Group Therapy, page 6
Lou drops her gaze first, blinking down at the clipboard on her lap as a rosy pink floods her cheeks. And just like before, I feel a rush of relief as soon as our eye contact is broken, as if I can think again. Breathe again.
This is not fucking helpful.
Lou shifts in her seat and picks up where we left off. “It sounds like your father seeks comfort from other women, and your mother seeks it from you, the baby of the family. How has she been ever since you moved to London?”
“Fine, I suppose. The same.” I shrug.
Lou’s eyes narrow before sliding down to my crossed arms. Glancing back up at me, she says, “How are you, Thomas?”
The concern I hear in her voice makes my chest ache.
“I’m empty, Lou. How are you?”
Lou smiles. It’s not a smile of pity or politeness; it’s bashful and beautiful and completely fucking inappropriate, which only makes me love it more.
Glancing down at her notepad, Lou scribbles something quickly and bites her lip.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“What did I say?”
Lou lifts her eyes, and they sparkle like gold. “You … wrote a poem.”
“What? That?” I gesture to her paper with a laugh. “Yeah, Dr. Seuss would be so proud. Perhaps I should sign it for you. It’s the only thing I’ve written in months.”
Lou’s eyes light up. “Oh my God. Really? Would you sign my copy of Ruby Lies too?” She gestures over her shoulder toward her desk, and a chuckle bursts out of me.
“You’ve read my books?”
Lou slaps a hand over her mouth in pure, undiluted mortification, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Of course she reads psychological thrillers. It fits her perfectly.
“I am so sorry,” she mumbles into her palm. “I just went full fangirl. That was so unprofessional.”
“No.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “I’m the one who owes you the apology.”
She blinks. “For what?”
“For behaving like a proper tosser.”
“Can you repeat that in American, please?” she asks, lowering her hand to reveal a hesitant smile.
“Douche bag. Asshole. Entitled prick.”
Lou laughs, and I realize with a pang of guilt that I don’t want another therapist. I want this one. In two sessions, she has me speaking in bloody rhymes. Maybe she can help me after all.
“You’ve been fine,” Lou says. “Trust me. Most of my clients just come here so they have someone to scream at once a week.”
The thought of people mistreating this woman makes my blood boil. “I don’t want to be one of those clients,” I snap before regaining my composure. “I’d much prefer to be the brooding, emotionally repressed sort.”
“Well, mission accomplished,” Lou quips, pressing her lips together.
Perhaps it’s the ever-present ticking clock in my mind, telling me that our session is almost over, or maybe it’s the thought of spending another week in soundproof solitary confinement, but something in the finality of her tone makes me panic.
“Let me make it up to you,” I blurt out. “Let me”—I look around her office, stalling for time, searching for inspiration. My eyes land on her desk, and I remember her coughing fit earlier—“buy you a drink after this. With my sincerest apologies.”
Lou looks as surprised as I feel.
Buy her a drink? Did you just fucking ask her out?
Lou’s eyes are wide as she begins stammering through the politest of rejections. “Oh, wow. Um … God, Thomas, I … I wish I could, but …”
I stand abruptly, eager to put her out of the awkward misery I’ve just inflicted upon her. “Right. Of course. I’ll just...”—I jerk my thumb in the direction of the door—“see you next week.”
I take two steps toward the exit when I hear rustling behind me.
“Thomas, wait!”
I turn and find Lou standing in front of her chair, clutching her clipboard to her chest.
“I can’t … I mean, I’m not allowed … but … um …” Her gaze travels over to her bookshelf, and it occurs to me that she’s the one searching for inspiration now. Whatever she finds on that shelf must do the trick because her eyes suddenly light up and flick back to mine. “I can see you in a group!”
“A group?” I ask with a frown. “Like a group dinner?”
“No, like … group therapy.”
Group what?
That’s not exactly the response I was hoping for, but … I do think I need to see her more than once a week if I have any hope of finishing this book on time. Or even starting it. Or not going mad in that silent nineteenth-story box of shame.
