The Opposite of Music (4 page)

The doorbell rings and it's June. Not the month of June, but June from Dad's office.

“Who is it?” Dad calls from his bedroom.

“It's June!” Mom and June sing simultaneously. Then they giggle and hug one another. June rubs Mom's back. “Aw, honey,” she says. “How are
you
doing?”

“It's tough,” Mom whispers. “He's having trouble with the medication.”

“It takes time,” June responds, squeezing Mom's hand. “I've heard that sometimes you have to try two or three before you get the right one.”

June is a type of woman that usually disturbs Mom. “She treats herself well, doesn't she?” Mom sometimes says, hinting that this may not be a good thing. But she makes an exception when it comes to June. June is wearing a warm-up suit that makes me think of creamy, shampooed sheep. The style of her white-blond hair is practically TV quality.

Dad comes into the living room. June lays a paper cone of carnations and a stack of magazines on the coffee table.

“Ah,
Newsweek
,” Dad says.

“I know you like to keep up with the news, Bill,” June says.

Dad sits on the couch. I help him roll down his sleeves, careful not to break any of the blisters. “I'm depressed, June,” he says. He stares at the floor.

June pats him on the knee. “I hear ya,” she says.

Mom, June, and I sit with Dad in the conversation area. Linda is out with her obnoxious friend Jodie. At first June doesn't seem to register that Dad is covered with pink bumps that have grown together to form crests, with rivers of yellow pus running in the valleys. She begins a series of funny stories. One about the people in their office, where she is the bookkeeper. One about the company tennis tournament that Dad sometimes plays in. A couple about her husband, Ben, whom she once considered divorcing but now won't, and about her daughter's bat mitzvah eight months from now, which we are all invited to. Mom goes into the kitchen and gets a tray of chips, salsa, and ginger ale.

“So what's this rash about, Bill?” June asks, leaning across the coffee table. I can't believe she treats Dad's condition so casually. Just an annoyance, like the caterer who wants to serve mini-crepes instead of make-your-own tacos at Lisa's bat mitzvah.

Dad opens his collar, showing June a set of pustules that form, if you look at them from the side, the letter
D
. June bends over the coffee table to inspect, and I can smell her scent of expensive lotions. I, too, have always liked June, or as I call her, Mrs. Melman. I seem to run into her all over town, with no bad repercussions. Once she came into a magazine store and found Mitchell and me looking at what he called “the naked magazines.” Mitchell, in fact, was trying to stash a rolled-up one under his sweater. When Mrs. Melman saw us, she said, “There are many good books on that subject at the library,” and I never heard anything from Mom about it, which means Mrs. Melman never told.

“They make him look young again, don't they, Adele?” June says to Mom. “Like an oily-faced teenager. Remember acne? Lisa's starting to break out now. She thinks it's the end of the world, but it's not, is it? I told her to think of it as a signal that she's growing up. She thinks she's the center of the universe, you know. I had to tell her, ‘You're a lovely girl, honey, and Daddy and I think you're the most beautiful thing on earth, but you have to realize that at this age not everyone is thinking about you all the time like you're thinking about yourself. They're all thinking about themselves.' Right, Billy? Anyway, Bill, I could stop by again with some more magazines and a few of the tubes of little creams Dr. Favola gave Lisa, and you could have fun with them, try them all out. I don't know if they'd have much effect, but we have so many left over because Lisa wants to try them all. She and her friends. I tell her, ‘Stop worrying about it, Lisa. You're a beautiful girl, and when you get to be my age you'll be grateful that you had a little extra oil on your skin.' Right, Adele? Is Linda getting to be like that too?”

“Oh, June,” Mom sighs. “I wish Linda were a little
less
sure of herself. She hasn't found a thing wrong—not yet, anyway. She keeps staring at herself in the mirror, and she's even given herself a new nickname: Lucky Linda.”

“I certainly didn't think of myself as lucky at that age,” June answers. “Did you, Adele?”

“Not lucky. Yucky.” They both laugh and sip ginger ale.

