way if I’m home, I’ve got it, and if I leave, it’s there for you to give it to them.”
“Okay. I heard that Suzi is going to take over my place. Before I go, I’ll take the box apart and clean it real good.”
“Box?”
“The air conditioning unit. I’ve smoked in that apartment for years. The management here isn’t going to clean it right. I don’t want all that shit blowing on the baby.”
“That’s really nice. I’ll tell Suzi. Thanks.”
“Talk to you later. I’m kind of psyched it’s moving day. I really thought this ol’ dog would die alone. Never thought I’d find me a woman again. Not at this point in my life.”
“I’m happy for you. And for her. You’re a great guy. There’s no way you were going to end up alone. Any girl would be proud to be with you.”
“You weren’t knocking down my door.” He winked at me.
Although he said it in a funny way, you could tell that there was hurt behind it. Why is it that the nicest guys are always the last ones to get picked?
How do you answer that? “You deserved better than me.”
“You’re quick. A liar, but quick.”
There it was again. A liar. Maybe I’m being overly sensitive, but I need to think about that.
The furniture guys still hadn’t arrived when it was time for me to go to my appointment. I seriously thought about calling and cancelling. I just couldn’t justify cancelling. It is so rude to cancel at the last minute without a real reason. It would be different if my leg fell off or something, but to cancel just because I’m a chicken would be wrong.
Right?
I took a deep breath. Grabbed the envelope off my counter and carried it over to Connie.
Procrastination is a good thing when you can frame it as being considerate.
Unfortunately, he didn’t really have time to talk to me, so I handed him the envelope with the tip for the furniture guys and an extra key to the front door, got in my car, and drove toward scary.
Why it’s scary to see a counselor I’m not really sure, but I’m a little bit terrified.
Maybe it’s because I’m seeing all these signs of my life not really being what I thought it was.
Between Sinead’s comment about me being the family martyr and the whole lies and secrets thing, maybe life isn’t as good as I always thought it was.
I hate this.
Even with my attempt at procrastination I got to the office twenty minutes early. I couldn’t decide if I should wait in the car or go in. What if she saw me drive up? Then she would know I’m waiting in the car.
I’m such a doofus.
Get a grip.
What is wrong with me?
I’m early to everything. Have been all my life. I’m kind of proud of that. If the counselor wants to read something into that, let her.
What is going on with me?
Why so whiny and insecure?
What do I fear?
This is just crazy.
I walked into the counselor’s office. It seemed to be a shared reception area with a shared receptionist and a bunch of doors going in different directions.
I took a deep breath and walked up to the receptionist.
I started to ask for the counselor when the woman behind the counter smiled warmly and said, “You must be Cara. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Vicky. Please, come on back to my office.”
She seems really nice. Warm. Friendly. She could be my friend if I weren’t here in the capacity of patient.
Patient?
Really?
She’s not a doctor. I need to think of a better term for this whole thing if I’m going to see a counselor. Not that there is anything wrong with it. I think all this stuff is a great idea.
Just not for me.
I know that a few years ago it was all about everyone seeing their therapist. Just about every kid I went to school with was seeing a counselor for something.
I know this stuff.
But the truth is, if Morgan hadn’t suggested that I go to a counselor, I never would have thought about it. Actually, she kind of bullied me into it. She did it in a loving and wonderful sister kind of way, but she wasn’t going to let me get away without taking care of myself.
I never would have come to see a counselor without her doing that.
All an O’Flynn needs is a good cup of tea and Mom. She doesn’t know everything, but she knows enough to figure out what’s going on in the lives of her kids. There isn’t a single problem we have ever had that she couldn’t make better. Not all problems are fixable, but all problems are better-able, and better is what my mother is best at.
The only reason I’m here is so that I don’t hurt Morgan’s feelings. I’ll be here one time. I’ll tell Morgan I kept my promise and gave it a shot.
How bad can it be?
Vicky led the way to her office. It was really nice. Light and airy. There was a couch on one side of the room and a chair facing it.
No desk.
No storage.
This must be the interrogation room.
I sat on the couch. Vicky sat in her chair. She put her hand down to one side, and a pretty leather writing pad holder seemed to materialize. With it was a really beautiful pen.
“It is a pretty pen, isn’t it?” She laughed as she saw me checking it out.
“I’ve never seen one like that.”
“When I opened my office, I wanted to look professional, and I figured a really nice pen and a really nice cover for my pad would do it. I was kind of insecure about this whole counselor thing. I talked to my mom about it. My mom knows everything about everything. She found this wonderful place online. The pens are like forty bucks, but they look a lot more expensive than that. My parents got me this one as an office-warming gift. I now buy them as gifts when I want something personal and beautiful for someone really special.”
“I’ll have to look for that.”
“Just Google ‘beautiful pen.’ Choose images. You’ll see it.”
“Thanks.”
“You are very welcome.”
“So, how does this work?” Now that I knew Vicky had a mother like mine, and a beautiful pen — you know how much I love my cheap purple pen for writing my to-do lists — and she seemed just the slightest bit self-deprecating but still confident, I decided that I might as well participate fully. I’m going to have to report back to Morgan, and, you never know, I might just learn something an O’Flynn hasn’t come up with.
“Well, Cara, how it works is kind of up to you.”
“I don’t know anything about counseling. I never would have thought of making an appointment, but my sister-in-law Morgan suggested that I give you a call.”
“I’m aware of that. Morgan called me and gave me permission to talk about her should I find it helpful.”
“I really don’t want to get in the middle of Morgan’s business. She was raped. Nothing like that happened to me. I don’t see how getting into any of the details of what happened to Morgan is going to help me deal with what happened to me, because compared to what happened to Morgan, what happened to me is so insignificant.”
“What did happen to you?”
