Bodhi

by A. R. Hadley

  Audrey had managed to remember that exchange when most words said the night Bryson had been born ended up as part of a haze of sweat rolling off her forehead, part of a boulder the size of Jupiter about to break free and roll out from between her legs.

  Out of her mind and unable to do anything but focus on the pain — it had been too late for an epidural — Audrey had felt each and every sensation.

  The grinding against her lower backside. The stinging. The heat. The ascent of a particularly strong contraction rising, then peaking, and the shaking that followed.

  She didn’t want to forget any of it.

  Wore it like a badge of honor.

  A privilege.

  She must've squeezed Dell’s hands hard enough to have hurt them, probably slung curses at him, but he never complained. His eyes, blue and filling with a soon-to-be-a-father goo, framed by his trademark crinkles, warmed her head to toe. His smile did too. He kept her from falling over the edge of panic.

  And before she knew it, she’d crowned, pushing a squirmy little body through a passage that had stretched to an ungodly size. And then, the uniformed-staff laid a perfect tiny baby across her fluctuating chest.

  Dell stared at Bryson.

  Audrey had never seen anything like it … a father’s reverence. She saw it again when Rick was born. And again, in the ICU, brimming over in Gavin's heartbroken paternal gaze. Unconditional love from men who would’ve desecrated anything standing between them and their sons.

  Audrey had destroyed her family’s bond — what God has yoked together let no man put asunder — and given up on Dell … fell out love and like and lust.

  How was she any different from Gavin's son?

  The chain in her hand felt like lead as she brought the collar to her cheek and rubbed it across her skin.

  After a few more moments spent with the symbol she’d grown accustomed to, wanted and needed, she went into her bedroom and placed the necklace in her jewelry box, then stared at the wall. Not at the pictures or knickknacks, only the wall.

  Thoughts swam though her mind, morphing into a whirlpool of emotions.

  Dad had the children, took them to school and practice, while she ran away from responsibility.

  Audrey had the bed and her thoughts and her tears and her failures.

  Her father had been the one who’d finally broached the subject of her sadness when she’d dropped off the boys this past Sunday afternoon. Because depression never seemed like depression when one was in the thick of it. Or it did, but she didn’t call it depression. Didn’t label it or name it because then she would have to do something about it.

  But the boys knew. Rick had mentioned it first actually. Audrey hadn’t done as good a job hiding her initial layer of dust as she’d thought.

  “What do you wish for, Rick?” she had asked him a few nights ago while tucking the blankets toward his chin. She’d just finished reading him one of his favorite books: The Boy Who Fooled the Giant.

  He yawned. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

  “It’s not a birthday cake, buddy.” Nudging him, she kissed his cheek and tugged on the covers. “The boy in the story made his own wishes come true.”

  “I wish…” He hesitated a moment, and Audrey couldn’t imagine why. “I wish for you to be happy again.” He closed his eyes.

  “Oh, baby,” she said and sighed, unable to fight the sandpaper scratching her throat as she kissed his cheek again. “Look at me, Rick.” She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Mommy is happy every time I see you.”

  And then on Sunday … her father had pulled her into his bedroom, and closed the door…

  “I haven’t seen you like this since before…” He nodded toward the living room where the boys were. “Since high school, Bean.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just a funk.”

  Her father tapped the spot next to him on the bed, and she followed. “Rick says you’re crying all the time.”

  “Kids make stuff up, Dad. I cry … a little. He exaggerates.”

  “We never see your friend Kate anymore. Were you and her? She and you?”

  Raising a trembling hand to her lips, Audrey swallowed and tried to stop her eyes from watering. She shook her head and just let the drops of salt fall. She didn’t bother to wipe them.

  “It is about a relationship, though?”

  “It’s so complicated, Dad,” she said, sucking in a deluge of air through her nose.

  He patted her knee, then wiped her cheeks. “I don’t need details, Butterbean. I need you to do something about this. It’s been long enough. Go see someone. Get some medication.”

  When he’d finished speaking, she’d dried her eyes and sniffled, trying to suck all the sadness away the way she tried to do so now in the middle of her bedroom, trying to hide truth. But she could never keep it from her father.

  Dad had never been a typical man.

  When Mom died, he didn’t start chasing women. Her father was too busy keeping the business of living up and running.

  The disease had changed him, of course. The way it had changed Audrey, her mom's brother and sister, and grandmommy. Audrey had only just come out of the teenage-onset depression a few years before her mom’s diagnosis. Stopped sleeping with her clothes on until two o'clock in the afternoon. Stopped eating ham on rye — smeared in Miracle Whip, not mayonnaise — with the crusts cut off because it was the only fucking food she could swallow and chew. Half a sandwich because a whole two pieces of bread proved to be too daunting, made her stomach swirl just looking at it.

  She’d been fifteen. Had to stop going to school. Took up correspondence. Earned her GED. Took time off between that and college. Did the whole dental assistant thing later.

  No one had medicated her at fifteen and sixteen.

  No one had called it depression. No one had a name for the thing that followed her around and suffocated her, despised her.

  She’d learned to pretend. How to keep her emotions between the lines.