“Well,” June sighs, “most of us are somewhere between lucky and yucky. And I think that's a fine place to be.” Mrs. Melman is downplaying her own fantastic beauty. I grab a handful of tortilla chips so I can get the delicate fragrance of her lotions out of my nose.

“I hadn't seen the house next door for a while,” June says. “Big, isn't it?”

“Isn't it tacky? People were snickering about it in the supermarket.”

June takes a large envelope from her purse and hands it to Dad.

Inside is a card that says, “We heard you were a little under the weather.” It shows ten people huddled under a tiny umbrella in driving rain. When Dad opens it to read the signatures, two twenty-dollar bills fall out.

“I tried to stop people from putting money in. I told them it wasn't necessary, but they insisted. Pick up something you really like to eat, or anything that will make you feel more comfortable. I'm sure a number of people would have liked to come in person.”

Getting up from the couch, June tugs on the jacket of her warm-up suit. “Thank you for the snacks, sweetie,” she says to Mom. She bends down to pat the top of Dad's head, where there are no sores, pecks me on the cheek, and gives Mom a squeeze when Mom opens the door for her. It sounds clichéd, but each of us feels a little special.

Before leaving she looks back at Dad. “Any messages for the poor working stiffs back at the office? Anything you'd like me to report to your fans?”

“Thank them for me, will you, June?” Dad says. He puts a hand up to his neck where his rash is hurting. “Tell them I'll be back soon.”

Powerful urges beyond your control. Hospitals, barred windows, white uniforms. Mysterious personality tests that show you black splotches in a butterfly shape. I don't know much about this mental business, but I have to go along for a family visit with Dad's psychotherapist.

I had expected a scientific type in a suit and tie. But when Dr. Fritz stands up to shake hands, saying what a pleasure it is to meet us, he looks like a lumberjack, in a heavy plaid shirt, wool pants, and yellow work boots.

Dr. Fritz leans back in his chair. He looks at each of us for a long time before settling on Dad.

“How are you feeling, Bill?”

Dad doesn't speak right away. Lately he takes a long time choosing his words, as if he has to turn them over first to make sure they're true. He doesn't just throw something out and fix it later, the way healthy people do. And he has plenty to complain about: insomnia and chronic tiredness, loss of appetite and a drop in his weight, seemingly constant worrying, and most of all, not having an interest in the things that used to make life worth living. Even the pacing, hand-rubbing, and whistling, which let up a bit under the blistery meds, have come back. I decide to answer for him.

“Well, he's still not sleeping, if that means anything.”

Fritz raises one hand.

“Thanks very much, Billy. I appreciate your trying to help by giving me that information. But right now it's important for me to hear it directly from your dad.”

I feel my face burn, at being caught speaking out of turn and also at Fritz's talking-down tone. Fritz is acting like he may have hurt my feelings, so naturally, after a rush of rage and embarrassment, I don't let on that I'm hurt. But still. I thought the point of his occupation was to get you to speak up, not shut up.

“Ha, ha, Billy, you got busted,” Linda says.

When Fritz glances at her she covers her mouth.

“Linda, how do you feel about being here, visiting me with your dad?”

“It's no big deal,” she says. Her face reddens, and she looks like she's going to pitch a laughing fit. This always happened when we sat next to each other in church. That was the first reason I stopped going.

Don't look at her,
I tell myself.
Don't even look at her part of the room.

“Linda, Billy, if you feel uncomfortable or nervous about being here at first, that's perfectly normal. Over time you'll grow more relaxed when you visit me. The most important thing is that it means a lot to your dad that you're here to support him. I'd like to speak with you more in just a minute, once I've finished checking in with Bill Senior. How are you feeling this week, Bill? No rush. Take as much time as you need to pull your thoughts together.”

Mom wants to say something but stops herself. I can tell what she's thinking. That there's so much to say, and our forty-five measly minutes with a qualified individual is slipping away.

“I hated those spots,” Dad says finally. “They itched.”

