by Robyn Carr
“You don’t think he’d do anything...desperate?” Gerri asked.
“I’m starting to wonder. I’m starting to fear it. The only thing that’s stopped me from chasing him down is that I assume he’s where he wants to be. That he’s getting some sympathy and support or something. But why in the world would he be afraid of me?”
“Maybe he’s not afraid of you. Maybe he’s just totally upset about Rick. What an asshole—what was he thinking? Was it just the shock? Is that what happened?”
“I doubt it. I mean, I’m sure Rick was stunned, but it’s also the way he is. It never once crossed my mind that we’d face something like this with our son and unleash that monster inside Rick. Oh, God,” she said, tears spilling over. “I just can’t imagine what Noel’s going through.”
The patio door opened noisily and Jed leaned outside. “Mom, I’m headed over to—” He stopped suddenly when he spied Andy wiping off her cheeks with a hand. “Oh-oh,” he said, retreating, pulling the door closed.
“Jed,” Andy called.
The door swung open slowly and he stood there, his eyes wide and his posture tense. Now what? was written all over his face.
“Jed, Noel’s in trouble,” Andy said, standing.
He inhaled sharply, stiffened and waited nervously.
“Jed, I just found out Noel is gay,” Andy said, stepping tentatively toward him.
He let out his breath in a whoosh of relief. “Oh, that,” he said, taking a stabilizing breath. “I thought maybe he mouthed off to the judge or something. But I did tell him to keep his stupid mouth shut or he’d get like years of community service. You know, he doesn’t always think.”
“Jed, I said he was gay,” Andy tried again.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know?” Andy said, taking another small step.
“Well, he’s like my best friend, you know. Even if we don’t...well, I think we might have different drummers.” Then he grinned. “I think his might be a majorette.”
“This isn’t funny,” Andy said.
Jed shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to it. Hey, don’t blow a gasket. You’ll get used to it.”
“You’re not... I mean, you’re not upset? Your best friend? Gay?”
“Yeah, well I admit it kind of freaked me out at first. But I mean, come on—it’s just Noel.” Then he smiled and put his hands in his front pockets. “I don’t think he’s attracted to me or anything.”
Andy backed up a step, sank into her chair and wept into her hands.
“Hey, sorry,” Jed said, coming out on the deck. “I won’t make jokes, okay? But just so you know, Noel doesn’t get all pissed off about that. I think he secretly likes the jokes. Makes him feel like I’m playing on his team.” Then he put up his hands, palms toward the women. “But, hey, I am not playing on that team, all right? I mean, I am totally straight, okay? So don’t—”
Gerri was having trouble keeping a straight face. Good old Jed, she thought—so down to earth sometimes. If Andy hadn’t been bawling her eyes out, she might’ve cracked a smile. But what she said was serious. “Jed, Noel’s dad found out. After he humiliated him with every gay slur on the books, he told him never to show his face around him or his family again. At least not until he’s straight.”
“Man,” Jed said, making a fist and striking the air with it. “He was afraid of that. Hey, no offense, Andy, but Rick thinks he’s so fuckin’ cool and, man, he’s just retro. A real ass clown. Totally out of the loop. I don’t know what his deal is!”
Andy looked up from her hands. “No offense taken,” she sniffed. “Those are the kindest things you could say about that jackass.” Then the tears came again. “Poor Noel.”
“Don’t worry too much. He totally expected it,” Jed said.
Andy picked up her phone, displaying it to Jed. “He won’t talk to me. Won’t return my calls. I left messages saying I wasn’t angry or upset or anything, but he won’t even... I’m so worried. I don’t know what to do.”
“He’s probably just stoned,” Jed said with a shrug. “By the way, I think he does too much of that.”
“I don’t care. I just want to hear his voice. It’s been two days!”
