Rick strode into Dr. Grey’s office, awash in a mysterious glow. “I have a new memory for my old age.”
Dr. Grey opened her hands to Rick. “Something remarkable happened?”
“Remarkable first timer for me! I carelessly traversed three lanes of traffic and cut off a large transport truck. The driver leaned on his horn and, at the next red light, slowed to a stop alongside me. His piercing glare could’ve honed a butcher’s knife.”
“Then what?”
“I put my hands together and bowed in a mea culpa, but he shook his head furiously and gave me the finger. You’d be proud of what I did…turned up the volume on my car radio and for the remainder of an interminably long traffic light, rested in pleasant but unfamiliar territory, as if I were someone else sitting behind the wheel, calmly waiting out the traffic light. I’ll take myself there next time Dad pisses me off.”
“The next time you let him piss you off?” Swiveling her chair, Dr. Grey softly added, “Can he make you angry without your permission?”
“Well, okay, but I didn’t give that truck driver permission.” Looking smug, Rick leaned back and patted the arm of his chair.
“A+ in Applied Psychology,” Dr. Grey said.
“More good news. Since the Spotlight spectacle with Liv, we’ve reconnected and, to my surprise, she’s tossed her hat in the political ring…the one that circles the constituency I live in. She’s exceptionally determined to win, and I’m exceptionally determined to help her.”
“Today, you’re cheerful and confident—quite different from last week.”
“Last week I was dead; this week I’m alive.” Rick paused and added, “I’ll now dial back the melodrama.”
“A rapprochement with Liv?” Dr. Grey said, knowing Rick’s fondness for her…and for bookish words.
“Mm-hmm. She’d reread my apology for slagging the Catholic Church and texted an invitation for coffee. That’s when she told me about her campaign, and I agreed to door knock. Later, I worried that she’d manipulated me into canvassing.”
“Did you enjoy being part of her team?”
“Yes. Meeting strangers at the door was less intimidating than I had imagined, and I felt good doing something for Liv and the people she wants to represent.”
“If you enjoyed yourself, were you manipulated?”
Rick toyed with the idea. “Interesting way to look at it. Still, I wish I knew if she feels the same about me as I do her. Thoughts of heartache and sorrow never leave me. Stupid, eh?”
“First heartache, then stupidity—a double whammy. What will you tell yourself if Liv makes it clear she doesn’t want a romantic relationship?”
“I’ll tell myself it’s…unfortunate. That’s all—unfortunate and disappointing. No more torturing myself. Are you preparing me for the worst or testing me on last week’s therapy lesson?”
“Perhaps a little of both. I truly hope things work out for you and Liv.”
“Thanks. I’m optimistic,” Rick said nervously, then quickly segued into a description of the brunch date with his mother, and his father’s uncharacteristic, sensitive reaction to Dorothy’s assertiveness.
“Your dad was honest and vulnerable toward your mom?”
“Yes, but he soon veered to tough talk…as if any show of sensitivity or gentleness scares him. Emotions are enemy number one. What you said about not being able to sustain contact is bang on. He’s skittish.”
“What if, deep down, your father is worried that your mom’s growing assertiveness threatens their marriage? What if he’s also worried that his brother incurred the wrath of God by not going to Christmas Eve mass? Is that possible?”
Rick fumbled for an answer. “I doubt it. Dad’s too busy fighting his war against the world to worry about such things. When he’s around, it feels like the whole family is mired in a deep trench—the Wright family’s Maginot Line.”
“A sad story. Perhaps showing his true feelings would expose or embarrass him. Anger is a safe place to hide. A way to save face.”
“Whatever it is with Dad, I don’t give a damn.”
“You don’t give a damn? I thought you wanted to understand him.”
Rick squinted hard. “I’m so tired of trying to figure him out. It’s too…exhausting.”
Dr. Grey said, “Throughout our sessions, I’ve sensed an ambivalence about your dad, which is understandable given your personal history, but I wonder if there’s something else you aren’t comfortable saying.”