Fritz waits for Dad to say more. What a waste of time. After a week and a half with no meds, Dad's rash has flattened out, leaving faded pink lines like capillaries or coral. Looks to me like it's time for a new cure.

“He—,” Mom says, and stops there.

Fritz scratches his beard, a full one, not a little beard thing like Dad's.

“Bill, do you think you're ready to try a new medication?”

Good call.

During a long wait, Linda's shoulders begin to shake again. Instead of looking at her, I review all the words I know that begin with
si
and respell them with
psy—psygnpost
,
psyphon
,
psylo
.

Mom does a dance of annoyance, wiggling her shoulders and head. She taps her necklace (copper discs). Dad told her yesterday that he felt ready to try a new medication, but she isn't about to speak up now. Fritz will have to muddle through without that information.
Psylent treatment.

“Yeah,” Dad says finally. “I'll try it.”

“You'll try it?” Fritz repeats.

“I'll give the new medication a shot.”

A photo on the wall shows Fritz in a sailboat with a small child. The boat has tilted up and Fritz is leaning out over the water, working the tiller with a huge, avid smile.

Linda stiffens. Fritz has aimed his attention at her. He's staring at her, the same way he stared at Dad.

“How are you holding up during your father's illness, Linda? It must be affecting you a great deal.”

Linda is stunned. Not only is Fritz staring at her, Dad is too.
Psyamese. Psymultaneous.
Her face reddens and I think she's going to lose it. Look away, look away.

Everyone waits to hear what Linda has to say.

When I glance back at Linda, she looks somber, like she's being interviewed for the network news.

“Well, of course it bothers me that Dad's sick and everything, but I just try to be there for him. That's what a family's for, isn't it? To take care of each other?”

What a laugh! Linda couldn't take care of a goldfish. All she cares about is doing arts and crafts projects and huddling with her little friend Jodie.

“That's absolutely true,” Fritz says. “I like the way you put that, Linda—to take care of each other.” He nods five or six times. “And how's Bill Junior doing during this difficult time for the family?”

Oh ho! So
now
he wants me to talk. When it's my turn. When I'm next in line. When my number is called.

“How's school going, for instance?”

“Well…” Nobody has asked me this for a while. “It's a little difficult to concentrate, to be honest.”

“Mm-hmm, it is difficult to concentrate. But I want to remind you how important it is, especially if this illness goes on for a while, to take care of your life and make sure you can fulfill your own responsibilities. I have a feeling that you are someone who will make a real contribution to the world.”

Fritz continues staring while Linda makes a face at me across the room. A professional psychologist thinks I have potential and not Linda! I will lord this over her afterward. Although it would mean a lot more coming from someone who actually knew me.

I can't get over feeling that Fritz doesn't know it's rude to stare at people, and someone should clue him in. I read once that in many cultures, if someone stares at you it means they're either going to kill you or have sex with you, and either way my parents would be deeply annoyed. I have a flash-image of my father leaping over the desk and menacing Fritz with a paperweight, instantly charged into health by the deep instinctive need to protect me.

Fritz then “checks in” with Mom, who repeats a fancier version of Linda's winning formula about the family taking care of each other. It's unusual for her to try this hard to impress someone.

Fritz makes some notations and closes our folder. “In the course of our work together, we may eventually explore some deep emotional issues that will require a great deal of dedication from you, because they will summon painful and difficult feelings. But we're not at that point yet, and I don't see any need to rush. For today we're going to practice some new cognitive strategies, or thought strategies. These strategies are quick and—I don't want to say superficial, but superficial is not such a bad description. The main thing is that they are easy to learn and you can start using them right away. Now slide your chairs closer, right up to my desk, that's it.”

We've already improved at staring back at Fritz. The four of us are aligned opposite his desk, achieving a four-on-one group counterstare. I should have mentioned earlier that Fritz is not what you would call handsome. In fact, he resembles a Pekingese dog in a landslide. He has a high forehead and Pekingese-like features that occupy only the lower half of his face and nestle into his beard. The beard blends into his chest and neck hair. Everything on the front of him seems to have slipped down one place. But we're seriously concentrating, not only drinking in but also wringing out every word. When he tilts his face to review a pamphlet on his desk, we tilt our faces too, like four gyroscopes.