Jed shook his head and rolled his eyes. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched in a few numbers, backing away from the women a couple of steps. Then he said, “Hey, dick wad, you stoned again? Well, call your mother. She’s over at my house crying because you won’t call her. You got ten minutes, then I come over there and haul your scrawny ass home, you copy?” He listened for a moment. “Yeah, so? You’re bummed. But you’re not surprised, right? And you got it over with. So call your mother. You have nine minutes. Jeez, what are you thinking? You can’t drop a bomb like that and then disappear! These women—they think you hung yourself in the shower or something! Call her!” Then he clicked off without saying goodbye. “He’ll call,” Jed said. “Or I’ll go get him. Stupid shit. He should know better than to freak everyone out.”
“Oh, Jed,” Andy said, overwhelmed with gratitude.
“Yeah, no big deal. You don’t need to tell him what I said about the weed. It’s not like I haven’t done a little of that.” He glanced warily at his mother and said, “But I swore off it! I mean things are goofy enough around here. You know?”
“Sure,” Andy said, sniffing back tears.
“I’m going to Tracy’s, Mom. If Noel doesn’t call in—” he glanced at his watch “—seven minutes, call me. I’ll go get him. But he better call—I have plans with Tracy.”
Andy just nodded and sniffed, so Jed left the deck. As he was about to make his getaway, Gerri stopped him. “What?” he asked.
“I just wanted to say, that was a nice thing you did.”
“I told you, no big deal.”
“You were fantastic.”
“Well, there’s something I don’t hear every day.”
“You’re not fantastic every day,” she said with a grin.
“That’s the Geraldine I know and love,” Jed said.
“It was a big deal,” Gerri said. “And not getting all worked up about it, too—I think that helps more than you realize.”
“Well, get this—I’m not worked up about it. I mean, whatever blows his skirt up, you know?” Then he grinned his best bad-boy grin.
“Jed.” She laughed.
“I did like it better when you women were in charge, though,” he said. “Ciao.”
* * *
Sonja hated group therapy. She thought of the people in her group as total nutjobs or victims or they were so depressed they could barely lift their heads. Then there were a couple who fancied themselves cured and felt that gave them the right to be confrontational. She hated confrontation, and not just when directed at her, when aimed at anyone in her presence. Their moderator rarely stepped in to direct the dialogue—it was like he got great satisfaction out of watching them disturb each other. And he took copious notes, which also bothered her. Whenever she prepared to attend, she felt her anxiety rise. Her palms would get sweaty on the way to group and she’d be so exhausted coming home she’d struggle to stay awake behind the wheel. And she had to do it every Tuesday and Thursday evening for two whole hours.
Sonja made it a point to arrive a little early. She never wanted to be the last one to arrive. She hated walking into that room with eight chairs positioned in a circle, all filled but one. Hers. This evening she was the first to get there. The second to arrive was Martin, their barely postpubescent, zit-faced leader. He was a brand-new college graduate, but from looking at him it appeared he’d started college at twelve.
“Well, Sonja, hello,” Martin said brightly.
“Hello,” she said quietly.
“How’s your week going?”
“Fine,” she answered. It was not required that she be friendly, merely that she be present.
Soon everyone else filed in. Janelle, sixty, an unhappy housewife, very overweight and domineering; Carl, forties, skinny and nervous; B
lythe, twenty, a tattooed biker chick coming down off cocaine and a little on the pissed-off side; Terrence, thirties, a bit chubby with a sallow complexion and dull eyes—medication just wasn’t working for him and he missed a lot of sessions; Susan, who didn’t seem to belong—she was cheerful and attractive and appeared balanced; and Paul, fifties, businesslike, efficient, direct and impatient. Sonja wanted to knock Paul’s block off. They all said hello to each other as though they liked one another, a phenomenon that surprised Sonja completely because they weren’t easy on each other. They took to their chairs—she was happy to have Blythe beside her, unhappy to have Paul directly across from her. The person beside you didn’t seem to direct too many questions at you, the person across usually fired away.
“Who wants to begin?” Martin asked as always.
Carl was having trouble at work—he was a shipping clerk for a large department store. He couldn’t focus, dreaded work, made too many mistakes, hated the truck drivers who made him feel stupid and small and inadequate. Terrence still wasn’t working, but his mother was okay with that and was carrying him financially. People were on him at once—had he been to the employment office at all? Did it make him feel right to live off his mother? Was he exercising or altering his diet to combat depression? Had he changed any of his patterns?
