by Cathy Holton
And then swiftly, and without warning, she touched again on Stella’s job with Alice.
“You could probably make more money waitressing or bartending,” she said.
“I suppose so.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“She needs me.”
“So you have an emotional attachment to this woman?”
Stella hesitated. “I suppose so.”
“Do you see her as a mother figure? Someone who nurtures you and cares for your emotional needs?”
“No. I take care of her.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s old and infirm and she’s too proud to ask for help.”
“Why else?”
“Because she’s wounded.”
“Like you?”
Stella turned her head and stared out the window.
“All right,” Professor Dillard said, closing the file on her desk. “That’s enough for today. But I want you back here tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday.”
“Do you work Saturday?”
“No.”
“Then according to my calendar, you should be able to come every morning at ten except for Wednesdays and Thursdays.”
Stella gave her a long, slightly apprehensive look. “I thought this was going to be a once a week thing,” she said.
“We have a lot of work to do in a very short period of time,” Professor Dillard said, rising. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”
It wasn’t until her third session that Dr. Dillard asked her about cutting herself. By then Stella had admitted that she was angry sometimes but that she rarely expressed it. She had told Dr. Dillard about living with Josh and her nomadic early life with Candy.
“In our last session we talked quite a bit about unexpressed anger,” Dr. Dillard said.
As she talked to Dr. Dillard, Stella could feel a slight shift occurring inside her. It was as if parts of her had been frozen, and were coming forcefully, and painfully, back to life. She felt dizzy at times, almost sick with the emotions that pushed through her. The denial was still there but she was becoming accustomed to touching it like she might worry a bad tooth.
“Why are you angry?” Professor Dillard asked her repeatedly.
“Because life is unfair,” Stella said stoutly. “You can’t control what happens to you.”
“True. But you can control your response to what happens. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. No. If I’m hit by a car and I’m lying in a hospital bed paralyzed from the neck down, what control do I have over anything?”
“Well, it seems to me you have two choices. You can lie there and abdicate your responsibility to yourself, or you can make a conscious decision to get on with your life in whatever way you can.”
“But I’m still paralyzed.”
“Bad things happen to people every day, Stella. How we respond to those bad things is entirely within our own control.”
Stella shook her head stubbornly. She felt irritated with Professor Dillard, her impartial, casual way of looking at things. Her insistence that life could be explained in a rational manner. A bit like Alice in that way, in her calm belief that everything would turn out as it should in the end, as if there was some kind of benign master force at work in the universe. “But sometimes you get worn down by all the shit. Bad luck just seems to follow some people around.”
“Do you really believe that? Or do you think some people’s perception is merely skewed? I think I’m cursed, therefore I am.”
“We’re back to that glass half-full, glass half-empty argument again.”
“Why are you so angry?”
No matter how many times she answered this question, Professor Dillard found a way to circle back to it, like a hound on the trail of elusive game.
“We’ve done that one to death, haven’t we? I’m angry that I have to work so hard when so many don’t. I’m angry that I keep choosing men who aren’t worthy of me.”
“What about your mother?”
“What about her?” Stella said warily.
“Aren’t you angry with her? You told me you were sixteen years old when she drove you to Birmingham and dropped you off.”
“She gave me $100,” Stella said. “Which is more than most kids get.”
Professor Dillard gave her a long, deliberate look. “But that’s not the point, is it? How did you feel when she did that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. Scared I guess.”
“Angry?”
“I don’t remember.”
Dr. Dillard made several notes. “And why did she do this?”
“We weren’t getting along. I wanted to go.”
“But do you think that’s something a parent should do? Abandon a child like that?”
“I wasn’t a child.”
“Emotionally, and legally, you were.”
Stella’s stomach bounced beneath her ribs like an acrobat. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, sharp and metallic. “She did the best she could. She had two other children at home to take care of.”
“But that doesn’t excuse her abandoning you, does it?”
“She didn’t abandon me.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“I don’t know. A couple of months, I guess.”
“And did you call her or did she call you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What about your stepfather?”
“What about him?”
“You don’t ever speak of him.”
“We were never close.”
“How old were you when he married your mother?”
“I don’t know. Nine or ten.”
“And how did you feel about your mother marrying?”
“I don’t remember. I was happy, I guess, that she’d found someone.”
Dr. Dillard switched tactics again and asked Stella how she would rate her happiness on a scale of 0-10.
“What? No negative scale?” Stella quipped.
This brought a flurry of note-taking from Dr. Dillard. She asked Stella, What wrongs have been done to you that haven’t been forgiven? She asked, What relationship have you been in that you deem to be a failure? She asked, Would you rate your communication skills as negative, neutral, or positive?
“Positive, I guess,” Stella said.
“Positive? So you think you express your anger with people? You communicate that clearly?”
“As well as anyone else I know.”