“What kind of group therapy?” I ask, eyeing her sideways.
“Any kind!” She beams a little too brightly. “All kinds. What kind do you want? Depression, anxiety, anger management, meditation …”
I have a hard enough time expressing myself to Lou when we’re alone. The idea of having to do it in front of her and a half-dozen American strangers makes me want to book an early flight back to London, but when I look at her hopeful face, I can’t even pretend like I’m not going to go. I’d probably go to group electroshock therapy if it meant I could spend more time with her.
“Creativity!” she blurts out. “You wanna do a creativity group? Let’s do a creativity group!”
“All right.” I nod, taking another step toward the door. I need to go before I manage to bugger this up any worse than I already have.
“Great!” Lou says. “I’ll have April contact you with the details. Oh, and, Thomas?”
I pause in the doorway.
“I think you should rent a treadmill.” When my eyebrows pull together, she elaborates. “That’s your homework for this week. Repetitive, mindless physical activity is great for creativity.”
“Okay … well, see you next week.”
I cross the threshold and exhale as soon as I make it to the hallway. I don’t know how I could have possibly made that session any more awkward, but somehow, Lou finds a way to beat me at my own game.
Her voice echoes down the hallway behind me with one final recommendation. “And don’t forget to keep it in your pants!”
Lou
“OKAY, SO LET ME get this crooked …”
Mark, Dee, Courtney, and Beth are huddled around me in our usual booth at The Yacht Club, staring at me like I just sprouted a third eye—and not the nice, symmetrical, cosmic kind. It’s the kind that’s all bulbous like a frog’s and sticks off the side of your head and won’t stop fucking blinking.
Mark continues his delicate summary of my dumbass idea for the benefit of everyone at the table. “Daddy Harry Potter asked you out, and you said—”
“Group therapy?” Dee interrupts with a scowl.
“I … I didn’t know what else to say!” I stammer. “He looked so rejected when I told him no.”
“Well, I think it makes perfect sense,” Courtney says with her sweet-tea twang, patting the back of my hand. “It’s like when I was in high school. My parents wouldn’t let me date, so if I wanted to see a guy, it had to be, like, a group thing.”
Beth slurps from the rim of her fish-bowl beergarita and pins Courtney with a bewildered stare. “You mean, like an orgy?”
Courtney’s cheeks flush. “Sometimes.”
Beth left our graduate program after getting her master’s degree. She felt like life coaching would be a better fit for her than clinical practice. That decision alone makes her the smartest person at this table.
Swiveling her brute-force attention over to me, Beth asks, “Do you even know how to do group therapy?”
“Yes.” I shrug, trying to ignore Courtney’s polite wince. “Theoretically.”
Beth arches a bushy brown eyebrow at me.
“I mean, I’ve taken classes. How hard can it be?”
Dee snorts.
“What kind of group did you tell him it was?” Courtney asks.
I pull the skewer out of my margarita and rip a hunk of indistinguishable fruit off with my teeth. “All kinds,” I say with my mouth full, hoping no one can understand me.
Pineapple? No, mango. Wait … a potato soaked in cran-apple juice.
“All kinds?” Dee’s nose wrinkles up on one side. “The fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know!” I shout, still chewing on some unidentified alcohol-soaked food substance. “I messed up, okay? You guys have to help me!”
Mark turns his Bass Pro Shops hat around backward and scratches his short, scruffy beard. “Okay, so you have to do all kinds of group therapy … somewhere … soon.”
I nod and swallow.
He thinks, Courtney thinks, Beth thinks, Dee chuckles at me and shakes her head while sucking blue margarita through a curly straw, and I hold my breath.
Mark’s eyes suddenly light up. “Why don’t you do it here? We’re only open from twelve to nine on Sundays.”
“Really?” I ask, searching his big brown eyes for any signs of bullshit. “Oh my God, Mark. Sunday mornings would be perfect! Thank you!”