“Jesus, I wish you’d cut him some slack!” Sonja said in a sudden outburst. “He’s doing this without any slick drugs like the rest of us have!”
“Well,” Janelle said, smirking. “Look who came to the party. Make you uncomfortable when Terrence gets asked questions like that?”
“You bet your big ass it does,” Sonja shot back. “I didn’t stand a chance without drugs. I was so far gone, I didn’t know what planet I was on! I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be Terrence!” Then she gave Terrence a weak half smile. “Sorry, Terrence. Didn’t mean to get in your business.”
“I’d like to hear more about that,” Martin said. “If you’re ready, of course.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said stubbornly.
“Come on, Sonja,” Paul said. “Everyone else spills their guts. It’s not going anywhere—we have a pact. It’s not like we’re going to call George...”
She drew her hair up in a ponytail and let it fall. “Shit, I never should’ve mentioned his name!”
“Um, the idea is to talk,” Blythe reminded her, gently, not in her usual caustic, biting tone.
“Look, I’m not trying to be uncooperative,” Sonja said with the far-fetched hope that maybe their teenage leader would report to Dr. Kalay that she was responding as instructed. “I can’t remember much of it, honestly. It seemed like I was down in the dumps for a couple of days when, in fact, it was a couple of weeks and I was completely out of it. A total nutcase. I slept or sat on the couch and watched the shopping channel, something I didn’t know existed before. My neighbor is a psychologist and she noticed something was wrong, took me to the doctor, and—”
“But what do you know about it? What did you piece together?” Janelle asked.
“That I lost track of time! That I slept or watched the shopping channel!”
“And that’s all?” Martin asked. He rarely stepped in. He was the man with the chart, the pen. He was the one she had to please to put an end to this.
“I learned some things after,” she said quietly. “But I don’t exactly remember.”
“What did you learn? How did you react?” Martin again. Oh, she shouldn’t have defended Terrence. It had Martin all turned on. He was after her now. No escape. She knew how this worked, she wasn’t stupid. She had to participate to get her free pass. She couldn’t let him tell the doctor she was withholding. It would look bad on her report card.
She took a deep breath. “I learned that I packed up all the stuff that had once given me peace of mind. I must have realized it was all a big joke. The stuff that balanced my life—little fountains and aromatic candles and books on...” She paused. She felt her eyes begin to tear and she’d be goddamned if she snivel in front of this batch of sick vipers. She took another deep breath. “Books on feng shui, meditation, auras, serenity. Nutrition, herbs, natural holistic medicinal curatives. I had relaxing CDs. All that shit,” she said in a derisive tone.
Blythe turned in her chair, looking directly at Sonja. “Sounds like healthy shit,” she said. “I know I could do with a little herb.”
“Not that kind,” Sonja snapped. “I never did that. And I was conservative. Careful. I’m not an idiot—lots of things in nature are dangerous.” She narrowed her eyes. “Cocaine, being one.”
“Whoa.” Blythe laughed. “Got me, girlfriend.”
“I am not your girlfriend!”
“But you do have friends here, Sonja,” Susan said. “Did that piss you off a little? What Blythe said?”
“No. But I wasn’t radical. I was probably more consumed than the average person because I found it all fascinating—and I did lead meditation groups, teach yoga, but I wasn’t radical. I was just trying to cover all the bases.”
“What bases?” Paul asked, sitting forward, an earnest wrinkle to his brow.
“Body, soul, mind,” she answered automatically. “My health, my environment, my relationships, my spirit. I was really just trying my best.” Someone started to say something and she lifted a small hand. “I know, I know—already got this in the booby hatch—I was seeking control. So I didn’t get it. I understand that now.”
“Still, it seems like you were trying to do it with healthy stuff,” Carl said gently. “Nontoxic, noninvasive, healthy stuff. What went wrong? How’d that turn out bad for you? I don’t get it.”
