In A Country Of Mothers

by A M Homes

  “I’ve really missed you,” Peter said in the elevator on the way up.

  Jody looked at her apartment door before unlocking it. There were no signs of tampering. On the floor, just inside, was a delivery menu from a Mexican restaurant. No note on pretty stationery, no magical explanation.

  “Do you want to get naked now,” she said to Peter, “or can I listen to my messages first?”

  “It’s not like that,” he said.

  Jody rewound her machine, thinking she’d find a clue. There was only one message — from Ilene, the East Villager from UCLA. “I wanted you to be the first to know — well, almost the first to know. Remember that idea we worked up for story class? I went ahead and wrote it. The script got sold for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Can you believe it? God! Well, I hope you’re feeling better. Sorry, I—”

  Jody turned off the machine. She didn’t need to hear it.

  “Sounds great,” Peter said.

  “Shut up,” Jody said, disappearing into the bathroom. She came back seconds later with her hands full of small packages. “Look,” she said, spilling them onto the sofa. “I have condoms. All kinds.”

  “It’s different,” Peter said. “Or I’m different.”

  “Bummer,” Jody said.

  Peter shrugged. “I didn’t say I’d sworn off, just that things were different. You seem tense, upset. I took a course in massage. Would you like me to give you one?”

  In what was left of the late afternoon light, with all the shades up, Jody stripped naked. She was so thin now that she didn’t care who saw her. There was nothing to hide. Her bad thighs and big butt had vanished. She lay on the bed and let Peter work his hands over her, applying pressure to spots where knots had formed.

  “Tell me where you feel it and we can work it out,” he said. He found places left over from the skating expedition, knots that suddenly felt like scars. He pressed his fingers into places so sore that Jody had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from screaming. He was good, his hands strong and smooth. He dug deep into her, drawing the tension out, as if it were possible to pick up the muscles one by one and wring them like wet washcloths. She rolled onto her back, and when his palms traveled up the insides of her thighs, she met them and guided them further. She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her tongue over his chest. He sighed. He worked the muscles in her neck and shoulders, going all the way down her arms. She bit his nipples. In his chinos he rubbed against her, teasing. No hurry, no rush. She unzipped his pants and pressed her face to the front of his underwear, licking him through the heavy cotton. She pulled him on top of her. He reached for a condom. Three times her phone rang; each time the machine picked up and the caller — Claire — hung up. Peter and Jody spent the rest of the evening and most of the night sexing and resting, sexing and resting.

  “So what happened?” Jody finally asked, after the delivery boy from the Chinese restaurant had come and gone, after they’d showered and feasted and fucked again.

  Peter shrugged. He pulled on his underwear, fished his chinos out of the tangle of sheets, and buttoned his shirt.

  “Come on,” Jody said. “People don’t just change.”

  “I’ve been seeing someone who’s helped me a lot,” he said, sliding his foot into a loafer.

  “A therapist?”

  “No, a woman. She’s out of town this week on location. She’s a TV producer.”

  Jody pushed him out the door. She practically picked him up and carried him. She stood there for a moment, watched him flounder, then slammed and locked the door.

  “My shoe,” he called. “My other loafer.” He banged on the door. “Hey, come on! That’s a Banfi. They cost four hundred and fifty dollars.”

  34

  Claire couldn’t sleep. Listening to Sam’s even breathing, she lay awake and worried about losing everything. Ever since the afternoon at the cafe Jody had been acting withdrawn, paranoid — though at least she hadn’t brought the video camera with her. And then, a few days before, they’d fought over a shirt in Bloomingdale’s.

  “Look at this,” Claire had said, holding it up on its hanger. The shirt was softer, more fitted than what Jody usually wore; she would have looked beautiful in it.

  Jody wrinkled her nose. “Not for me.”

  “Go ahead, try it on.”

  “No,” Jody said.

