about MRI jokes? For instance, Iâm never flying this airline again. The in-flight music sucks, and no oneâs come by with drinks and peanuts.
Not funny. This isnât working. Must think pleasant thoughts, happy memories from my pastâ¦
1. Me kissing Zack. Except it wasnât really me kissing him, and it wasnât pleasant.
2. Me and Leanne, age six, playing in the schoolyard:
My mother and your mother were hanging up the clothes.
My mother gave your mother a punch in the nose.
Too much violence. Moving alongâ¦
3. That time in seventh grade when Amanda got her period for the first time. I stood in front of her, Leanne stood behind, and the three of us sandwiched our way to the nurse. Okay, fine. Not exactly what youâd call pleasant, at least not for Amanda, but itâs one of those memories you can look back on and laugh about. Except thinking about Amanda is making me sad again, so moving alongâ¦
4. Hanging out with my dad. A marriage and family therapist who worked from home, he always seemed to have time on his hands. My mother used to criticize him for having no ambition, but I think she was glad he was around so much. So was I. Except back then I didnât realize it.
My fatherâs office was off the kitchen, with a separate entrance at the side of the house. I used to look out my bedroom window and watch his patients arriving. Sometimes Iâd see a man and a woman, sometimes a whole family, and Iâd wonder why they needed help in the first place. Sometimes Iâd make up stories, like I did for that little man with the big wife. I turned him into a jockey with a fear of horses (equinophobia) and gave her a fear of small things (microphobia). Thanks to my dad, I knew all about phobias, not to mention psychoses, though I doubt he saw much of that. He dealt mostly with the usual stuff, like messed-up families. Who knew that one day Iâd be coming up someone elseâs walkway with my mother, seeing some other therapist? Maybe a little girl was looking out her bedroom window, wondering what was wrong with me .
Maybe taking a trip down Memory Lane isnât such a good idea, I think. But I canât seem to stop, canât turn backâ¦
After my father died, I used to imagine him everywhere. Once, when I was eleven, I ran after a man in the mall. He was wearing a brown suede jacket just like my dadâs. âDaddy! Daddy!â I yelled, but when he turned around, I saw that he looked nothing like my father at all. His wife was sympathetic. My mother was embarrassed. Of course, that was one of my therapistâs favorite topics at our sessions. My âfather delusions,â he called them. The thing is, when you lose someone you love, you tell yourself stories. You pretend heâs playing games like hide-and-seek, or heâs in the Witness Protection Program, or heâs running from the law. Anything but dead.
I still miss him, but Iâm not sad anymore. Usually when I think of him, I get a sense of comfort, like heâs right here beside me, assuring me that everythingâs going to be all right. Usually, but not always. I donât want to go there, donât want to think about that last day, but I do anyway. Here in the tunnel, alone with my imagination and my fear, I canât stop the memory from exploding in my head.
It was the last Saturday in May, and my mother was setting up for her book club. After baking and dusting and vacuuming, sheâd decorated the living room with spatters of violet and purple. Hovering in the air, the sweet scent of freshly cut flowers was so thick it caught you by the throat.
That scent was lilac.
My mother loved lilac. We used to have masses of it growing in the front yard. The hedges were so tall you could barely see the road. Even in the summer when all the flowers were gone, you could still catch a trace of their fragrance, like a lingering ghost.
That day in May, my father took me
Not funny. This isnât working. Must think pleasant thoughts, happy memories from my pastâ¦
1. Me kissing Zack. Except it wasnât really me kissing him, and it wasnât pleasant.
2. Me and Leanne, age six, playing in the schoolyard:
My mother and your mother were hanging up the clothes.
My mother gave your mother a punch in the nose.
Too much violence. Moving alongâ¦
3. That time in seventh grade when Amanda got her period for the first time. I stood in front of her, Leanne stood behind, and the three of us sandwiched our way to the nurse. Okay, fine. Not exactly what youâd call pleasant, at least not for Amanda, but itâs one of those memories you can look back on and laugh about. Except thinking about Amanda is making me sad again, so moving alongâ¦
4. Hanging out with my dad. A marriage and family therapist who worked from home, he always seemed to have time on his hands. My mother used to criticize him for having no ambition, but I think she was glad he was around so much. So was I. Except back then I didnât realize it.
My fatherâs office was off the kitchen, with a separate entrance at the side of the house. I used to look out my bedroom window and watch his patients arriving. Sometimes Iâd see a man and a woman, sometimes a whole family, and Iâd wonder why they needed help in the first place. Sometimes Iâd make up stories, like I did for that little man with the big wife. I turned him into a jockey with a fear of horses (equinophobia) and gave her a fear of small things (microphobia). Thanks to my dad, I knew all about phobias, not to mention psychoses, though I doubt he saw much of that. He dealt mostly with the usual stuff, like messed-up families. Who knew that one day Iâd be coming up someone elseâs walkway with my mother, seeing some other therapist? Maybe a little girl was looking out her bedroom window, wondering what was wrong with me .
Maybe taking a trip down Memory Lane isnât such a good idea, I think. But I canât seem to stop, canât turn backâ¦
After my father died, I used to imagine him everywhere. Once, when I was eleven, I ran after a man in the mall. He was wearing a brown suede jacket just like my dadâs. âDaddy! Daddy!â I yelled, but when he turned around, I saw that he looked nothing like my father at all. His wife was sympathetic. My mother was embarrassed. Of course, that was one of my therapistâs favorite topics at our sessions. My âfather delusions,â he called them. The thing is, when you lose someone you love, you tell yourself stories. You pretend heâs playing games like hide-and-seek, or heâs in the Witness Protection Program, or heâs running from the law. Anything but dead.
I still miss him, but Iâm not sad anymore. Usually when I think of him, I get a sense of comfort, like heâs right here beside me, assuring me that everythingâs going to be all right. Usually, but not always. I donât want to go there, donât want to think about that last day, but I do anyway. Here in the tunnel, alone with my imagination and my fear, I canât stop the memory from exploding in my head.
It was the last Saturday in May, and my mother was setting up for her book club. After baking and dusting and vacuuming, sheâd decorated the living room with spatters of violet and purple. Hovering in the air, the sweet scent of freshly cut flowers was so thick it caught you by the throat.
That scent was lilac.
My mother loved lilac. We used to have masses of it growing in the front yard. The hedges were so tall you could barely see the road. Even in the summer when all the flowers were gone, you could still catch a trace of their fragrance, like a lingering ghost.
That day in May, my father took me
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