“And when did you start cutting yourself?”
This brought a pause, a moment of hesitation. Stella fiddled with the ends of her sleeves, pulling them down over her wrists. “I don’t know. After I left home I guess.”
“Soon after your mother abandoned you in Birmingham?”
“I told you. She didn’t abandon me. It was a mutual decision.”
“What happened, Stella, that made you want to leave home?”
“I don’t know,” she said quickly. The room shifted suddenly, tilting precariously, and she felt as if she was sliding. She stretched out a foot and touched the leg of the desk to anchor herself. “There wasn’t any room for me anymore. The house was pretty crowded. We were all on top of one another.”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Stella said. “It’s a figure of speech.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me about that time at home, just before you left?”
“There’s nothing to tell. I was a rebellious teen. I was experimenting with drugs and other risky behavior and my mother thought I’d be a bad influence on my little brothers.”
No matter how cleverly Dr. Dillard circled and pounced, Stella refused to give up her secret. It was all she had, really; a small, hard knot at the center of her being on which everything else rested.
“I think we’ll stop here for the day,” Dr. Dillard said.
By the e
nd of June, Stella still hadn’t told Dr. Dillard what she wanted to hear. Despite this, she went faithfully every day to her session. And as the sunny days of June began to slide into the hot, sweltering days of July she put on a little weight and the color returned to her face. She didn’t feel remarkably different, but people around her began to notice a change. Everyone noticed, even Josh.
“Why are you so damn cheerful all of a sudden?” he asked suspiciously.
“Something’s happened to you,” Alice said. “You seem happier.”
“Do I?”
Alice peered at her. “Did you break up with that boyfriend of yours?” She held up one arthritic hand before Stella could answer. “No, don’t tell me,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”
They were reading out in the sunroom on a warm afternoon in mid-July. It was Sawyer’s birthday. Stella had heard Alice on the monitor that morning leaving the Happy Birthday song on his answering machine.
“Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t,” Alice said.
“Don’t we all.”
The phone rang, startling them both. Alice picked it up and it was Sawyer. Stella could hear him clearly.
“Al? I’ll be out of town until Saturday.”
“Oh, you will? Did you get my birthday greeting?”
“I did.”
“I always feel so silly doing that since I can’t carry a tune to save my life.”
“Well, it was very nice.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“So I’ll be gone until Saturday. The housekeeper comes tomorrow and Jerry will come Friday to blow leaves but they’re the only people that should be over here.”
“Okay, then. You have a nice time.”
“I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Bye, bye.” She hung up the phone. She turned to Stella and said, “He says we should water the plants.”
“I don’t think he said that,” Stella said.
Alice frowned and looked through the long windows at Sawyer’s sprawling house. “I wonder why he would want me to water the plants. He knows I can’t get over there.”
“Alice, I’m pretty sure he said his housekeeper was coming tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll water the plants.”
“Housekeeper? No, the housekeeper comes on Friday.”
“Your housekeeper comes on Friday. His comes on Thursday.”
“What?”
“Rachel comes Friday,” she said loudly. “His housekeeper comes tomorrow.”
“Oh, all right then. I guess I won’t worry about it.”
“I don’t think we should.”
They both went back to reading but after a few minutes Alice mumbled, almost as an afterthought, “Why would he ask me? He knows I don’t have a green thumb.”
“I think I might be ready to stop therapy,” Stella said to Dr. Dillard. “I’m doing a lot better.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Stella flushed and looked away. She had to admire Dr. Dillard’s tenacity although it was tiring at times. Tiring and irritating.
“You’re better but there’s still work to do.”
“I can’t keep seeing you for the rest of my life.”
“Well, that’s really up to you. We had a deal.”
“Look,” Stella said, pulling up her sleeves. “I’m not cutting. I’m cured. You’ve done your job.”
Dr. Dillard regarded her attentively. “You know better than that,” she said.
Absurdly, shamefully, Stella felt dampness start beneath her arms. She pulled her sleeves down and turned her face to the window.
“When you can answer all my questions, openly and honestly, then you’re ready. When you can bring yourself to confront your mother, you’re ready.”
Stella swung her head around and gave Dr. Dillard a long searching look. “Confront my mother? What do you mean, call her?”
“No, I don’t believe in telephone confrontations. It’s too easy for one party to hang up on the other. You can’t see each other’s facial expressions. Face to face confrontation is the only way.”
“I’m not ready for that,” Stella said flatly.
“I understand. But when you are, it’s an important step. Your mother did the wrong thing, driving you to Birmingham. You know it. She knows it. By confronting her, you give her the chance to express regret, and you give yourself the release of forgiveness. By communicating you open up the possibility of a future relationship with her, if that’s what you want. If you don’t confront her, you’ll stay stuck.”
Outside the window, the sky was blue and cloudless. On the deck behind Dr. Dillard’s small house, a tabby cat slept in the sun.