  Claire still held the shirt out, swinging it back and forth to entice her; annoyed, Jody had grabbed it and stuffed it back onto the rack. A woman passing by smiled, put her hands on Claire’s shoulder, and said, “My daughter and I argue like this all the time.”

  “She’s not my mother,” Jody announced. “She’s my shrink.”

  The woman averted her eyes and quickly slipped away.

  And that afternoon, Claire had come in late and Sam was standing in the front hall, furious.

  “Why are you home?” she asked.

  “Your son had a doctor’s appointment!” he bellowed.

  Claire didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “Jake was supposed to go to the pediatrician at three-thirty. They called me at the office. You forgot. Don’t even try and tell me where you were. You were with her. I know, Claire. I’m not an idiot. This has gone too far. It’s out of control. Why are you letting her—”

  “She’s not doing it, Sam — I am.” Claire paused. “I must have forgotten about Jake’s appointment. It was probably just for shots. I’ll take him tomorrow, I’ll call over there right now and make a time.”

  When she reached for the phone, Sam blocked her. “It was for shots,” he said, pressing his face close into hers. “I took him. They said he might have a reaction, run a fever, to give him Tylenol. I looked and there’s none in the house. There’s not even any fucking Tylenol in this house, Claire! We’re falling apart. You’re ignoring us. I won’t let you do it to this family. I won’t let you.”

  Adam, Jake, and Frecia stood there gaping. Jake’s sleeve was rolled up, and Claire watched him run his fingers back and forth unconsciously over the injection spot.

  The phone rang, and both Sam and Claire grabbed for the receiver.

  “Hello,” Sam said, snatching it away from Claire.

  Claire pushed the speakerphone button.

  “Hi, this is Tom Miller, the architect. I came to look at your apartment several weeks ago.”

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  “It turns out that my sister is moving to New York, and I’d like to have her see the place, if you’re still interested in selling.”

  “We’re considering the possibility,” Sam said.

  “She’ll be in from Boston first thing in the morning, so could I bring her by at eight? I realize it’s early, but she’s only in for the day and has meetings straight through.”

  “Eight’s fine. See you then,” Sam said, hanging up.

  “This is ridiculous,” Claire said.

  “No it’s not,” Sam said, “but these are. They came today, for you.” He picked two boxes — one big, one small — up off the living room table and hurled them toward her. Mugs flew out of each; SAM, JAKE, ADAM, and JODY, all printed in bold red letters on white ceramic. Lillian Vernon had screwed up and sent everything directly to Claire. Sam’s broke in half, Adam’s lost the handle, Jody’s split into three, and only Jake’s was intact. “What the hell are you buying her a monogrammed mug for?”

  “Belated Christmas,” Claire said.

  Frecia pushed the children out of the room and then moved in to clean up the mess.

  “We’re going to the beach this weekend,” Sam said. “You, me, and the boys. No girls. No one else. Us, that’s it. We rented the fucking house and we’ll fucking use it. It’s been almost a month since we were there.”

  “Fine,” Claire said.

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll meet that guy at eight,” Sam said, picking up his briefcase. “I’ll sell this place so fucking fast you won’t know what hit you.” Then he turned and stormed out of the apartment.

 
A few minutes later Gloria Owens called. “Sorry to bother you at home,” she said, “but I didn’t think you’d mind. Jim and I are in trouble. We’re fighting constantly. I was hoping we could come in for an extra session this week.”

  “Hold on,” Claire said. “Let me check my book.” She put the receiver on the table, rustled the newspaper around, and picked up the phone again. “I’m looking,” she said, flipping through the Home section of the Times. “But I’m booked up until Wednesday, which is your regular time anyway.”

  “Oh, well, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

  “I’m glad you called,” Claire said. “If something opens up, I’ll let you know. Or if it’s an emergency you can always leave a message on the machine and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks,” Gloria said.

  “Anytime,” Claire said, hanging up and dialing Bea’s number.