“I was trying to do all the right things,” she said, sniffing suddenly. “Nothing to hurt the body or the mind or the spirit! What can be harmful about the soothing sound of trickling water? Or a healthy meal? Or regular exercise and a pleasant aroma in the home? I was so careful. Moderation! I wasn’t opposed to George having a chicken breast or the occasional Scotch, but his cholesterol was up, his blood pressure was climbing—his job is so high stress!” She gasped in frustration. She didn’t want to be doing this, but somehow they’d manipulated her—they were pulling it out of her. “Oh, God,” she said. She collected herself. “Nontoxic, noninvasive, healthy stuff,” she said, echoing Carl.
“So,” Martin said. “What went wrong? Why did you pack it all up?”
“He left me because of that! He’d had it with the meals he said were bland, the stuff around the house meant to soothe him, relax him. Bring him comfort and peace of mind!”
There was quiet for a moment. Then Blythe said, “Whoa. He cut you deep.”
Sonja turned her watering eyes to Blythe and, pursing her lips together so tightly they turned white, she nodded.
“What happened, Sonja?” Paul asked. “What did he do? Say? What are you fighting now? What did George do?”
She wanted to say, Please, could you not confront me like that? It’s not your business! But knowing how the group-therapy game was played, she answered. “He said he couldn’t take living in a loony bin anymore. That he felt like a Chia Pet....”
“What?” three people said at once.
“We couldn’t hear you, Sonja,” Martin said. “Your voice was too soft.”
“He said he felt like a fucking Chia Pet! That he didn’t want me in charge of his fucking cholesterol—he takes pills for that! That he didn’t want me watching his sleep patterns or his blood pressure! That he’d like to come home, turn on football, eat bloody red meat, spill on his clothes, drink too much Scotch sometimes, fall asleep on the couch and wake up hung over once in a while and...” She crumbled. She rested her elbows on her knees, covered her face with her hands and sobbed in loud, angry cries. Certainly they could hear her now.
“Whoa,” Blythe said. “Breakthrough.”
“Big-time,” someone else said.
Sonja sobbed for a moment and they let her. They watched her. When she couldn’t stand their silence any longer, she lift
ed her head. Tears ran down her face and she had snot running into her mouth. “I hate you,” she said breathlessly, gasping. “I hate you so much! Why would you do that to a person?” she choked out.
There was quiet for a moment. Terrence couldn’t answer, Carl looked afraid to answer, Blythe had said enough. “Well, we care about you, in spite of the fact that you’re very private and untrusting,” Paul said. “And we do that to get it out where you can look at it. Because that’s how you get well. It actually works.”
One at a time she heard their voices saying, “We care.” She cried harder. She didn’t want their caring. The assholes. Someone pressed a box of tissues on her. She mopped up the mess on her face, but it was minutes before she came under any semblance of control. When she finally lifted her head, they were all watching her, but their faces were a blur.
“What happened, Sonja?” Martin asked.
“I told you! He left! He made total fun of me like I was crazy and took his suitcase to the car and left!”
“After that,” Martin pushed. “When you kind of lost touch with reality. What happened to you?”
It took a couple of moments. She knew where this was going. She was tired of hearing about the episode from her doctor and hearing it from her own lips only made it harder, worse. But everyone in the group just waited, not giving up, probably so happy it was her falling apart and not them. She blinked, looked at each one of them individually and spoke. “At first, I slept. I couldn’t get food down, couldn’t swallow. I pulled out my hair in big clumps or bit my nails until they bled. Then I couldn’t sleep because I saw monsters. I wanted to kill myself, but I couldn’t figure out how—I don’t like messes. I used to be very neat. I didn’t have stuff in the house that could kill you and I knew overdoses of some things just landed you on dialysis for life.” She laughed hollowly. “I didn’t know how to rig the car for carbon monoxide, and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it and George would keep me alive on a respirator even if I were brain-dead. So I struggled. It was horrible. But it didn’t feel like as long as it was. Or maybe it felt longer than it was, I don’t know...it was like suspended animation.”