“Nuh-uh.” He wags his finger at me. “You get Sunday nights. I’m already teaching yogalates here on Sunday mornin’s.”
And just like that, my spirits sink lower than the neckline on Mark’s tank top. “Sunday nights? After you close? What time would that be? Like, ten o’clock?”
He shrugs. “Beggars can’t be choosers. Take it or leave it.”
I sigh. “Fuck it. I’ll take it. Thanks, Mark.”
Courtney furrows her perfect little eyebrows. “Don’t you need to check with the owner or somethin’?”
Mark chuckles. “He’s spending his midlife crisis in Costa Rica, honey. I’m the boss now.” With that, Mark skips off to his other tables, cowboy boots click-clacking across the sticky hardwood floor.
“Okay”—I turn to the girls—“we have a day, a time, and a location.”
“We?” Dee asks. “What we?”
“We.” I gesture in a circle around the table. “I said I offer all kinds of therapy. How can I do that without all kinds of therapists? I need you guys. Pleeeease?”
They glance at one another while I give them my best, pitiful puppy-dog eyes.
“Beth”—I shift toward the easiest member of the group to sway, seated diagonally across from me—“you can bring your Twister mat and be as hands-on as you want—I don’t care.”
Beth pulls the beer bottle out of her fruity blue concoction and taps it against the side of my fish bowl. “I got your back, Sterling. Ride or die,” she says before downing what’s left in one swig.
“Beth, thank you.” I turn to the petite blonde sitting across from me, sipping on her curly straw as nonchalantly as possible. “Courrrrt, come on. It’ll be fun.”
Courtney sighs and gives me a tight smile. “Okay, fine. But only ’cause it’ll look good on my letter of recommendation.”
“It totally will.”
I think.
Finally, I turn to the woman next to me, who is pouring a mini bottle of Cuervo Gold from her purse into her margarita.
“Fine,” Dee says without looking up, “but you’re buyin’ from now on.” She screws the cap back on and pins me with a threatening stare. “And I want top shelf, ho.”
“You can have all the shelves. Any shelf you want. Starting now.” I pull out what little cash I have in my purse and toss it onto the table before grabbing my bag and cell phone. “Thank you, guys. Seriously.”
“Where are you goin’?” Beth asks while simultaneously sliding what’s left of my drink over to her side of the table.
“Ooh … you goin’ to bump uglies with Dr. Callahan again? Get it!” Dee does a few body rolls in her seat for emphasis.
“Actually, I’m going to my mom’s birthday party, but thanks for that visual.”
“Hey, maybe you’ll get some booty there.” Dee points her empty mini bottle at me with a wink.
“If by booty, you mean, scabies,” I say, sliding out of the booth, “then … yeah, maybe.”
Lou
IT’S, LIKE, A SEVENTY-DOLLAR Uber ride from Atlanta to the Indigo Hills Artist Colony, so I don’t make the trek that often. At least, that’s what I tell my mother when she guilt-trips me for not visiting more.
I also tell her the reason I don’t have a car is because I can’t afford one, which is only partially true. The rest of the truth is that I don’t want a car because I know that the second I find myself in possession of one, my mom and stepdad will expect me to visit this god-awful place more than triannually, which, quite frankly, is already two times a year too many.
It’s not that the commune isn’t beautiful. It is—in its own rustic way. Nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, the Indigo Hills Artist Colony is a quaint, colorful little collection of cabins and RVs and gardens and orchards, which is under constant threat of being reclaimed by the surrounding forest. It almost feels as if the lean-to buildings and outhouses clawed themselves right up out of the dirt.
Take this table, for example. Outside, in the common area, there is a “table” large enough to seat twenty, but it’s really just the trunk of a massive oak tree that got struck by lightning and split in half. The folks here took the two halves, laid them open end to end, jacked them up off the ground with the stumps of other fallen trees, and called it a table. It’s wobbly. It’s splintery. It’s sticky with sap. And I’m sure it houses an entire swarm of termites. But it’s not nearly as icky as the sleazeball sitting at the head of it.
