Going in Circles (19 page)

The question makes me smirk. “You asked to see
me
,” I remind him.

He wiggles his foot, and I'm captivated yet again by the pink sock. How did this pair of pink socks enter Dr. Hemphill's life? Did a Mrs. Hemphill buy them? Another Mr. Hemphill? Is there a man who holds my therapist and calls him Gary, just like he's always wanted?

“I felt we needed at least a follow-up,” he says, consulting his notebook. “Since your insurance carrier approved you for ten more sessions, you might as well use them.”

I like that somewhere, some person deemed me Ten Hours Crazy. I hope there's a stamp for that, all bold at the top of
my case file. “Wacko x 10.” Officially in need of consultation: that's me.

What I'd like to happen, though, is that by the end of this session, once I catch Dr. Hemphill up with my life since I last saw him, he'll realize how much better I'm doing. I'm nothing like that mess who cried on his couch and complained about her marriage for an hour. And once he sees I'm doing better, he'll tell me I don't need to come in after all. I'll have graduated from therapy, nine sessions early. Perhaps he'll want to write up a case study or use me as the inspiration for one of those self-help books.
You
Can
Do This Alone—The Charlotte Goodman Story
.

“So, what has been going on?” he asks again. And I tell him.

I tell him all about the past few months, from meeting Francesca at Petra's party to joining roller derby, and how challenging it's been.

“And you like it?” he asks, unable to mask an eyebrow raised in titillation. Like he's imagining me in roller skates and a miniskirt. Maybe there isn't a Mr. Hemphill after all.

“I can't believe how much I love it.”

I tell him about going to the bout with Francesca last weekend. How once I sat in the bleachers watching this spectacle, I lost my breath and didn't find it again until the last skater left the track.

It wasn't just the crowd screaming, the flashing lights, the way everybody looked larger than life up there in their uniforms and makeup. Those women were tremendous athletes, playing hard and fast while having fun, and I loved every second I got to cheer for them, especially when I saw Trashcan Punch take a Jammer to the rail, causing her own Jammer to score five points, taking her team to the lead. What was so fantastic about it all was being a part of it, not just a specta
tor. I skate that track. I play that game. And I get better at it every day, and one day, if I work hard enough, I might get to be on one of those teams. It might be my name the crowd is chanting.

Until then, I'll keep working on my transitions.

Dr. Hemphill takes a moment to write a few thoughts. Probably about how the patient has exceeded his wildest expectations.

He shifts in his seat, tucking one pink-clad foot underneath his thigh. “And what has happened lately with Matthew?” he asks.

I tell him about Mom's party and how horribly our dinner went a few nights later.

“I guess I haven't talked to him since,” I say. “But he hasn't tried to call me, either.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don't know.”

“How is the Lexapro working?”

Now it's my turn to shift in my seat. I grab a pillow and hold it in my lap. “I haven't taken it. I don't know if I need it.”

“Charlotte, it's good that you've found an outlet with this derby thing, but you know, distractions have a way of deceiving you.”

“It's not a distraction.” It comes out harsher than I intended, but I don't regret what I've just said.

“Even so. Sometimes things can come crashing back down. You shouldn't be afraid to get some help. With me, or with the Lexapro. These are tools for your recovery.”

“Recovery from what?”

He holds up a hand, not really in apology, more like he's trying to slow me down. “I just mean the grieving process.”

“Can't skating be a tool? Why is it a distraction?”

“Have you told your parents about the separation?”

“No. But that—”

“Have you come closer to making a decision about Matthew?”

“There's nothing that says I have to know right now.”

“It seems like he wanted to know when you went to dinner.” Dr. Hemphill puts his notebook aside and leans back in his chair, as if he wants to see me from a greater distance.

“Last time I asked you what would happen if you were to make a mistake, and you said your world would end,” he says, squinting. “Do you still feel that way? That you would rather keep your life frozen than make a decision you might regret?”

It feels like he's pulling me backward, back through all the questions that used to spin through my head all of the time, keeping me awake through the night, keeping me in tears during the day. Why would I want to go back to feeling that way all the time? Isn't it okay that I took a break from the anxiety of the unknown?

I don't have the answer, so I let the silence sit between us for a while.

Charlotte Goodman is weary from all the questioning, all the wondering. She is tired of trying to figure everything out. When she thinks about being with her husband again she remembers how he left her, and it feels like it's happening for the first time. She remembers the times he was angry with her, how scared she could be. How there are ways they just don't fit together. She sees their relationship in new ways now. Charlotte is a little different now.

But conversely, when she imagines going through a divorce, severing her life from Matthew's, Charlotte is even more terrified,
certain that she would lose her place on this planet, that gravity would stop recognizing her and she would float away. The world would let her go because she wasn't strong enough, because she had wasted so much of everyone's time.

All she knows for sure is that she was married, finally getting her happy ending, but somehow wound up pushing past it into a brand new story, one that is messy and has no end in sight.

Charlotte Goodman is starting over at the finish line. She got through a marathon only to find out she still has another ten miles or maybe even ten marathons to go before she gets to stop running. She's trapped in one of those seemingly endless races where they hand out crappy refreshments at the break tables, like orange slices and pretzels, where all the other runners appear to be having a blast, laughing, cheering. Some don't even seem to be taking it seriously, dressed like penguins or wearing giant foam fingers. And yet, they're running faster, they're getting that medal, they're doing a better job. It might be the same road, but it certainly doesn't feel like the same race.

Charlotte's wondering if it's okay to slow down until she's standing still. She wants to know if she does indeed do that, how long it would take for someone to come pick her up.

“Charlotte, am I upsetting you?”