  Claire hadn’t told anyone, but last week — after having told Claire how happy she was — Bea swallowed all of Herbert’s sleeping pills, then took a cab over to St. Luke’s and confessed. They’d pumped out her stomach, kept her for a couple of days, and, in conjunction with Claire, arranged for a psychiatrist to prescribe antidepressants. Claire felt guilty as hell.

  “Bea?” she said when Bea’s answering machine picked up. “It’s Claire Roth, just calling to see how you’re doing. I’ll be home all evening if you want to call, otherwise I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

  “You’re in trouble,” Sam had said later that night when he slipped into the bed. “Big trouble.”

  As if she didn’t already know. Once Sam had said he liked the house, the second he’d rolled off of her after making love in their would-be bedroom and said: “I want it,” Claire had started hoping it wouldn’t work out. She couldn’t move, not now. Too much was happening. Everything she’d worked so hard for seemed on the verge of being destroyed. She’d made a mess of her career, her marriage, her life. She couldn’t be a shrink anymore, she knew that. Look at Bea. Thanks to Claire she’d ended up in the emergency room. Claire should have known better than to believe her when she said she was happy. How could anyone be happy?

  A few fitful hours later, Sam was shaking her awake. “The architect and his sister,” he said. “They’ll be here before you know it.”

  “What time is it?” Claire asked.

  “Six-forty-five. If we want to sell, we have to clean up. You can start by making the bed.”

  Claire rolled over and pulled the blanket over her head.

  Sam went out of the bedroom and came back with the vacuum cleaner. “Get up,” he said, plugging it in. “And pull the sheets up with you.”

  “I can’t be late,” Claire said, crawling out of bed. “I have a patient at eight-fifteen.”

  “Cancel it,” he snapped.

  Claire stood groggy and confused in the center of the room and watched him use a white crew sock to dust the top of the dresser. “Cancel the fucking appointment,” he said again.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “You’re not seeing that Jody girl anymore. It has to stop.”

  “Sam,” Claire said.

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking, Claire, and it’s wrong. You’re wrong. Give it up. She’s not yours. You can’t be doing her any good by acting like she is. Think about somebody else for a minute.”

  “You mean, think about you.”

  “Cancel the appointment.”

  “No,” Claire paused. “She’s special. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t care. I’m talking about you, Claire, about us. I don’t even know her.”

  “Well, you certainly acted like you did at the skating rink.”

  Sam shook his head in disgust. “We’re leaving, Claire. We’re getting out of here.”

  “I don’t want to have this conversation,” Claire said.

  “We’re having it. This has been going on far too long.”

  “You’re not my boss. I’m the therapist. I should know what I’m doing without your help.”

  “Do you, Claire? Do you even have a clue?”

  She went into the bathroom, slamming the door. She brushed her teeth, flossed, then opened the door and shook her finger at Sam. “I’m seeing her, and will continue to see her until either she or I decide that it’s no longer necessary. You,” she said, pointing, “are fucking jealous.” She slammed the bathroom door again and got into the shower. “P.S.,” she said when she was out, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on her pantyhose. “My eight-fifteen is a fifty-five-year-old woman who tried to kill herself last week.”

  In the lobby, at ten after eight, Claire ran into the architect and his sister. “My sister, Joan,” he said, introducing them. “She’s a social worker, so she has no sense of geometry, of how things should be. I thought she might like your place.” Claire nodded. Joan laughed.

  “My husband’s upstairs, he’ll show you around. I have a patient.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Therapist,” Claire said, pushing herself against the front door.

  “How interesting,” Joan said.

  Claire waved goodbye and stepped out. Bea was always early and would be waiting for her in the hallway outside the office. On a corner, at a red light, Claire tried to put up her hair; it was still damp, hanging in wet noodles, tickling her neck. Without a mirror, she had no idea of how she looked. It made her more nervous.