  Each time she swallowed food, it was a victory. Each time she woke up without her stomach in knots and filled with an ocean of butterflies, it was a miracle. Friends distracted her.

  And she’d sworn that when her mom had been diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer, she wasn't going to eat ham sandwiches ever again. By then, she’d had Bryson too. A little child depended on her. Dell still needed her love and affection. Still held her hand. Actually, Dell held her hand through the entire ordeal.

  And that was a horrible word for watching her mother not survive cancer. Ordeal.

  Weathering a storm can make one stronger, or it can shake an already wonky foundation off its axis.

  Dell and Audrey were the latter.

  His hand couldn't hold their marriage together.

  Dad helped put Audrey back together.

  Both times.

  By the time she’d turned seventeen, she could no longer hide the moods. She'd lost weight. Withdrawn so much she barely spoke to anyone. Her father sent her to an outpatient program. Used some of his hard-earned savings.

  And then, years later, after Mom passed, he moved to Spring Hill to be closer to Audrey and the boys. He started looking after them, taking them places: spring training and Marvel movies — being the grandparent she knew he wished his wife could’ve seen.

  Dad didn't chase rainbows, and he didn't ask Audrey why she’d started to do so when Kate came into the picture. Never asked who they spent time with on the weekends. Never complained about the parenting skills Audrey often felt she lacked. Never scolded her for divorcing Dell.

  Both father and daughter needed the isolation and the comfort. Both needed to know the other was merely there — without pressure or overt commitment. They coexisted. Made it through each day. They did whatever they could to be everything for the boys.

  Maybe I am an okay mother.

  Okay … more than okay.

 
She had to take credit somewhere for something.

  She found it was often the mothers who never thought they did enough, chastising themselves for never measuring up, who were usually doing far too much.

  Bryson and Rick handed out smiles all summer by the dozen — even as Audrey felt herself slipping closer and closer to another version of sixteen-year-old, fucked-up, lost-and-lonely, ham-and-cheese-sandwich, Miracle-Whip Audrey.

  Two in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

  Having called in sick from work again.

  Distracted.

  Sinking.

  Audrey.

  But this was different.

  Still depression but different.

  Like floating above the water in the middle of a large pond instead of drowning in the insurmountable ocean.

  Her father had been right — as usual. She would have to ask the PCP for medication, but first she would find somewhere she could lie on a couch, a person with a license she could talk to.

  32

  “What do you want?”

  “To be a good mother. To be happy.”

  “Aren't you both those things?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “No one is all things … all the time.”

  A pause filled the room. Not an awkward one, the contemplative kind. Memories of what it meant to be happy flitted through Audrey’s mind.

  “When did this start, Audrey? What was the catalyst?”

  “I don't even know anymore. I thought...” She paused. “I thought it was when I met Gavin.” Everything was muddled. What she wanted to say she couldn’t seem to voice. It was all there ... somewhere in the recesses of her brain.

  “Tell me about Gavin.”

  The therapist had the basic facts, and now she wanted the emotions — the driving force. She wanted Audrey to cut open her own chest and rip out her heart.

  “But now … I don't even know. I think it started”—Audrey paused again, her wheels visibly turning—“way before. Gavin is ... was ... my Master.”

  “You were his slave?”

  “He didn’t usually … there are varying degrees of… I...”

  “Take your time. You know I’m familiar with the dynamics, but I want to hear yours.”

  “I don't want to talk about Gavin.”

  “How long ago did things end with Gavin?”

  “Things will never end with Gavin. He owns me,” Audrey said, and then stopped abruptly. After standing up, she shifted and paced.

  “Sit down, Audrey.”

  “Please,” she said with a strain.

  “Please what?”

  “I don't know. Make this noise in my head stop. This catch in my throat.”

  “I don't prescribe medication.”

  “I don't want medication!” Audrey screamed the words and then balled up the tissue in her fist and resumed sitting. She knew she needed the fucking medication … only she was putting it off.

  Once her breathing regulated, she said, “I was never like this with my husband.” Crazy in love. Unable to imagine never seeing him again. Wishing to share every secret: the good and bad.

  “Dell,” the therapist said, speaking his name like he was a clinical observation and not the father of her children.

  “Yes. Dell. I loved him, but it wasn't like this. This ... God ... this fucking pain. It hurts everywhere. Everything hurts.” She clutched her throat. “This,” she said, clawing at her neck, “it aches. Like it's swollen. All the time. Like I'm sick, but I'm not. It’s throbbing pain. I can't eat. My stomach—”

  “Audrey…”

  “Please?” Audrey said, although she didn't even know what she begged for. No one had an answer. Being with Gavin hadn't been one. Their relationship had been a gag order, a drain stopper for this bullshit vomiting out of her now at the speed of light.

  Was it wrong that Audrey needed order and discipline? Welts and lashes and commands? If only the therapist would tell her what to do. But it wouldn't matter. Wasn't that right? Dell could’ve demanded Audrey do things. He could’ve pushed her. And she might’ve only laughed at his attempt at dominance.

  The therapist handed her another tissue. “He represents something for you.”