“If you don’t mind, I thought we’d end a little early today.”
Stella shrugged her delicate shoulders. “I don’t mind.”
Dr. Dillard closed the file on her desk and rose. “There’s something I want to show you,” she said.
Stella followed her out into the yard and up the stairs to the apartment above. They stood for a moment on the landing while Dr. Dillard fumbled with her keys. She found the right one, turned it in the lock, and pushed the door open. The air inside the apartment was stale and the room was dark. Dr. Dillard went around opening the plastic blinds. The high-ceilinged room was sparsely furnished with a futon and a bookcase and, at the far end, a small table and two chairs framed by a large arched window. A galley kitchen lined one wall. On the other side of the kitchen, a door opened into a bathroom with a claw-foot tub.
“This is very cozy,” Stella said. She could imagine Luke Morgan living here, his video equipment cluttering the room. She could feel his presence everywhere, half-expected him, at any moment, to come walking through the door.
“This is the bedroom,” Dr. Dillard said, opening a door.
Long windows framed the leafy branches of a large cottonwood. It was like a tree house here, the room dappled with shade, the carpet a cool dark green color. A king size bed and a small chair in the corner were the only furniture.
“He left his guitar and a couple of boxes of books,” Dr. Dillard said, opening the closet door.
“Oh?” Stella said, gazing past her shoulder into the gloom of the closet. “Is he coming back?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Dr. Dillard said, switching on the light. “I thought he was but he told me last week he was heading out to California.”
Stella sank down on a corner of the bed with her hands in her lap, feeling an odd sense of disappointment at the news.
“So what do you think?” Dr. Dillard said, lifting her hands to indicate the room.
“I like it. It’s very peaceful.”
“Are you interested in staying here?”
Stella cocked her head, staring up at Dr. Dillard. “What do you mean?”
“I have an empty apartment. Are you interested in it?”
Stella looked around the tidy bedroom. “How much is the rent?”
“How much are you paying now?”
“I’m supposed to pay $250 a month plus utilities but I’m a little behind.”
Dr. Dillard was quiet, considering this. “I tell you what,” she said. “If you’ll agree to do some light housekeeping a couple of days a week, I’ll let you stay here rent free. Just until you get on your feet.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. That wouldn’t be fair to you.” But the whole time she was thinking, why not? She was already imagining her books on the bookshelves, her clothes in the closet.
“It’s sitting empty right now. And I could use some help in the house. Danny isn’t much of a housekeeper.” She laughed and Stella grinned. Danny was her husband. He taught in the History Department.
“It’s a really generous offer,” Stella said. “Let me think about it.” The duvet on the bed was soft and covered in small blue flowers. Stella smoothed it with a trembling hand. She said, “I’ve never known a guy to leave his guitar behind.”
“He’ll probably call an
d ask me to send it to him. I don’t think we’ll see him again.” Dr. Dillard switched off the light and closed the closet door.
“Let me know about the apartment,” she said.
Fifteen
In August, Professor Dillard relented and Stella met with the Dean and the head of financial aid and was reenrolled in school. Walking across campus she was filled with a sense of hope and optimism, a feeling that she was back where she was meant to be, and this time she would not fail. No matter what the obstacles, she would not fail.
She was still living with Josh, although he had taken to spending the night on the sofa in front of the TV, a move that filled her with relief. She had begun to think seriously about Professor Dillard’s offer to stay in her garage apartment, although she was concerned how this might affect her counseling sessions, which were ongoing. She had begun to enjoy the sessions, the careful pacing of her confession, the sense of building pressure and release, and she was beginning to see the promise of Dr. Dillard’s profession, and what this might mean to her. She could help people. She could make a difference in their lives. The thought of doing such work excited her.
She still had not told Dr. Dillard everything although she had admitted, finally, to being angry at her mother for abandoning her in Birmingham. Depression is anger turned within, Dr. Dillard reminded her. They met only once a week now on Tuesday mornings. Stella was no longer nervous; she understood how the sessions were supposed to work and she approached each one with a calm, passive demeanor. She kept her secret safe while the rest of it spooled out. It had become a quiet game of cat and mouse between them, a challenge, something they both seemed to look forward to.
Alice dreamed of leaving. She was on a train and Bill had gone forward to give the tickets to the porter. Sam sat beside her, nestled against her with his hand in the pocket of her traveling coat, his cheek resting on her breast. She was stroking his fine hair with her fingers. The train was empty except for a few well-dressed people she did not recognize.
Outside the window, the crowd was a blur of passing faces. The whistle blew once, a warning.
Several rows up, a young woman sat with her back to them. She was wearing a jaunty little hat with a veil. There was something oddly familiar about the back of her head and her long, slender neck, but she sat rigidly facing the front and Alice could not see her face.