  “Good morning, Bea,” Claire said as she stepped off the elevator. She slipped her key into the lock and opened the office door. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right,” Bea said, closing the door behind her.

  “Are there any side effects from the antidepressants?” Claire asked, glancing at her answering machine. The counter flashed two messages; she was curious to know who they were from.

  “My mouth is dry,” Bea said, her lips smacking together with the soft clicking sound one attributes to the heavily medicated. “But the doctor told me it’s normal. The body adjusts. Herbert called last night. He wants to take me out on a date. I do something stupid and all of a sudden he’s sorry.”

  “Will you go?”

  “Don’t know. I spent time in a mental ward because of him. A nice dinner out won’t fix that.”

  She seemed less sure of herself than before. As she talked about Herbert, Claire considered whether it was a loss of confidence that made her seem emotionally absent or if it was the medication. That sometimes happened with psychotropics — people just disappeared. She wondered if she should be taking some herself.

  When the session was nearly over, Claire asked, “How would you feel about you and Herbert coming to see me together in addition to our regular meetings?”

  “You’d do that?”

  Claire nodded.

  “Oh, thank you,” Bea said. “I know I’m not supposed to say anything personal, but I bet your family is so proud of you. What I’d give to have such a smart, talented daughter.”

  A fucking idiot, Claire thought. If Bea had any sense, she’d be angry with Claire; she’d blame Claire for the suicide attempt and get a new shrink. Instead she was taking the passive route, praising the devil.

  “Tuesday evening at six,” Claire said, ignoring Bea’s compliments. The buzzer went off and Claire pushed the button to let Jody into the waiting room.

  “I’ll have him here.” Standing up, Bea swayed a little on her feet. “A little dizzy,” she said. “The drugs.”

  “See you Tuesday,” Claire said, walking her to the door.

  “I didn’t know you did geriatric work,” Jody said after Bea was gone. “What happened to your hair — you start radiation or something?”

  Claire raised her hand to the falling bun. “Not funny,” she said, trying to push things back in place. She closed the office door and took her usual seat. Jody looked sicker and thinner; her jeans puckered at the waist, gathered tightly by a thick brown belt. On her forearms was somethin
g that looked like a thick, raw rash.

  “We have to have a serious talk,” Claire said. “I’ve been thinking that it might be best if you saw someone else. I don’t seem to be helping you anymore.” By now Claire was looking at the carpet. “Things have gotten beyond the point where I’m being useful.”

  When Claire looked up, Jody was white, wordless, grinding her teeth against the inside of her cheek.

  “We could still be involved in some way. We’d have to work it out. But I won’t abandon you.”

  Claire fought the urge to confess that it was all her fault, that she’d done a terrible, crazy thing.

  “I do think it might be useful for you to discuss the situation with someone else. I’ve made some calls,” Claire added, lying.

  “How dare you,” Jody said.

  “I’m trying to help. You need help.”

  “You need help,” Jody said.

  Claire didn’t answer. She was trying to pull back, to maintain some composure.

  Jody pulled her video camera out of a bag, trained it on Claire, and started taping.

  “Put the camera down,” Claire said.

  Jody kept filming.

  “Please put the camera down. It’s an intrusion. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Why are you doing this?” Claire waved her hand in front of the camera. “Is this an attempt to gain control?”

  Jody still didn’t respond. Claire sat back in her chair, her left knee over her right and her arms in front of her chest.

  “We’re not going to be able to continue until you put the camera away,” Claire said and then was silent, staring into the lens.

  Jody continued to film her for a few minutes. Though acutely uncomfortable, Claire tried not to move or give any indication of her misery.

  Finally, Jody lowered the camera. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she said.

  “I want to do what’s best for you, Jody. I’m not helping you. Another therapist might be better equipped.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Jody said, shaking her head. “Something’s very wrong. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but you’re driving me crazy. You’re killing me. Why don’t you just take a fucking gun, shoot me, and get it over with?”