Page 31 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
I called Cal this morning and told him the situation. I left out the part about me screaming. He had a light day, so he agreed to help me.
I’m starting to wish he hadn’t.
“Catch one of the mice,” he says. “Rough him up a little. Nothing terrible—a black eye, one of his little arms in a sling, maybe. Then send him back to tell his crew there’s more of this where that came from.”
Mick and Cal laugh, and this all feels like a brotherly betrayal. Kelsey laughs, too, which makes it seem like she’s also making fun of me, but I’m nearly certain she isn’t because I don’t think babies can be jerks like that.
Finally, Cal gives me a shove. “Sorry, man. Anyway, yeah, Mick, what’ve you got?”
Mick folds his big arms and rolls his eyes. “You want my professional opinion?”
“Look, I didn’t make them up,” I say. “I read about them online. They’re called humane traps.”
Mick tugs his beard. “Yeah, we got a few. Sit tight. I’ll grab you one.”
He lumbers off, and we’re joined by a late-middle-aged lady who works here, too. Her name tag says “Ronnie,” and she’s wearing a smaller Santa hat. “Don’t let these two morons get to you,” she tells me. “Have some gum if you want, on the house.”
I grab a pack of Wrigley’s from a fishbowl by the register and make a point not to offer Cal a piece.
Mick returns with a metal cage about the size of a milk crate. He pops the top open to show us the inside. It’s like a little jail cell with a mouse-size door. “Can I borrow that, sweetheart?” he asks Kelsey, gently taking her crab to use as a stunt mouse. “You put your bait here. I recommend peanut butter. Little dum-dums can’t resist it. They go in through here, start chowing down, then, blammo, door closes behind ’em, and they’re in the clink, safe and sound.”
Cal nods while I chew gum.
“And you cankeepcatching ’em, too,” he says, demonstrating. “See? Door only opens one way. They’ll just wander in, one after the other.”
When it becomes clear that Mick’s tutorial is over, I say, “Okay, well, then what?”
Across the store, Ronnie, who I thought was on my side, laughs.
Mick gives Kelsey her crab back. “What do you mean?”
I look at Cal, then Mick, then Ronnie, then Kelsey. “What do I do with the mice?”
Mick clears his throat. “Well, my friend, I think you’ve just identified the tragic flaw of humane traps.”
So, my therapist happens to be a stone-cold hottie. That has nothing to do with anything, I know, but sometimes it just feels weird to pour your heart out to a woman while simultaneously wondering about her skincare routine or how her body looks so good. Like, what’s the deal, Dr. Butler, do you do yoga or something, or have you just always been hot?
I never ask Dr. Butler these questions, obviously. Grief sucks—like lugging a bowling ball around all day—but my impulse control is still mostly intact.
“And your son’s dreams,” she says. “Those haven’t returned?”
We’ve mostly talked about the kids so far this session. After Tim died, Ian had recurring dreams in which I got cancer, Bella got cancer, Iron Man got cancer—everyonegot cancer. I tell Dr. Butler that we’ve mostly been all good in the dream department, and we shift to Bella. Yes, she’s still quieter than she was in the beforetimes, I tell her, but I feel like maybe she’s lightening up.
“And her smiles?” says Dr. Butler.
“Twelve since last week,” I say.
This is a thing Dr. Butler and I do. I log Bella’s smiles betweensessions, and we track how they’re trending. She jots this on her yellow legal pad. “Solid numbers,” she says.
“Harry Styles helps,” I say. “He’s a natural comedian. He doesn’t hump things as much anymore, either, since, you know…” I make a snipping motion with my fingers.
“I’m glad. Grief dogs always make me nervous. Little Harry, though, seems to belong firmly in the win column.” Dr. Butler scans her pad now and crosses her legs. “What about you? Anything new?”
I think of Henry but decide not to tell her about him. Henry is a nice, sad guy I know, and I’m helping him be a little less sad. If I bring him up, Dr. Butler’s eyebrow will arch the way it sometimes does, and I’ll have to answer a bunch of questions, and I’m not in the mood for that. “Same old,” I say. “Just getting ready for Christmas.”
We’re quiet now, and it’s okay. I like this about Dr. Butler, how she’s cool with us just sitting here sometimes. She keeps a bowl of candy on the little table between us. I take a Hershey’s Kiss and glance, as I always do, at the picture of her family on her desk. Two kids, a boy and a girl, like me. The girl is holding an E.T. doll.
She’s so much better-looking than her husband,says Tim, because sometimes I bring him to therapy with me in my imagination. He touches the silver frame.Guy really outkicked his coverage, huh?And I smile because I’m remembering when Tim explained this analogy to me once. Something about punting in football.