He pushes his chair back and shrugs his shoulders to loosen them.

“Okay, everyone, deep breath, in and out.
Mmmmmph-pheeww
.”

Mmmmmph-pheeww.

“Loosen clothing if necessary. Get as comfortable as possible.”

We shake out our arms and legs like sprinters preparing for a race, plant our feet flat on the floor.

Fritz links his fingers over his belly. “All of us are plagued by negative self-talk that can create anxiety. This can consist of criticisms, negative fantasies, or recurring thoughts of things we should not have said or done, or painful reminders of things we should have said or done but for some reason did not. Does anyone recognize this tendency in himself or herself? An example, anybody?”

“Hooo,” Mom whispers, crossing her legs again. I think she means: so many of them, where to even start?

“Bill Senior?”

Dad moistens his lips but says nothing.

Fritz unclasps his hands and looks receptive.

“Sometimes I'm convinced that I won't be able to go back to work,” Dad says softly.

“And what would happen then?”

“Well…my family would become indigent.”

“That means we would be broke,” I explain to Linda.

Fritz ignores me this time. “Very good example, Bill.” He nods, a rolling, whole-body nod. “Very good example. Now when you say this to yourself about not working, you know it's negative self-talk because it makes you feel bad.”

We nod.

“And the second part of that thought, the part about being indigent, is going to make you feel even worse. So your goal with this technique is to stop the thought as soon as it starts, before you even get to the second part. And you're going to do that by saying these words to that inner voice in your head: ‘Cancel, cancel!'”

Murmuring: “Cancel, cancel.” We're still nodding.

“And there's a picture, a visual, you can add to it too. While you're saying ‘Cancel, cancel,' you can picture yourself drawing an
X
through the thought, or stamping it out with one of those red circles with the diagonal through it.”

“Like the No Smoking symbol.”

“Exactly, Linda. Or conjure up your own picture. Whatever works best for you.”

“You know, that's very good,” Mom says. And she mouths the words to herself:
Cancel, cancel
.

Fritz rests his elbows on the desk. “Challenge yourself to say ‘Cancel, cancel' as quickly as possible. Right on the heels of the negative thought. Make a game of it. Because the less time the thought spends in your mind, the less it will affect your mood and contribute to a downward spiral. Ready to try it?”

Dad seems pretty caught up in this, more involved than he's been in a while.

“Here we go. I'm going to lose my job and—”

“Cancel, cancel,” we blurt out.

“I'm going to—”

“Cancelcancel.” Three of us are speed-talking, with Dad trailing behind.

“I'm—”

“Cancelcancel.”

“Okay.” Fritz raises both hands over his head. “Ho!” He laughs in booming, individual cannonball shots. “I'm a negative thought, and I just gave up. You can't get much faster than that. Very good work. Let's relax and breathe for a moment.”

Mmmmmph-pheeww.

“Who's ready for another one? You all are. Since you're doing so well, I'm going to give you an opposite, or complementary, strategy to the one you just learned. This one is to reinforce any
positive
self-talk that runs through your mind. Say I observe to myself, ‘I've had a terrific day.' I want that thought to hang around for a while. So, to encourage it to stick around, I say, ‘Welcome!' To confirm and validate that positive thought: ‘Welcome!' And you can add a mental image of this gesture.”

Fritz has struck an openhanded pose, like someone catching rain after a drought.

“Welcome!” we mutter, practicing the gesture.

“I am a useful and worthwhile person,” Fritz says.

“Welcome!”

Fritz checks the clock on the wall. “We're done for today. I know you've all worked really hard in this session, especially you, Bill. And I have to compliment you. You and Adele have a lovely family.”

“Thank you,” Mom says, walking to the door.

“Welcome!”

“How did you like your first session, kids?” Mom asks while she unlocks the car.

“Well, I learned something. We're all supposed to take care of each other!”