“How was the party?” Vicki was knee-deep in the flower bed. This time I wasn’t helping her—I was sitting at the table in the garden sketching the various succulents. I wanted to study them; they’d become somewhat of an obsession to me lately. My muse, if you like.
“It was okay.”
“Did you wear red lipstick?”
I looked up at her and smiled. “Yup.”
“And have you been silencing your inner bully?”
I stopped drawing and closed my book. “Something really strange happened today.”
She sat back on her haunches and looked at me through her red heart-shaped sunglasses.
“This girl at school, this really pretty, popular girl, offered to make me a dress.”
“Oh?” she leaned in, looking interested.
“She works in this shop that I went into and she saw me and . . . crap. It’s stupid, isn’t it? And I completely regret agreeing to it now. I don’t actually know why I agreed to it. It feels weird.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. She says she needs a design for her portfolio and wanted to do a fuller-figured dress, or . . .” I tapered off when I saw how Vicki was looking at me. She had that therapist look on her face. The one that bores into your soul and attempts to drag your innermost thoughts out. “I know what you’re going to say,” I said.
“What am I going to say?”
“That I should do it. That it will push me out of my comfort zone, that it might even be good for my self-image to have a dress made for me, or something like that.”
“Is that what you think I’ll say?”
“Maybe it will even be a slap in the face for my inner bully.”
She turned away from me and sank her hands back into the soil. “I wasn’t actually going to say that, so I’m glad you didn’t listen to me.”
“What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say not to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Baby steps, you know. But I can see that I was wrong.” She peered over the rim of her glasses and raised her eyebrows up and down. “It’s good. You’re challenging yourself. And who knows, maybe this will be your Oprah a-ha moment.”
“You like Oprah?” I asked.
“Not as much as I like Desperate Housewives of Beverly Hills.”
I laughed. “You mixed the shows up. It’s Desperate Housewives and then The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mix it. It was totally intentional.”
“You know, my mom’s kind of starting to look a bit like Lisa Rinna, the one with the huge lips.”
Vicki paused and looked at me for a while. “So, I take it you disapprove of cosmetic enhancement?” She pointed to her forehead. “I’ve been known to use a little from time to time. Smooth these damn wrinkles out, ne.” She ran a hand over her forehead.
“I mean, I guess . . . I don’t know.” I looked at her forehead and now I just felt bad. “I don’t recognize my mom anymore. That’s my point. She looks totally different. She is totally different. I caught her sexting someone the other day. She’s online dating now.”
“What did she used to be like?” she asked.
“Not like this. Not someone with such big hair who reads these trite, motivational books that tell you you can be a millionaire overnight if you step into your personal purpose, and who believes in conspiracy theories about world governments trying to control us with radio waves and stuff like that,” I rattled off. “She’s ridiculous. She’s like this caricature of herself.”
Vicki rose to her feet and adjusted her big yellow sun hat.
“She sounds very lost. She’s looking for something,” she said quietly.
“Lost?” I closed my book angrily. I didn’t agree with this statement. My mother wasn’t lost, she was very much found and in your face.
“Sounds like she’s lonely and desperately searching for meaning. Sounds like she’s lost trust in people and the world around her.” Vicki took a step closer to me.
“And how do you come to that conclusion?” A flicker of inexplicable anger flared inside me. I’d wanted Vicki to agree with me, tell me how ridiculous my mom was, not paint her as some sort of poor victim.
“People who bury themselves in self-help and motivational books are often searching for meaning in their lives. People who readily jump to believe in every conspiracy theory out there are distrustful of the people and world around them. They see the world as a dangerous place that is out to get them.”
I stared at Vicki and then blinked at her rapidly, feelings of irritation and anger swirling inside me.
“Have I told you about cactuses yet?”
I rolled my eyes at her. “No.”
She smiled. “Brace yourself.”
I folded my arms and sat back in the chair, waiting for this new plant analogy to drop.
“There’s this thing you can do with them, called grafting. You cut a piece of one species off and then stick it onto a wounded part of another cactus species and it starts growing again.”
“Sorry, what?”
