I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (7 page)

“Mrs. Biddle is not your personal responsibility.”

“Did you know, that woman hasn't eaten a green vegetable since the seventies, and she can name every last birthday snack she made for her daughter from kindergarten on?” Tig walked to the window and slid off one of her leather ballet flats. She stretched and hit a fly with beautiful, euthanasic precision. “My mom, on the other hand, followed all the health rules . . . all of them. And on a really good day, she can maybe come up with my sister's first name, the one that never visits.” Tig turned and dropped her shoe. “I never should have quit, Julie. I never should have trusted . . . .” Her thoughts trailed off as she considered who she shouldn't have trusted. Herself? Pete? The universe?

“I'm sorry to hear about Hawaii. But, as I remember, the reasons you wanted to leave were not just about following a man around. I remember a discussion about burnout and the grief of watching your mother deteriorate. I heard you say you needed time for yourself.”

“Well, it seems that it was all about following a man around.” Tig shook her head with disgust. “I've lost track. Was I justifying following a man around with higher thoughts of caring for myself, or did I really believe them, and have only now lost my compass?”

Julie walked around her desk and slid an armchair forward. She removed a pile of manila folders from the seat and placed them carefully on her desk. “You're thinner and paler than I've ever seen. We've known each other for ten years, and you look even worse than after Wendy took off the first time.”

“Don't sugarcoat it, Julie. Let me have it.”

“I'm not letting you have it. I'm speaking as your friend. Hawaii or no, since you have the time off, you should take it. Moving an ill parent to a nursing home can't be done without a little respite.”

“Is that how the more evolved people do it, Julie? Take time and orchestrate rather than react and fill in holes?”

“Isn't that how you counsel people, the Harmeyers notwithstanding?”

“Oh, shit, Julie. I'm so sorry about the Harmeyers. That was totally unprofessional of me.”

Julie Purves was the kind of counselor who knew the value of silence.

Tig answered that silence by saying, “You and I both know that nine out of ten therapists need their own therapists. I can get therapy without giving up my job as a therapist.”

“You need some time off to understand what part you played in not going to Hawaii.”

“The part I played?”

Julie gave Tig's leg a brief, motherly squeeze and stood. “Why didn't you let us throw you a going-away party?”

“I didn't want a big deal made of my leaving.”

“Maybe you knew you weren't going to go.”

“No! I was one hundred percent committed. But, if I was making a mistake, then I didn't want a brass band. Turns out, I did make a mistake. I trusted Pete.” Tig inhaled and visualized each tiny alveolus, every last air sac, in her lungs expanding, then collapsing when she exhaled. “Maybe you're right.”

“I don't want to be right, Tig. But, consider this. Maybe not trusting yourself was the only mistake you made here.”

Tig said, “I should look at this like I dodged a bullet . . . like I could have ended up married. Now I'm free to do anything I want.”

“What do you want to do, Tig?”

“Right now, I'm trying to see this as a beginning. As a celebration and chance to look forward into the future.”

“So you're going to celebrate then. You're happy; that's why you came back?”

“If you gave me my job, that would make me happy.”

“I couldn't even if I wanted to, Tig. Your replacement is coming from the West Side clinic tomorrow. It's all set.”

Tig sighed. “It was worth a try.”

“Tig? Don't go get another job right away. Do what you tell your clients to do. Reflect. Take a minute. Figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life now that so many variables have changed.”

As if hearing only a part of that lesson, Tig said, “No job?”

“Not right away, no.”

“I was thinking of taking my mother back home. She's just so miserable.”

“And you, Tig? Are you miserable, too?”

Tig gave Julie a little nod and said, “Totally.”

“I will tell you this: misery loves company like self-absorption loves wallowing. Your mother doesn't need your misery. She needs support and love and therapy. She needs safety, routine, and care. Your mother is a full-time job.”

“No job for Tig.”

“Nope. No job for Tig.”

• • •

Back in reception, Macie said, “No go?”

Tig shook her head, leaned on the counter, and closed her eyes.

Macie said, “What am I going to do if you're not here? I'll have to get another piercing.”

