Between the Lines
I doubt he thinks I’d even be capable of turning out like him, not that I can argue the point, and not that I ever wanted to be.
***
When we arrive, Dad charges straight across the lobby to the reception desk and I trail him, not taking my sunglasses off until I get past the reception area and anyone hanging out there. The woman behind the desk recognizes him and immediately looks at me, blinking rapidly even though her expression remains neutral, confirming that she knows who I am by association. I wonder if my fame makes being here more difficult for Mom, where everyone knows, or will know—that she’s the mother of Reid Alexander. She can’t be anonymous, any more than I can. But at least my notoriety was/is my choice.
The place is posh, no surprise, and Mom seems as fragile as always, also no surprise. We are only allowed to meet with her in the counselor’s office for this visit, and frankly I’m hoping this time will be the only one required of me.
There are two sofas—one of them is more like a loveseat—and two chairs, surrounding a low table. The therapist, Dr. Weems, takes one of the chairs, crossing her legs and opening the file on her lap, giving us no direction on where to sit. I sense a test, but I’m not sure what arrangement she’d accept as positive, or if she perceives that I know she’s analyzing each of us and how we relate to each other based on our choice. By the time these thoughts make their way through my brain, Dad is sitting in the middle of the long sofa, mom next to him in the corner. I plop down in the middle of the loveseat because that choice doesn’t require anything but sitting straight down. Dr. Weems is scribbling, already finding my faults, or maybe she’s doodling a cartoon of funny cats while waiting for us to stop playing musical sofas.
“Mark, Reid, I’m Dr. Weems—please call me Marcie. It’s good to meet both of you.” She smiles that calculating therapist smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, as Dad greets her politely and leans up to shake her hand. When she turns to look at me, I’m leaning forward, elbows on knees, ready to bolt out of here at the first opportunity. I raise my chin once, acknowledging her. That’s the best I’ll do, and my peripheral awareness of Dad’s glower won’t change it.
She’s undaunted. I doubt ass**le adolescent males are new to her. “We’ve made some really solid progress in the last two weeks.” The heel of Marcie’s pump is hanging slightly from her foot, as though she’s actually playing dress up and wearing her mother’s shoes. “I’m pleased that the two of you could join us so you could see for yourselves that your loved one is doing well, and so we can do a little work as a family unit.”
Our “loved one” is sitting right there, being spoken about in the third person with an epithetical term rather than her name. I’ll admit I have issues with therapists in general. I think they’re a pretentious group of people who believe they know your innermost secrets from body language and what they trick you into saying. Marcie is all that plus attributes from your least favorite, most biased teacher ever.
I watch Mom, the way her fingers shake with the slightest tremor, barely perceptible, whenever she has to speak. When she looks up, I try to catch her eyes—dark blue, identical to mine—wondering if she wants someone to just grab her hand and get the hell out of here. But no, she’s determined to tackle the demons. She clenches her jaw, frowns at the flower arrangement in the center of the table or the stack of magazines on either side. And then she pushes her small voice forward, and answers Marcie’s probing questions and Dad’s careful inquiries.
Marcie squints at me a few times during the hour. I’m not saying anything unless asked directly, and even then, I’m the opposite of forthcoming. What I don’t say: I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to contribute, and I don’t see why I have to when it isn’t me in rehab. When the hour is up, I feel like I was just released from prison.
When Mom hugs me goodbye, my arms slide around her and I realize she’s even smaller than usual. “Thank you for coming,” she says into my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
I close my eyes. Say it, say it, say it. “You too.” Both not good enough and better than nothing. She gives me another squeeze before letting go. She walks into my dad’s arms and I turn towards the window. He’s the worst kind of hypocrite—pretending this level of give-a-shit now when she’s spent years flying along behind him like a kite, just trying to stay airborne.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Where are Reid’s posters?” I’m reclining on Emily’s bed, Hector draped over my abdomen, purring an atypical welcome. I stroke his silky back and scratch behind his ears.
Emily closes her bedroom door, where two sexy-beautiful close-up posters of Reid are attached with double-stick tape. (Emily’s mom has two rules for posters: double-stick tape, not thumbtacks, and on the doors, never the walls.) “You downgraded him to the back of the door?” Emily’s system: the favored boys go on the closet door, visible all the time; the lesser ones go to the back of her bedroom door. Quinton’s is still on the closet door, and has in fact moved to the number one spot: face level above the door knob.
“It didn’t seem right to have Reid in a prominent spot when you two are practically a couple. I can’t cheat with my best friend’s guy. Even theoretically.”
“So he’s like a brother to you now.”
“Don’t be crazy,” she answers. “Look at him.”