She walked over to a small wall, picked up a pot and then placed it on the table in front of me. I stared at the strange thing. A long, straight, green cactus looked completely disproportionate with a bulbous purple ball growing from the top of it, and off that, things that looked like feelers reached up. It looked like a Frankenstein creature that had been pieced together crudely.
“All these different pieces are from different plants, that have just been put together?” I pointed at it.
“Yes. You tape them to the wounded host, and they will attach themselves and grow, and then become something completely new. You can keep going, putting as many different parts as you want, until the plant no longer resembles its original form.”
“What’s this got to do with my mom?”
“Your mom seems to be sticking all sorts of things over her wounds. Bits and pieces that don’t fit with the person she once was, that’s why she’s unrecognizable to you. Like this. It looks nothing like it used to look, trust me.”
“Are you saying that’s bad?” I asked.
She shrugged. “What do you think?”
I shrugged back. I didn’t actually know. “The divorce really messed her up. I guess finding your husband in a hot tub with someone else will do that.”
“So maybe she’s trying to repair herself with all these things? The giant billboards? The house? The lips? The books? The sexy pictures? The money? She’s trying to find something to fill the gap. The gap left by your father and the divorce.”
I sat up straight. “Are you saying I should feel sorry for her?”
“Do you?”
“Do I . . . ?” I thought about this for a moment and then that anger surged again. “No! I don’t. Her little cactus extravaganza is completely selfish and ridiculous and—” My alarm beeped and cut me off. I looked down at the time and jumped out of my seat. “I’ve got to go early today. The cactus is rushing out to a meeting and I have to get home to look after Zac.” I grabbed my drawing book.
“You’re a really good sister,” she called as I went. I stopped walking and stood there, feet frozen to the ground.
“Has anyone ever told you that?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Well, you are.”
“I try. But sometimes I wish my mother did more. Instead of sexting strange guys on the internet who, for all she knows, are serial killers and stalkers, and making terrible bloody YouTube videos and trying to sell half of Cape Town because she is Barbara Palmer of Palm Luxury Realty. And it feels like we haven’t had a real conversation in years. Nothing that comes out of her mouth is real. But I guess she’s not real anymore, so how could anything she says be real, and sometimes I just think I hate her.” I said that last part and then gasped, shocked that those words had come out of my mouth. I’d thought them, but never said them. Vicki shook her head at me.
“I don’t think you hate her, Lori. But I don’t think you get what you need from her—what you deserve from her—and I think it hurts. Same goes for your dad. Their divorce didn’t just mess your mom up.” She said that last part pointedly, and I knew what she meant. I don’t like to admit how hurt I was by the divorce and my father’s infidelity. It’s not like he cheated on me, but sometimes it feels that way.
“Have you ever really spoken to your dad about the divorce, and how it made you feel?” she asked.
“He’s engaged now.” The words flew out of my mouth. “She’s only twenty-seven.”
“I’m sure that must be confusing.”
I looked down at my feet, but didn’t answer.
“And your mom? Have you spoken to her about the divorce? How it made you feel?”
I shook my head again.
“So you’ve lost your voice. You’ve bottled everything up inside. And the thing about bottling is that inevitably it must come out again. And if the bottle is shaken just a little, it might explode.”
“Mmmm,” I mumbled. I knew what she meant. Because sometimes it did feel like I was on the verge of some kind of explosion.
“You have such a powerful voice, Lori,” she said, but I shook my head. This couldn’t be further from reality. “You do, you just haven’t realized it yet.” And then she smiled. Strange and conspiratorial. “By the way, did you see that artwork that everyone is talking about? The succulents?”
“Oh. You know?” I said.
Her smile broadened. “Ag, I suspected. But now I know.”
I felt my cheeks blush again and then smiled a little to myself.
“You’re a real artist, Lori. You see beauty in things that other people don’t.” She walked up to me and then placed her big hands on my shoulders. I was taken aback by the move; none of my other therapists had ever touched me. But it felt comforting and reassuring. “And now, we just need you to see that same beauty in yourself.” She squeezed my shoulders. “Homework for next session, bring me that list of the things you like about yourself! I need to see it.”
I nodded at her. “I will.”
“And use your voice!” she shouted after me as I left.