Rick’s mind had creatively wandered elsewhere. “I have an image of Dad standing alone on the shore of a small island shouting to everyone he cares about as they sail away: Come back! Come back!”
“A heart-wrenching image,” Dr. Grey said. She waited, then broke the lengthy silence. “I’d like to hear more about you, Rick…a man who values self-reflection. Insight.”
Rick said, “Why else would I pay for therapy?” He leaned back in his chair. “Apologies. That was brusque. But I’m curious, why do people pay for therapy?”
“They have their own reasons. Some just want to talk to a therapist who’ll listen; others want confirmation of their specialness, or reassurance that somebody or everybody else is wrong. Many have inner contradictions that burden them with chronic anxiety or guilt about all the things they should’ve or shouldn’t have done…or said. Others are searching for meaning in their lives.”
“I’m cool with the idea that there is no meaning in life except the one we give it.” Rick twisted his upper torso and hoped for some show of appreciation. “But I wonder how many of us are philosophic enough to ask the question, much less take the journey?”
“I’d rather not count people short, but here’s what most of my clients have in common—crushing loneliness. Bewildering disconnection.”
Rick searched for the meaning behind Dr. Grey’s enigmatic facial expression. “You’ve been responsible for so many people over the years. How do you keep sane?”
“I don’t take responsibility for my clients. If I took responsibility for those who get better, I’d have to take responsibility for those who get worse. At best, I’m an optometrist who hands them different pairs of glasses. They fill their own prescription.”
“So, I alone correct my impaired vision?”
“Mm-hmm, a correction that makes peace with your contradictions. What are you at war with?”
Rick stalled for an answer. “Anger. Judgment. Myself.”
“From your perspective, anger and judgment are your problems. Your battlegrounds. From my perspective, anger and judgment are mistaken solutions for a deeper problem.”
Rick scratched his temple as if digging for the right words. “Stinkin’ thinkin’—wasn’t that what you said my main problem was? Mine and everyone else’s?”
Dr. Grey smiled radiantly. “Yes, but please keep in mind that when I talked about reasonable and unreasonable thinking, I wasn’t referring to people with psychotic disorders like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, which you obviously don’t have. Who decides whether the thoughts that drive your anger and criticism are reasonable?”
Rick answered carefully. “I do. I decide.”
Nudging him deeper, Dr. Grey gently asked, “Have your major decisions helped get you what you want?”
“Course not. I simply want Dad to respect me. Love me. I’m his son, and I’m doing the best I can despite my limitations…and his disappointments.”
Dr. Gray nodded deeply, as if commenting would add clutter. Following another lengthy pause, she said, “Not being able to accept one’s own son is a major limitation.”
“Mm-hmm. How am I supposed to accept that?”
Dr. Grey said, “How are you supposed to accept your dad’s inability to love and respect you the way you want him to? Maybe he can’t, for his own reasons.”
Rick stretched and crossed his lanky legs then looked up at Dr. Grey who seemed to him like she was in her own world. “Before I forget,” he said, “I was thinking about Mom’s mother, my Grandma Davidson, when I left your office last week. After every bedtime story she told Joy and me, she’d close the book, look over her silver rimmed glasses, and say, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘Now remember, my Grandies, this story isn’t over.’ I can still hear the sound of her voice, like a lullaby. But I didn’t grasp the meaning of her comment until I was much older.”
“Ah, those wise Grandmas. Yours lingers in the background in case you need her. And now? What does her story ending mean now?”
Rick took his time answering. “Our lives are little odysseys of trials and triumphs, then death snatches it all away. From the time I was a little kid, Dad made my life a series of trials…a long, sad story that isn’t over.”
“Trials that you’ve survived. Did you…do you ever feel triumphant?”
“Now that I’m older, I let Dad win the mini battles so I can win the major war by cornering him with logic. Must confess, I’ve enjoyed my little victories, but I’m beginning to see how much I lose by winning.”
“If you changed, you’d leave those victories behind.”
