Page 101 of Nothing Less than Magic
The street is empty, and I have the added benefit that the meters don’t start running until nine. I’m early because I thought there would be traffic, but it was smooth sailing on the bridge with the reverse commute.
The last time I saw a therapist was after my parents died. Uncle Sylvester booked us appointments with everyone from child psychiatrists to murder-suicide support groups.
The Victorian, which houses three psychologists’ offices, is as cheery on the inside as it is on the outside. The shared waiting room has brightly colored walls and rugs and pictures of nature.
“Come on in.” JoAnn is a tall woman, with steel gray hair with a blunt cut, who reminds me of Diane Keaton. She ushers me into her office, which is slightly more muted than the waiting room—a little less cheery—and motions for me to take a seat. “What brings you in?”
I tell her about the accident and what precipitated it, about my vivid dream and all the people in it, including Knox, and how I’m having trouble adjusting to the real world. I also tell her about my parents and Lolly.
“The accident, but mostly the dream, left me unsatisfied with my life,” I say. “I realize that it’s a phase, the aftermath of trauma, and I’m afraid I’ll make decisions that I’ll regret later on.”
“Like what?”
“Quitting my job.” I pause, then laugh. “Trading all of it, the condo, the ex-husband, the life I’ve built for a cat.”
She smiles, but it’s a quizzical smile. “A cat?”
“It’s a long story, but I was just sort of using it as a symbol for the life I had in my dream. The cat is that life.”
“But your dream wasn’t real.”
I nod and start to cry.
She hands me a box of tissues and tells me our time is up.
On our second appointment, I tell her about what Knox said about how we all have pictures in our heads of what the life we want should look like. But what if my original picture was molded by what happened to my parents and my new picture is based on an alternative reality?
“Neither seem very healthy, so where does that leave me?” I ask.
“What about either picture isn’t healthy?”
“The first one is needy. It’s all about security and safety.”
“What’s wrong with that?” She leans back in her chair. “What’s wrong with wanting security and safety? Even putting aside what happened to your parents, security and safety seems like one of the basic food groups. But you tell me.”
I don’t have a ready answer. I want to screamI’m here, so you can tell me. “Are you saying that the first picture is the one I should choose?”
“I’m not saying that at all. What I’m saying is that the first and second pictures don’t have to be mutually exclusive of each other.”
“But the second picture is born out of a lie. Or not a lie, but a fantasy. A hallucination. There is no Knox, there is no idyllic town where everyone knows me and wants to be my friend. Basically, I want to bury myself back in my dream, which is impossible.”
“Did you ever consider that there may be a third picture?”
“And what would that be?”
“The whole kit and kaboodle. You get what’s behind door number one, door number two, and door number three.”
“Are you saying I keep my security and safety, quit my job, move to Ghost, and make real friends? Is that what’s behind the three doors?”
“It’s whatever you see behind them. It’s your picture.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t see anything clearly. Just confusion. Tell me what you see.”
She fixes me with a long, hard look, then says, “Did you come here for a crystal ball or a therapist?”
I’m in the bathtub when Lolly calls.
“I have a date tonight,” she says. “What should I wear?”