“Don't do that. I don't see how you can drink any liquid without leaking as it is. Seriously, this is a disaster. I could kill Pete,” she said without any real heart behind it.

Macie's eyes darted over Tig's shoulder and froze before the telephone console lit up with a call. With a pointed look at Tig, she whispered, “Incoming,” and answered the phone.

Jean Harmeyer approached the reception desk.

Tall, thin, and dressed in an elegant wrap dress the perfect color-match to her chic brown hair, she looked as striking as she did rich. Dark sunglasses covered Jean's eyes, but she'd clearly spotted Tig.

Tig said, “Mrs. Harmeyer, I am so sorry.” She took a step forward. “I just put my mother into the nursing home. I've been distracted. Exhausted. That's no excuse. I want you to know I'm taking a leave.”

“So you're not working? Good.” Jean set her jaw, an expression Tig had become familiar with over the past months in therapy.

“Please accept my sincere apologies.”

“You mean for calling my husband a—let's see, how did you so delicately put it? An ‘impotent prick'?”

Tig dropped her hands to her sides and turned her palms out.

The cool feeling of feminine fingers touched Tig's wrist and an unmistakably throaty laughter broke the tension.

“You misunderstand me, Dr. Monahan. I haven't had that much joy shoved into a minute since the birth of my twin girls. The fact is, my husband is a gigantic asshat.” Her laughter echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Jean glanced at Macie. The receptionist's wide-eyed attempt at a noncommittal stare was almost as funny as Jean's outburst. Jean pointed at Macie's face. “You know exactly what I'm talking about; he made some of the appointments. Wasn't he a dickhead?”

Jean turned to face Tig and said, “Turns out he was screwing one of his interns at the office. She's twenty-two. How clichéd is that? He told me about her after leaving your office. He wanted to prove to me that he wasn't impotent. Don't you love it?” She took a step closer to Tig. “I left him! I've wanted to for at least two years, but you know, the kids. And, seriously, who has time for that much drama?” She paused and said, “But you gave me permission. You said out loud exactly what I've been thinking. No therapist had the courage to do that before.”

Jean traded looks with Macie, whose expression of disbelief matched what Tig was feeling in every way, including the open O of their lips. “Every counselor is all about—” Jean lifted her hands for air-hung quotation marks. “—
How does that make you feel?
and
Let's explore these emotions
. Fuck that. Explore this, Newman!” Jean Harmeyer flipped the best French-manicured bird Tig had ever seen. “God, I feel great.”

Tig smiled in spite of herself and said, “I'm not sure how I feel about this. I don't think I can take positive credit for acting so ethically wrong.”

“Hey, no offense, Dr. Monahan, but I don't really care how you feel about it, because I feel amazing.”

“How are the kids through all of this?”

“They're in their own worlds, all they care about is that their world goes unaffected. Newman was never around before and he's not around now. As long as I'm around making lunches they'll be fine. But listen, Tig, now's not the time to get wimpy on me. We've got work to do.”

“Work?”

“First of all, Newman's scrambling. I locked his golf clubs, shoes, and every last stitch of his clothing into a storage closet over on the Beltline Highway and changed the locks to the house an hour ago. I've got a meeting with a lawyer scheduled at two-thirty. He's going to go ballistic when he realizes I left him first.”

“Mrs. Harmeyer, have you thought this through? Your husband is a big, angry guy. Are you sure you want to provoke him?”

Jean gave a quick, convincing nod. “He is a scary little prick, but you should see the photo I have of him. Totally nude except for a pink Donna Karan push-up bra. It's an oldie, from when he still had his girlish figure, but it's clearly him.” She added with a hint of wistfulness, “He used to be kind of fun.” Shaking her head, she said, “I can handle him.”

Tig laughed and Macie, wide-eyed, looked between the two women.

All business now, Jean said, “Now we have to act fast. One of the first things he's going to do is sue you and this clinic as a contributing factor to our divorce, but I'm going to deny everything. That's one of the reasons I'm here.” Jean grinned. “He won't have a case without my testimony, and there's no other record if you don't write it down. No harm, no foul.”

“Is that legal?” Macie fiddled with her eyebrow ring.