“Maybe that’s what my ghoulish nightmare was about the other night.” Rick told Dr. Grey about wandering through a cemetery and stumbling on his own grave.
“Lying in a sarcophagus…hmm,” Dr. Grey said. “Symbolically, it could mean you’re dead or dying. Emotionally cold. Socially suffocating.”
Rick cleared the lump in his throat. “Ah, here comes the deep psychoanalysis.”
Dr. Grey leaned back and massaged her neck. “I’m not big on dream interpretation. I’d rather ask you straight out how a lifetime of father-son drama influenced you; your career choice, for example.”
“Strange as it sounds, I’ve wondered if writing novels about other people’s conflicts would move my own to a bigger stage. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, and a bigger audience. The artistic, gentle side of you wants to be a writer. What about the spirited side?”
Rick stared at a small hole in the heel of his stocking. “My embattled side wants to fight its own little war on an imaginary battleground. Conquer it by writing about it.”
“Very insightful. Yesterday’s choices help us understand today’s. I’ve seen clients become exhilarated when they react differently to troublesome situations.”
After a moment’s reflection, Rick said, “I’ve waited a lifetime for Dad to love me. On Boxing Day, I abandoned all hope at the dinner table, and I’ve since wondered if I provoked his attack to justify hating him. Justify retaliating.”
Dr. Grey arched one eyebrow. “Was justice delivered?”
“No. A load of guilt was delivered. And haunting flashbacks.” He pressed his fists to his temples and began to tremble.
Dr. Grey waited. In hushed tones, said, “Loss and regret are painful.”
Rick wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater and choked on his words. “These are tears of shame, Doc. Shame and disgust!” He reached for a tissue on the table. “Like I’ve said before, I wish I could…I wish I could love Dad, but I can’t. I just can’t. There’ve been times when I wished he’d drop dead.”
“As a kid, you never felt good enough. Wasn’t it natural to protect yourself from your father’s abuse by hating him?”
“But…well, didn’t I also tell you that Dad has some good points.”
“Ah, yes, you did, so hate is perhaps too extreme. Still, something’s stopping you from feeling less bitter?”
“He is, dammit! Drives me crazy.” Rick sighed and immediately corrected himself. “Oops! Someone taught me last week that no one can drive me crazy. My inappropriate beliefs and words do that…single-handedly.”
Dr. Grey smiled and said, “Your facial expression changed as you said that, and I’ve noticed something else—something quite remarkable. Your father’s always with you. He’s with both of us now, here in this room.”
“Not in a good way, and I resent that. Didn’t you say in one of our sessions that if we understand why people behave the way they do we’re less likely to let them upset us? I wonder what you think of Dad now that I’ve given you more background information about him. About us.”
“My sketchy impression of him is someone who likely felt insecure and anxious as a child. A lonely little kid without deep, loving relationships.”
“Lately, that’s how I’m trying to see him—an anxious, child-like adult.”
“Perhaps he’s learned to fear intimacy because it threatens too much need.”
Fuck, this isn’t easy. “I don’t get it—the threatening too much need part.”
“For people with histories like your father’s, needing others symbolizes pain. Best bury it. Perhaps what your dad most needs from you is that which he most fears…intimacy.”
“And that which I can’t give. Sheesh, that’s a lot of guilt to unpack!”
Dr. Grey forced her shoulders back like a soldier ready for inspection. For a moment, Rick thought she either didn’t know what to say or simply felt uncomfortable.
“Except for heinous crimes, I’m not big on guilt,” Dr. Grey said. “How about replacing it with softer, kinder regret? Can you imagine regretting your behaviour?”
“I like that. Regret…and forgiveness.”
“Not big on forgiveness either,” Dr. Grey said. “Forgiveness is based on judgment; in some cases, self-righteous condemnation of someone. Instead of forgiving people, getting angry again, forgiving them again…round and round it goes, I’d rather work at understanding them. Then again, maybe I’m too picky about the meaning of the word.”
Rick’s eyes were brimming. “But you’re a psychologist. Understanding comes easier for you than the rest of us.”