Leif, the self-appointed leader of this “intentional community,” stands up, clearing his throat as he smooths a hand over his graying hair, which he wears pulled back in some kind of leather-wrapped ponytail. He then clinks his artisanal, hand-hammered spork against a misshapen, hand-molded ceramic drinking cup. Actually, it doesn’t clink at all. It thuds.
Thud, thud, thud.
“A toast to the soul of the hour,” he announces, lifting his cup in the direction of my mother, seated to his left. His cult-leader–like smile never ceases to give me the creeps.
“Not so many moons ago, this celestial spirit was plucked from the cosmos and thrust into the physical realm. Thrust into a physical body. Thrust into a patriarchal caste system …”
Please take a moment to imagine what Leif’s hips are doing to punctuate this speech.
I glance at my stepdad just in time to see him roll his eyes. George is ten years older than my mother, but as gorgeous and youthful as she is in all her barefoot, boho-chic, wire-wrapped-dreadlock glory, he looks like he could be her dad. He’s been putting up with Leif’s advances toward his wife since they got here twelve years ago, but what George lacks in muscle mass and, well, hair, he makes up for in sheer, uncontested devotion to my mother. Leif doesn’t stand a chance.
Yet he persists.
“But she broke free of that bondage and followed her ample, heaving heart straight to me. I mean, us.” Leif sweeps his arms out, gesturing at the table full of dirty hippies—his precious devotees.
Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Happy birthday, Crystal.” Leif’s teeth glisten as he grins at her like she’s next on the menu. “Your spirit shimmers like the gem that shares your name.”
God, could he be any cheesier?
The hippies all cheer and raise their glasses as my mom blushes and pretends to be humble. She knows she’s the prettiest one here. Hell, she’s the prettiest one anywhere. Twelve years spent living in the woods would make most people devolve into furry, smelly, hunched-over little Hobbit-like creatures, but not Crystal. She looks like a supermodel on day three of a weekend-long music festival. She even has a few sprigs of grass in her hair, like she’s been lying in a meadow, casually high on shrooms, contemplating the meaning of life all afternoon. It’s not fair.
People like to say that we look alike, but to me, looking like your mother isn’t a compliment. It’s validation of the fact that the stress of grad school has aged me to the point that I now resemble a fifty-year-old mountain dweller.
Okay, a fifty-year-old mountain dweller who looks thirty-two.
Leif finally sits back down, and George, to my absolute horror, stands up next.
He raises his glass and tries to smile, but the frown lines in his face are so deep that it just looks like a less severe scowl. “To my dear wife,” he begins, his New York accent just as thick as the day we arrived here. I think he hangs on to it in protest. “I’m so happy that you, uh, made another circle—what’s it called? Revolution? Orbit? That’s it. You made another orbit around the sun. And, uh …”
George looks to me for help, but all I can do is wince and shrug.
“You know … your, uh, essence? It just grows … and grows … and, uh … ah, forget it.”
George sits down with a humph. My mother squeezes his hand with a warm smile.
Hippies cheer, glasses thud instead of clink, and the party begins. My mom and her friends leap up to go grab their obscure, indigenous instruments and frolic around the bonfire while I stay behind, pushing vegan soy cake with nut butter around on my plate. I make the mistake of taking a bite, out of curiosity, and now my throat feels like it’s been coated in almond-flavored glue.
I reach for the pitcher on the table, but a voice to my right stops me.
“Unless you wanna be chasing little green men through the forest in about forty-five minutes, I’d steer clear of the punch.”
I turn and smile as George takes the seat—er, stump—next to me. He returns my smile, but it fades a bit as his eyes drift toward the bonfire behind me.
“Listen, I need a favor.”
Here we go again.
“George,” I sigh. “We’ve talked about this. I don’t have any money.”
His eyes snap from my mother back to me. “But you got yourself a big-girl job now.”
“Yeah, and I also have a PhD’s worth of student loan debt to pay back.”