“Hell, I don't know. That's why I'm seeing a lawyer tonight, but I wanted to cover my bases with you.” She took in a deep breath and exhaled. “God, I feel like I've been asleep for years. You know how it is. You're busy with kids, with brushing your teeth and buying more plastic lunch bags. I have a full-time job. I haven't had the time to hold my husband's nuts accountable. I've just been dealing. That's what women do.”

Tig knew this was true. She had counseled scores of married couples that had put up with dismissive, even abusive, behavior from their spouses. Since the idea of “happy” hadn't been on the horizon for a long time, just plain managing was a large enough goal to strive for. Tig knew a thing or two about managing.

Jean focused on Tig's face. “Now listen. Here's the other reason I'm here. I produce a radio program for WXRT. Last week, my expert on women's health decided to—get this—have a sex change.” She raised her eyes to the rafters. “No kidding. The world is coming undone. She told me that she believed it was a conflict of interest to continue being the resident expert on women's health, considering she didn't want to be a woman anymore. She's given me a two-week notice. That leaves me with a huge hole in my programming.”

Tig said, “I've listened to that show. Don't you take questions from callers?”

Jean smiled. “That's the one,
Health and Humor with Hannah
. Only we'd have to change it to ‘Harold' after the hormones kick in, and I'm not sure our listeners will stick with that programming. So, the show runs twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just after lunch from one-thirty to three o'clock.”

Tig nodded her head.

“I'm thinking you should fill that spot.”

“Me?”

“Absolutely. Your brand of counseling is just what the world needs. Straight talking, tell-it-like-it-is therapy.”

“No, no way. I wasn't counseling you. I was shooting off my mouth. That wasn't ethical, and I wouldn't do it again.”

“No, I know,” Jean said, shaking her head with enthusiasm. “Of course not. You can't say ‘douchebag' on the air.” She held up a finger. “Wait, no, sure you can. Anyway, hear me out. This is something better than traditional therapy, better than shock-jock crap. We're going to bring the talk shows to our doorstep. You'll see.”

“Jean, you know what kind of counselor I am. I try hard to stay kind, just, and sane. I just slipped up.”

“And look at the great results! You're supposed to be good at not making judgments too quickly. Look, Newman wasn't always an ass. He started by testing the waters, like a little kid does. A toe over the line here, a missed dinner there. Then came drinks several nights a week after work, weekend golf junkets with the boys. Sure, I complained, but what kind of leverage do I have—or credibility, for that matter?” Jean looked over to Macie for support.

Macie raised her eyebrows expectantly, urging Jean on.

“That's the trouble, really,” Jean continued. “What was I realistically going to do? I had colicky twins and a gluten allergy. I was killing myself trying to find spelt and pump breastmilk for when my maternity leave ended. Next thing you know, I look up from my double-mammary yeast infection and I'm married to a good ol' boy and he's calling me the ball 'n chain.” Jean's face registered disbelief and outrage. Exactly the look you'd see on a person who thought her destination was Bali but exited in Cleveland instead. “You know how it is, Tig; it's easier to get people to a proctologist than to a relationship counselor. I only got Newman here after seriously threatening divorce. If there had been someone to hold him accountable years ago, maybe we wouldn't be where we are today.”

“Jean, I just screwed up my own relationship. I don't think I'm the expert you need.”

Jean Harmeyer's dark eyes sparked and she licked her lips, working the pitch out in her mind. “See, the flaw in marriage is that there's no accountability before taking it to the divorce courts.” She waved a hand in the air, like brushing away an annoying fly, and added, “I know, theoretically people are supposed to be generous and loving enough to see past their immediate needs and think of their partners first. I suppose this is exactly what would happen if Audrey Hepburn and Gandhi had married, but I married effin' Newman. You think he ever thought to himself, ‘Gee, I wonder if Jean might like to sleep for four hours in a row'?” Jean punctuated her sentence loudly with a “'Ha!” and pointed at Macie, who appeared to be quietly absorbing every word. “He didn't give a crap, and the only one complaining was me. What are a few complaints, when you're hardly home to hear them? But, you air those complaints on the radio, a relationship expert weighs in, and you get some influence. You might even get some change.”