“Possibly, but compassion and kindness are important too, if that doesn’t sound too pious.” Dr. Grey lifted the water jug, filled two glasses on the table and passed one to Rick, who said, “Before I booked my first appointment with you, I asked Dad to consider a joint counselling session—family therapy. His reaction was swift…vulgar and dismissive. Then I realized that if he’s so certain he’s right about everything, the very thought of therapy would imply he’s wrong.” Rick looked pleased with himself.
“Good point,” Dr. Grey said. “But aren’t there times when we all close our minds to understanding different ideas? Myself included? You?”
Rick gave a slow nod of recognition. “I’m convinced I’m quite right about Catholicism—but I might be wrong.” Rick shook his head as if to ask: what did I just say? “If I’m too certain about religion, or anything else, it’s because I’ve learned it from Dad.”
“Oh, I see. It’s all his fault?”
From the tone of Dr. Grey’s question, Rick assumed she didn’t like his answer to her question; judged it badly.
“Okay, that’s a copout,” Rick said, voice fading. “I’m the one to blame.”
Without hesitation, Dr. Grey replied, “Now it’s all your fault? Are you going to feel guilt-ridden about that?”
Scalding comment. Can’t win. With renewed energy and a whiff of indignation, he said, “Not guilty. Plain and simple.”
Dr. Grey relaxed her facial muscles as Rick sank in his chair and stared out the window at his close friend—pitch-black darkness.
“I’m thinking there might be regret on both sides,” Dr. Grey said.
Rick’s head dropped. He swiped his hand across his forehead. “Too much to process…need to decompress.” He walked to the window and stared out at the traffic below. Dr. Grey waited until he returned and settled into his soft chair.
“Today, we’re halfway through six sessions,” she said. “What thoughts have you had about our time together? What’s been helpful? What hasn’t?”
Not wanting to be misunderstood, Rick again deliberated. “Early on, I questioned the usefulness of therapy, but I now think it would be riskier to drift along hoping that, by chance, a special someone would rescue me. Someone who’d make my life easier and happier.”
“Interesting fiction, your serendipitous someone. How would that help you?”
“It wouldn’t,” Rick said emphatically. “I’d be endlessly stuck where I am.”
“Were you hoping I’d be that someone who’d rescue you? Always support you? Avoid the hard conversations?”
“No. Maybe. I dunno. Too many words bouncing around in my head…searching for sensible sentences.”
“Change is stressful,” Dr. Grey said, “but over time, repeating the familiar might be even more stressful than trying something new, which is why I’ll question that which I think is keeping you stuck.”
Rick breathed so deeply his nostrils narrowed. “I’m trying to put the pieces together but they’re all broken…nothing fits.”
Dr. Grey checked the wall clock. “I don’t think they’re broken, but I’d like us to work a bit more at piecing them into an integrated portrait of Rick Wright. This was a heavy session. I was provocative.”
“For sure.” Rick slid to the edge of his chair. “Cognitive calisthenics,” he said, with a curt nod, then reached for his jacket. “Where do we go from here?”
“Round four next week?” Dr. Grey asked.
Rick flashed an infectious grin. “Are we talking boxing? Golf?”
Dr. Grey volleyed. “Par for the course!”
“See you in seven,” Rick said, smiling through half a wave and salute.
Driving home in light traffic, he thought about Dr. Grey’s demeanour—attentive, challenging, pensive, serene. Does she have an intimate partner? Do they enjoy each other’s company? Sex? Silliness? No. Sharp wit.”
Later that evening as he worked his way through the last of his store-bought roast chicken and Greek salad, Rick made a few notes for his therapy file and drafted another short story scene. An evening of mild restlessness had left him feeling pleasantly exhausted.
Curious, amusing restlessness—maybe that’s the good life.
Rick poked his head out from under his duvet and yelled, “Who is it?”
“Who else would come knocking at this time of day? The tooth fairy?”
Rick cringed at the sound of his father’s inimical voice. What will he go on about now? I don’t have the energy to deal with him.