  “What?” Audrey replied, not wishing to believe her. She wanted her ears tickled.

  “Gavin’s a figure to you. He makes other pain, things you've stored away for a rainy day and refused to deal with since you were”—she looked at her notes—“fifteen … seem okay to keep reticent.”

  “I had treatment.”

  “You learned to cope with pain? Or you used, or continue to use, distraction? Medication? You’re highly functional.”

  “Fuck this,” Audrey said and stood.

  “Is this how you cope? You avoid conversation about things that hurt? Sit down, please. I want to talk to you.”

  Audrey scoffed. “I don't know you. Why should I talk to you?”

  “Was this your choice? Coming here?”

  “My father suggested it.” Everything is my choice. “I found you. I chose you. I didn't refute or argue with his suggestion.”

  “But you disagreed? Did you want to come to therapy? Do you want to talk openly about your feelings?”

  Audrey dropped onto the sofa, pressed her palms into the cushion, and began to rock. Not crazy rocking, but subtle, uncomfortable hesitation manifesting in her back-and-forth. The therapist seemed to be waiting for it to stop without a scowl or look of disapproval.

  “How old are you, Audrey?”

  “You have my fucking notes.”

  “We all change. It’s okay. Everything you’re experiencing, and feeling, is okay. Mothering two boys. Going through a divorce. Meeting a man who wants to possess you and leave scars on you.”

  Audrey leaked more tears, but the therapist wasn’t finished.

  “Choose, Audrey.”

  Audrey stopped fidgeting. She stilled. Wasn’t this life’s impetus? Choice.

  “You’re free. Walk out of my office or stay. Choose. But if you do stay here, own this moment. Be present. And give me what you fear.”

  Gavin was the only one who had access to what she feared. He. Had. That. No one else. And that was the paradox. She could give Gavin a million moments, but he seemed to want a lifetime of them or a commitment. Both feet.

  “I fear regret.” Audrey met the therapist’s eyes straight on. “I fear making a choice and it being wrong. I fear mediocrity. I fear disappointing my children.”

  “Fear will hold you captive. It’s holding you in its clutches. Gavin’s rules, his assertion over certain parts of your life, will only take you so far—”

  “I need…”

  “What do you need?”

  The uniformity all around the room seemed to move, sway, become a mirage. Plain furniture, plain curtains, degrees in frames. Paintings of the ocean perhaps bought by someone else and probably from a catalogue.

  “There's not always a concrete solution,” the therapist said when Audrey had no answer. “Life means living with risk.”

  “Accepting things.”

  “Yes, that's part of it. Have you had a vacation lately?”

  Audrey laughed.

  “I'm serious.” The therapist smiled. “Not a vacation for the kids, but somewhere you long to go. Do you enjoy nature?”

  “That's your prescription?”

  “One of them.” She retrieved a travel atlas and then sat next to Audrey on the plain couch. “Turn the pages. Tell me what you know about each state we thumb through and what famous landmarks you'd like to visit.”

  “This is silly.”

  “Humor me, Audrey.”

  By the time they’d finished the exploration, the hour was up. The therapist had made a list, not only of faraway places, but local ones. Audrey committed to Key West and gave serious thought to Tombstone, Arizona, and the Grand Canyon.

  “Isn't this distraction?” Audrey asked. “Taking trips? Seeking pleasure?”

  “I prefer to call it communing with wh
at you believe in. If it's God, then you reconnect. You put away your phone and the immaterial, and you only look at scenery: skies, mountains, beaches. You don't question it. It's not distraction. It's the moment you’re given to either accept or ignore. Confronting feelings is work. Pain teaches us some of life’s most important lessons.”

  No shit. Had the therapist forgotten whom she was speaking to? Audrey knew what kind of lessons pain taught. Wasn't that part of the reason she was here — in the office of a sex therapist? Audrey needed pain to teach her lessons.

  Pain’s lessons were the only ones she wanted to learn.

  33

  “I had a dream about my mother last night.” She often had dreams about her mother, and they always made it seem as if she were still alive.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Isn't this supposed to be ‘sex’ therapy?”

  “This is therapy, Audrey … relationships. Sex is one part, not the whole.”

  Hmmm…

  Could've fooled Audrey.

  She hadn’t had sex for over a year. And after having experienced the awakening of a lifetime, abstinence had made her feel like an addict without a fix. Sex and pain made her whole even if they weren't all the pieces of the puzzle.

  “You look like you’re somewhere else?”

  Audrey grinned and focused back on the dream. “Things are always — sorry, not always...” Because there were no such things as always and never. “When I wake up, it just feels so real that I usually cry. And it’s hard to acclimate back to the things that should make me happy.”

  “What should make you happy?”

  “My kids.”

  “So, because you feel sadness after having a profound, emotional dream, you assume that the love you have for your children isn’t satisfying you? You think you’re a failure?”

  Audrey blinked.

  “It sounds silly when I say it out loud, doesn’t it?”

  Audrey smiled and said, “Yes,” rather sheepishly.

  “You are happy in many facets of your life. I’ve seen you make much progress since you’ve been coming here. Define happy for me.”

  “I can't define it. It's a state of being. A moment.”