“I’m sure if Morgan called she filled you in. She would do that to make it easier on me.”
“I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
“Well, I got the crap kicked out of me by my old roommate’s husband.”
She didn’t say anything, which I took to mean I had to talk some more. Which is pretty much why I didn’t really want to come in the first place. I know I talk all the time. About everything. But I talk to people I already know and trust about things they already know about me. I’m not really good at telling new people new stuff.
That’s what Teagan is for!
By the time my time was up, I’d told Vicky everything I could remember about Barry beating me up. There are still a few fuzzy spots. The doctors said that’s pretty normal.
Some of what I reported to Vicky was actually what I remembered of what other people told me. I told her when that was the case.
You never know, maybe my brain is just blocking some things out. She assured me that it was perfectly normal not to remember every detail, and not just for psychological reasons. The brain is a wonderful thing, and it protects you and itself. While Barry was kicking the crap out of me, my body, including my brain, went into survival mode. That’s good.
I told her all about when I freaked out on Seamus. I explained that he was just coming in to tell the family the good news that his wife was pregnant and I almost passed out.
Teagan is convinced that it was because Seamus came toward me in a hurry and I had some kind of flashback.
Morgan is convinced I’ve got some kind of post-traumatic stress thing going on.
Unfortunately, Vicky wasn’t as interested in what Morgan and Teagan think as she was about what I think. I’m just not sure what I think. I’m also not really interested in figuring it out. As my grandma used to say, some things are just better left to wilt on the vine.
By the time I’d told her my story and filled out her paperwork, the clock had run down, and it was time to go.
She asked if I’d like to make another appointment.
I don’t know why, but when she asked me that, I kind of panicked. If I’m honest with myself, although I kept saying I’d only go to counseling one time, I didn’t really expect to go talk to her just one time. People don’t go to counselors one time. What would be the point?
But when it was time to commit to the next time, I didn’t.
I told her I’d think about it and give her a call.
She stayed her normal nice self and told me she’d look forward to it.
My heart was pounding so hard when I left that I thought it was going to explode.
Weird.
When I got home, the furniture was in the house. It was pretty much where I wanted it. A.J. and I would be able to push it around later and get it perfect. Normally I’d do something like that by myself. I’m the type that moves all the furniture when I vacuum, so moving furniture into place has never been a big deal for me, but not anymore, or at least not right now. My ribs are mostly better, but every once in a while when I do something stupid, I pay a high price. Moving furniture might be one of those stupid things.
My neighbor Connie brought my key back and rushed off to finish the last of his packing and cleaning. I offered to help, but he said he had it well under control.
As much as I’m looking forward to Suzi being so close, I’m gonna miss my neighbor with the “big blue balls” welcome mat. He’s been the kind of neighbor everybody should have. Nice. Polite. Never nosey but always willing to help. Never forcing himself into your business but always aware of what’s going on.
I’m really good at all of those neighborly things, except for the never nosey part. I’m working on that.
Ever have one of those moments that doesn’t feel like a memory, but it’s not déjà vu either?
I’m suffering with a lot of those lately.
Why say suffering?
Because it feels like one of two things. Either I’m just repeating the same stuff over and over in my life, and that’s why everything feels so familiar, or I’ve got this supernatural thing going on that I don’t understand and my mom isn’t here to explain to me.
I guess there are other options, like a brain tumor or maybe mental illness, but until it is proven to be something else, I’m thinking that it’s the whole doing the same thing over and over problem.
Mom used to tell us all the time that the only difference between a rut and a grave is depth. How many mothers tell their children to go out and do something different? Something exciting. Something outside their comfort zone. My mom was telling us that when we were three and continued until we moved out of the house.
At the time all my friends thought it was so cool. When their mothers were still trying to hold their hands while they were crossing the street, my mother was telling us to walk down two blocks and cross at the light. There was a crossing guard there. We’d be fine.
When we were in grade school she’d give us a couple of dollars and send us to the grocery store to find something she needed to cook dinner. We never knew that she was right behind us or one of the older kids was spying on us. We thought we were a big deal. We usually traveled in pairs; Teagan and I were usually together on these adventures, but because there were no adults, we thought we ruled the world.
My friends weren’t allowed to do stuff like that, and when they told their mothers that we were doing it, their moms would shake their heads and look at us like we were orphan children with no parenting at all.
Now that I’m older and wiser and have seen my mom in action with my younger brothers and sisters, I am fully aware that my mother never really wanted us to go out and join the circus as she suggested; she wanted us to get all of our rebelliousness out of our systems before we were old enough to do much more than cross the street.
Tricky.
If you rebel when rebelling means that you play army instead of hopscotch, you identify rebelling with little kid stuff.
When all my friends were doing all kinds of stupid stuff in high school, I not only had no interest in doing it, but I thought virtually all of it was stupid and immature. I thought they were acting like little kids because being rebellious for no reason is a little kid thing to do.
At least it is in our family.
I know there are times that Teagan and I sound like we’re twelve, the stupid fights we have and the whining and all that, but if you look at the big picture, you see that we’re actually pretty conservative, and if anything, we act really old for our age. I don’t drink. I don’t party. My bills are paid on time. I have a savings account. I even have medical insurance, and I’m the only person I know my age — without any family or medical problems — who has actual medical insurance.
Maybe the counselor was better than I thought.
Why am I thinking about all this stuff if she didn’t stir stuff up in my wee little brain? And now all the junk that had safely settled to the bottom is agitated to the top.
Or maybe it’s because my own sister called me out for being the family martyr and says I’m delusional.
And Teagan didn’t exactly fight her on the point.
Seems like things used to be a lot simpler.
I sound like one of those little kids who say “when I was little” or “I never did that in my whole life.” It always makes me laugh. All of the sudden it isn’t so funny.