is, Mum, is there anything you need to talk through?”
“No thank you,” I said as I got down the salt.
“Because I’m getting a lot of anxiety here.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Have you been having many negative thoughts?”
“Negative? No.”
“Are you in denial?”
“Certainly not!”
“Disturbing dreams?”
“Of course not. What a ridiculous suggestion. No.”
“You see, I’m worried about your super-ego,” she added matter-of-factly as she laid the kitchen table. “I think there are some repressed conflicts here, so we need to work through them to take some of the pressure off your subconscious. Now,” she said as she got out the spoons, “how about a little free association?”
“No thanks.”
“I think it would help your ego really open up.”
“My ego’s busy cooking supper, darling. Sorry.”
“Really Mum, there’s absolutely nothing to it.”
“I know,” I said as I strained the beans. “That’s precisely why I’m not keen.”
“All you have to do, Mum, is just sit down, close your eyes, and say whatever comes to mind.”
“Oh, Katie, please don’t turn me into one of your human guinea pigs,” I said irritably. “Can’t you do that at school?”
“No,” she said regretfully.
“Why not?”
“Because they’re all in therapy already. Honestly Mum, free association’s easy,” she persisted as I opened the oven and checked the shepherd’s pie. She took a notebook out of her pocket. “You just say whatever pops into your head, no matter how frivolous it might be.”
“Oh God…”
“No matter how trivial,” she went on reassuringly. “No matter how disgusting or depraved.”
“Katie!” I said crossly. “I object to being psychoanalyzed by someone who, until relatively recently, was playing with Barbie dolls!”
“Yes, but I was only ever interested in Barbies as a paradigm of US cultural imperialism. Please, Mum,” she said persuasively, “just for five minutes—that’s all.”
“Oh, all right,” I conceded. “I’m prepared to humor you. But let me assure you young lady, that I find all this psychobabble very silly.”
“That’s absolutely fine, Mum,” she said soothingly. “Go with your anger. Don’t hold back. Just let it out. Whatever you say is OK. Right,” she went on briskly. “Sit down. Close your eyes. That’s good. Relax. Breathe deeply. Let your mind wander. Now, what word springs into your mind?”
“Um…”
“No, don’t think about it, Mum. Just say it. Straight out. OK? Go .”
“Er, carrot.”
“Yes.”
“Chop…”
“Carry on.”
“Knife…sharp…er…stick…beat…time. Fifteen. Happy. Not. Over. Yet. Maybe. Wrigley. Wriggly. Lucky. Strike. Hit. Hurt. Wound. Heart. Flowers. Betrayal. Lying. Cheating. Philandering bastard . OK, that’s it!” I suddenly got to my feet. “I don’t want to play this game any more.”
“You’re exhibiting classic resistance, Mum,” said Katie benignly. “It’s quite natural, don’t worry, because it means we’re getting close to the source of the problem.”
“I don’t have any problems. Oh, hello Matt. You’re down.”
“What we saw there, ” said Katie cheerfully as she snapped shut her notebook, “was your unconscious struggling to avoid giving up its dark secrets.”
“Look, Katie,” I said patiently as I wiped my brow. “I haven’t got any dark secrets, and all this Freudian mumbo-jumbo is simply ridiculous . Now, supper’s ready, so just do me a favor and go and kill your dad.”
* * *
Who is Jean? I keep on wondering. My rival. And what does she look like? Is she blond or dark? Tall or short? Is she younger than me? Is she prettier? Probably is. Is she slimmer? That wouldn’t be hard. Is she wittier, and brighter? How—and when—did they meet? Did she make a beeline for Peter, or did he chat her up? Does he imagine he’s in love with her, or is it just a physical thing? Oh God. Oh God. I’m torturing myself, but I just can’t stop.
“No thank you,” I said as I got down the salt.
“Because I’m getting a lot of anxiety here.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Have you been having many negative thoughts?”
“Negative? No.”
“Are you in denial?”
“Certainly not!”
“Disturbing dreams?”
“Of course not. What a ridiculous suggestion. No.”
“You see, I’m worried about your super-ego,” she added matter-of-factly as she laid the kitchen table. “I think there are some repressed conflicts here, so we need to work through them to take some of the pressure off your subconscious. Now,” she said as she got out the spoons, “how about a little free association?”
“No thanks.”
“I think it would help your ego really open up.”
“My ego’s busy cooking supper, darling. Sorry.”
“Really Mum, there’s absolutely nothing to it.”
“I know,” I said as I strained the beans. “That’s precisely why I’m not keen.”
“All you have to do, Mum, is just sit down, close your eyes, and say whatever comes to mind.”
“Oh, Katie, please don’t turn me into one of your human guinea pigs,” I said irritably. “Can’t you do that at school?”
“No,” she said regretfully.
“Why not?”
“Because they’re all in therapy already. Honestly Mum, free association’s easy,” she persisted as I opened the oven and checked the shepherd’s pie. She took a notebook out of her pocket. “You just say whatever pops into your head, no matter how frivolous it might be.”
“Oh God…”
“No matter how trivial,” she went on reassuringly. “No matter how disgusting or depraved.”
“Katie!” I said crossly. “I object to being psychoanalyzed by someone who, until relatively recently, was playing with Barbie dolls!”
“Yes, but I was only ever interested in Barbies as a paradigm of US cultural imperialism. Please, Mum,” she said persuasively, “just for five minutes—that’s all.”
“Oh, all right,” I conceded. “I’m prepared to humor you. But let me assure you young lady, that I find all this psychobabble very silly.”
“That’s absolutely fine, Mum,” she said soothingly. “Go with your anger. Don’t hold back. Just let it out. Whatever you say is OK. Right,” she went on briskly. “Sit down. Close your eyes. That’s good. Relax. Breathe deeply. Let your mind wander. Now, what word springs into your mind?”
“Um…”
“No, don’t think about it, Mum. Just say it. Straight out. OK? Go .”
“Er, carrot.”
“Yes.”
“Chop…”
“Carry on.”
“Knife…sharp…er…stick…beat…time. Fifteen. Happy. Not. Over. Yet. Maybe. Wrigley. Wriggly. Lucky. Strike. Hit. Hurt. Wound. Heart. Flowers. Betrayal. Lying. Cheating. Philandering bastard . OK, that’s it!” I suddenly got to my feet. “I don’t want to play this game any more.”
“You’re exhibiting classic resistance, Mum,” said Katie benignly. “It’s quite natural, don’t worry, because it means we’re getting close to the source of the problem.”
“I don’t have any problems. Oh, hello Matt. You’re down.”
“What we saw there, ” said Katie cheerfully as she snapped shut her notebook, “was your unconscious struggling to avoid giving up its dark secrets.”
“Look, Katie,” I said patiently as I wiped my brow. “I haven’t got any dark secrets, and all this Freudian mumbo-jumbo is simply ridiculous . Now, supper’s ready, so just do me a favor and go and kill your dad.”
* * *
Who is Jean? I keep on wondering. My rival. And what does she look like? Is she blond or dark? Tall or short? Is she younger than me? Is she prettier? Probably is. Is she slimmer? That wouldn’t be hard. Is she wittier, and brighter? How—and when—did they meet? Did she make a beeline for Peter, or did he chat her up? Does he imagine he’s in love with her, or is it just a physical thing? Oh God. Oh God. I’m torturing myself, but I just can’t stop.
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