Another loud knock. “Bad news, Ricky.”
“One sec!” Rick stepped into his pants, opened the door, and tried but couldn’t manage a smile. “What’s wrong?”
Dick assumed his usual pose: hands on hips, chin and shoulders braced for attack. “You left your lights on. Battery’s nearly dead.”
“Dim like me this time of day. Thanks for noticing.”
From the front porch, Dick watched as his son tried to start the crippled engine. When the Mustang gave a dying gasp, he shouted, “Can’t flog that dead horse. My jumper cables are in the garage. Give me a minute and I’ll boost the old nag.”
Dead battery, new beginning? Amazing, Rick thought. Dad’s starting the day like a normal, civilized father.
Dick attached the jumper cables and when the V8 snorted back to life, Rick lowered the car window and yelled, “Thanks, Dad. Can I buy you breakfast at Katie’s Kitchen? I’ll meet you there.”
Dick dropped the hood. “Save your money,” he said, walking toward Rick. “There’s a big pot of fresh coffee in the kitchen and toasted blueberry bagels always hit the spot with me.” Jerking his head toward the house, he added, “C’mon in and have breakfast with Mom and me.”
“You sure? Not Katie’s Kitchen? The old mare needs a good run.”
“Let ’er run where she is. See you inside.”
Confident that his father’s counter-offer meant reconciliation, Rick sprinted up the front steps and into the kitchen where he affectionately hugged his mother. “I offered to take Dad to Katie’s Kitchen…my way of thanking him for boosting the battery, but he insisted I come in for breakfast. Imagine that!”
“How nice! Dad’s in a good mood. Maybe he’s thought about a few things, and maybe now’s the time to tell him Marg and I will door knock with you and Liv.” Dorothy immediately texted Marg as Rick reached for a coffee mug.
“Wonder how he’ll react when you tell him you’re going to help the Liberal Party…he hates to have you out of sight.” Rick winked and added, “How foolish of him.”
Dorothy giggled and covered her mouth like a young schoolgirl sharing secrets. “Shh. He’s stomping up the back steps.”
Dick ambled into the kitchen. “Got an extra bagel for Ricky?” he asked, rattling the keys in his pocket.
Dorothy playfully shook the bag of bagels and put another one in the toaster, then smiled alluringly at her husband. “Ricky and I were just talking about a top-notch Liberal candidate, Liv Janson, who’s running in our constituency for the upcoming election. We’re going door knocking with her.”
Dick heaved a guttural sigh and stared at his foot as if fungus had sprouted through his socks. “God help us,” he bristled, “the lady of the house is dead serious about helping the pinko party.” He walked over to the counter and poured himself a coffee.
Dorothy looked at her phone, then Rick. “Marg just replied that she’ll door knock with us this weekend.”
“Fantastic, Mom!” Rick said, with enough enthusiasm to straighten the ruffles on the kitchen curtains.
Dorothy put a plate of toasted bagels on the table, sat down beside Rick, and looked at her husband. “The Liberals are fighting for the up and coming generation and I want to help our candidate win.”
Dick took his usual seat at the head of the table, reached for a bagel and, in a quieter voice, said, “You’ve changed, Dorothy. You’re swirling down the drain on me. A stranger in my house…my bed and arms. What’s come over you?”
“Maybe I’m just being forthright and honest for a change,” Dorothy said.
Ignoring the poetic sadness in his father’s voice, Rick said, “Don’t have a coronary casualty over us door knocking for a pinko—a slur on all Liberals who believe strong social programs and equally strong business communities are important for a healthy society. Liv Janson—”
Rick might as well have stomped on a wasp’s nest.
“Don’t preach to me about libtards,” Dick bellowed through a spray of spittle. “And don’t you dare bring a scrap of literature into this house. No goddamn lawn signs either. The neighbours don’t need to know that some people in this family have gone to the dark side. As for me, I’ll vote Conservative. Mallore’s the only guy who can solve all our economic problems.”