I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out in a rasp. “All these questions. All this judgment. You're like hanging out with my husband and my mother at the same time.”

A sharp bell pierces the air between us. Dr. Hemphill jumps in place, his hand flying to the pocket of his trousers. It's his cell phone. A text.

“I'm so sorry,” he stammers, blushing. “Let me—”

“No, it's okay,” I say, getting to my feet. “I believe our time is up.”

I
moved out one year ago today. I am standing in the ladies' restroom of my office building, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to see if I look any different, if I look any less married.

Jesus Christ, what am I supposed to do with my wedding gown? Do I take it back to my apartment? Leave it for him to deal with? The thought of Matthew tossing my wedding dress into the garbage is just unbearable.

It wasn't supposed to go on for this long.

Petra walks in and I see it written all over her face. She knows what day it is, too.

“Charlotte.” She fills my name with such emotion I can tell she's enjoying walking into this moment. When she tells all her friends about this later, I'm sure she will embellish this situation, saying I was inconsolable, hiding in a stall, thanking her profusely for being such a caring friend. The truth is she doesn't talk to me anymore. If we're in the same hallway at the same time she darts into an office. When she needs me to do something, she sends a memo, or an email. “Don't hide in here,” she says to me now. The crease between her eyes deepens, reaching practically to her hairline.

“I'm not hiding.”

She rests a hand on my shoulder before stroking a lock of my hair. “I think it's good that you're sad today, don't you?” She nods at me, waiting for me to nod back.

“No, I would prefer not being sad.”

“That's not true. Your sadness means you care. This is a good thing. Pain makes us better people.”

“So does charity work. I'd rather go volunteer at an animal shelter.”

Petra sighs exactly like my mother does when I tell her TiVo didn't erase something on purpose in order to upset her. “It means you're ready to work things out with Matthew,” she says. “That it's time to go back to him.”

“I don't see how that makes any sense.”

“Every couple has problems. That's what you signed up for. For better or worse. Maybe this is the worse, and it just breaks my heart to watch you give up.”

I wonder just how much trouble I would get into for shoulder-blocking Petra into the mirror until it smashes into a million glittering pieces.

Before I can say anything, there's the sound of a snarf from inside one of the stalls. The door blasts open to reveal blindingly pretty Suzanne. She busts through, her face puffed up and streaked in hot-pink blotches. She wipes her face until the tears and snot mingle together, pushes past both of us, and leaves the room.

Petra turns back to me, and even though we are the only two people now in the bathroom, she still whispers, not wanting to diffuse a second of this drama. “Her wedding got called off. She said it was mutual, but look at her. Either he got cold feet or she caught him cheating. You see, Charlotte?
That's
when you make that kind of a decision.
Before
you get married.”

I turn to leave, but Petra reaches out and grabs my left hand. She's so excited about this show she's putting on, she's practically panting. She holds my hand in front of my face, forcing my wedding ring to eye level. My engagement diamond sparkles even in that crappy fluorescent lighting. “This was your decision,” she says. “Remember that.”

Petra turns on her heels and starts to leave, and for some reason I cannot let her leave this room first. Before I even know what I'm doing, I am practically sprinting to be in front of her. I get around her hips easily, and she stops, having no choice but to bump into my back.
Ha!
I've beaten her.

Charlotte Goodman has just booty-blocked her boss. This cannot be a good sign. Most likely this will be mentioned on her next progress report.

N
o, thank you,” I say, looking through a box of helmets to find one I like.

“Come on, Charlotte,” Francesca says from behind a hockey mask. “This one's easy. Don't you want to pass ‘Something New'? Another certificate!”

“When do I graduate?”

“When I say so.”

We're at a sports store because it's time for me to get my own gear. I'm tired of smelling like some other girl's armpit when I finish practice. Last week I spotted a skater wearing a helmet in this shiny gunmetal color, and I've been coveting it ever since.

“I'm not going on a date,” I say to Francesca, for what has to be the fifteenth time. “I'm not interested, I don't want it, and I don't need it. Put that on your certificate.”

“He's a model,” she says to me, yanking the mask off her head. “So, if you want my opinion—”

“I don't, actually.”

“It's that you need to go on a date.”

I can't find the helmet I want. Frustrated, I shove the box of equipment back to where it was, garnering a disapproving
glare from the shop owner. I shrug at him. It's equipment; it's supposed to take a beating.

“Frannie, I think the last thing I need right now is another man to fret about all day long.”

“You're not supposed to fall in love with him, Charlie. You're supposed to have sex with him and then move on.”

“Uh-huh. Have you ever done that?”

She hides coyly behind a hockey jersey, pulling a sleeve over the bridge of her nose. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“I know,” I say, heading over to the shin guards. “You haven't.”

Francesca mumbles, but I hear her. “Sounds like someone needs to get laid.”

“Or you miss your boyfriend, and you're trying to live vicariously through me.”

“Yes, and probably. But don't bring up Jacob. I'm mad at him right now.”

I spot what I'm really looking for. A pair of black speed skates with white racing stripes down the sides sits on a shelf behind the counter. They are calling to me with their beautiful blue wheels and super-clean white laces. I point and say, “Mine.”

“The skates?”

The shop owner smiles. He's wearing a Dodgers T-shirt and baggy cargo shorts. He leans forward on his elbows; his red arm hair splays against the glass counter like hundreds of squished spiders. “Derby girls? Cool.”

I ignore him. “It's ‘Something New,' Frannie. And it makes me really happy.”

She sighs. “Fine. I'll print up the certificate. But only because you're my derby wife.”

“Nope.”

“Dammit! Just for that, your next new rule is going to piss you off.”

“I'm not having sex with someone.”

Francesca pats my back. “I want you to tell your parents the truth.”