Rick struggled to stay calm. “The only guy who can solve all those problems? What kind of evidence would it take for you to even consider voting Liberal?”
“Nothing. You’re outta your mind if you think I’d do something that stupid!”
Dick’s blistering reply affirmed Rick’s new learning. To stifle his frustration, he did what he often did—stepped over to the kitchen window and stared out at the sobering Rockies. Dad can’t talk about Liberals without a gob of foam narrowing the corners of his mouth. He turned and faced his father. “Point taken, Dad. I’m done.” To Rick’s surprise and immeasurable relief, Dick filled his coffee thermos, picked up the other half of his bagel and, with a patronizing smile, said, “Carry on you two. Time for me to hit the road.”
“Thanks for the battery boost,” Rick said, quite sincerely.
Dick didn’t reply and when Rick heard the front door close, he leaned toward his mother and said, “I’m so glad you held your ground. An adventure into political activism will be fun…think what you can tell Efner.”
Dorothy grinned and said, “Regardless of what I tell Efner, it’s time to step up and fight for a better province. I’ve been too politically complacent—an easy out that gets us nowhere. Well, truth be told, I’ve been too scared to politically disagree with your father.”
Rick thrust his fist in the air and shouted, “Right on, Momma!” then hugged Dorothy and slipped out the door. En route to the university, he silently thanked Efner for the powerful influence he’s had on his mother’s growing assertiveness and independence.
What love can do, Rick thought. Romantic love—the all-embracing agony and ecstasy; the pride and humility.
That afternoon in Rick’s Political Science class, the professor said, “Historically, presidents and prime ministers driven by power and dominance have extended their reach to colonize nations that posed no immediate or foreseeable threat to their own. Authoritarian leaders, including some teachers and parents, need to aggressively control others. Reminds me of a recent family gathering when a relative of mine said, ‘Some kids just need a good whuppin’!’”
Collective sighs rippled throughout the classroom.
“Only a century ago,” said the prof, scanning his students, “your sighs would’ve been replaced by nods of agreement. In The Authoritarian Specter, a Canadian psychologist, Bob Altemeyer, cites his research that shows adults who score high on his Right-wing Authoritarian Scale significantly agree with this statement: Obedience and respect for authority are the most important virtues children should learn.”
Rick made an addendum to his class notes: Evolution hasn’t stamped out the rot. Laws help, but….
Later that week, Rick was thrilled when Gabe said he’d “check out the scene” at the Students for Alberta Liberals meeting. They had often talked politics over a beer and a bite, but neither had ever been politically active. That all changed when they met the following Friday in a far corner of The Den, and the SAL group coordinator asked members to introduce themselves. Waiting for someone to speak up, Brittany looked directly at Rick.
“I’m Rick Wright, English major, here on behalf of Liv Janson, the candidate for the university’s constituency. She and her team are revved up and I’m hoping to recruit a few volunteers to help her win with a clear majority.”
Gabe arrived, introduced himself, and pulled up a chair beside Brittany, who said, “Earlier, a few of us reviewed the university’s political boundaries and talked about Liv Janson—a strong candidate in a winnable constituency.”
Rick had the energy of a toddler with a new toy. “Liv’s campaign has organized The Day of a Thousand Knocks for tomorrow afternoon, one o’clock. Best part, beer and pizza after. She needs all of us. Who’s in?”
Brittany and four others readily volunteered, and Rick gave the group the campaign office’s address and John’s contact information.
“Great location,” Brittany said, “she’ll have people walking in from the street to volunteer.”
Rick texted Liv: At students’ meeting in The Den. Animated! Bringing at least four volunteers tomorrow. He then placed an order for two large nachos, which the group savoured over political strategizing that later drifted into socializing about various student concerns. Through it all, Rick’s thoughts strayed to Liv and the exciting campaign that lay ahead.
The group exchanged contact information and as they walked out together, Brittany said, “Remember, layered clothing!”
Outside, Rick inhaled deeply and recalled an echo from the not-so-distant past. “Ah, the fresh, pure fragrance of winter air.”