is stubborn; she licks her finger and rubs again. “I saw this thing on the road. A burnt little animal. I thought some kid had set it on fire. It was trying to get across to the other side.”
“As in the great hereafter?”
“Of the road. It was burnt within an inch of its life, but it was still moving—which felt so, I don’t know, brave?—and I wanted to help it, but it was already dead.”
Her husband slaps the breasts onto a foiled baking sheet. “I’ve never understood that saying, ‘within an inch of its life.’ Like there was some danger right
next
to its life but not quite touching it?”
“This little animal. It’sweird. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Where’s the salt?”
“I think it was a possum. It was like it wasn’t accepting death—or didn’t even realize death was near. It
kept going
.”
“There you are, Salty McSalterton.” He dusts the chicken, slides the pan into the oven. “You know what’s so messed up about Ro’s sperm donors?”
The wife closes her eyes. “What?”
“They can totally lie on the application.All four grandparents died of cirrhosis, but dude claims they’re alive and healthy? Nobody’s checking. I’m surprised that somebody as neurotic as Ro isn’t worried.”
“She’s not neurotic.” But it pleases her to hear him say it.
“You don’t work with her.” He sets the timer. “She’s in full denial mode. Doesn’t realize what a nightmare it’s going to be. By herself? It’s a nightmare even where there’stwo of you.”
“Didier, I want to go to counseling.”
He wipes his hands, hard, on a kitchen towel. “So go.”
“
Couples
counseling.”
“Told you before”—reaching for his beer—“I’m not a therapy person. Sorry.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Means that I don’t respond well to being blamed for things that aren’t my fault.”
Oh God, not his father again.
“I found someone in Salem,” she says, “who’shighly recommended, and they do late-afternoon appointments—”
“Did you not hear me, Susan?”
“Just because you had an incompetent therapist in Montreal thirty years ago? That’s a
great
reason not to try to save—” She stops. Licks her finger again, scratches at the yogurt on the stove.
“What? Save what?”
“Can you please just
consider
it? One session?”
“Why are people in the States obsessedwith therapy? There’s other ways to solve problems.”
“Such as?”
“Such as hiring a cleaning service.”
“Oh,
okay
.”
“Since you clearly don’t want to do it yourself. Which”—he holds up a palm, nodding—“I
get
. I don’t feel like cleaning either, especially after being at work all day.”
“I’d much rather be at work all day,” she says, wondering, as the words settle in the air, if this is true.
“Then get a job. No one’s stopping you. Or go back to law school.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Seems pretty easy to me.” He is paper-toweling translucent pink shreds of raw chicken off the cutting board. “Honestly, Susan? Things aren’t that bad. I mean, yes, some things could be better. But I’m not gonna drive ninety miles to talk about how I should’ve bought you better presents on your birthday.”
Or any presents.
“But what about the kids?” she says. “They sense things—Bex asks—”
“The kids are fine.”
She takes a long breath. “Are you saying they wouldn’t benefit from our relationship improving?”
“It’s kind of interesting that you don’t give a fuck about
my
benefit. That douchebag brainwashed my mom, and she never stopped blaming me. Me, who was basically a child.”
“I know it wasn’tyour fault he left, but—”
“The therapist didn’t even care why I hit him. Said it was ‘immaterial.’ Really, dude?”
“You broke your dad’s nose.”
“Well, he did a lot worse to me. Which is my point. The goal of therapy is to make you feel like dog shit in the name of insight. I’m gonna pay
“As in the great hereafter?”
“Of the road. It was burnt within an inch of its life, but it was still moving—which felt so, I don’t know, brave?—and I wanted to help it, but it was already dead.”
Her husband slaps the breasts onto a foiled baking sheet. “I’ve never understood that saying, ‘within an inch of its life.’ Like there was some danger right
next
to its life but not quite touching it?”
“This little animal. It’sweird. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Where’s the salt?”
“I think it was a possum. It was like it wasn’t accepting death—or didn’t even realize death was near. It
kept going
.”
“There you are, Salty McSalterton.” He dusts the chicken, slides the pan into the oven. “You know what’s so messed up about Ro’s sperm donors?”
The wife closes her eyes. “What?”
“They can totally lie on the application.All four grandparents died of cirrhosis, but dude claims they’re alive and healthy? Nobody’s checking. I’m surprised that somebody as neurotic as Ro isn’t worried.”
“She’s not neurotic.” But it pleases her to hear him say it.
“You don’t work with her.” He sets the timer. “She’s in full denial mode. Doesn’t realize what a nightmare it’s going to be. By herself? It’s a nightmare even where there’stwo of you.”
“Didier, I want to go to counseling.”
He wipes his hands, hard, on a kitchen towel. “So go.”
“
Couples
counseling.”
“Told you before”—reaching for his beer—“I’m not a therapy person. Sorry.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Means that I don’t respond well to being blamed for things that aren’t my fault.”
Oh God, not his father again.
“I found someone in Salem,” she says, “who’shighly recommended, and they do late-afternoon appointments—”
“Did you not hear me, Susan?”
“Just because you had an incompetent therapist in Montreal thirty years ago? That’s a
great
reason not to try to save—” She stops. Licks her finger again, scratches at the yogurt on the stove.
“What? Save what?”
“Can you please just
consider
it? One session?”
“Why are people in the States obsessedwith therapy? There’s other ways to solve problems.”
“Such as?”
“Such as hiring a cleaning service.”
“Oh,
okay
.”
“Since you clearly don’t want to do it yourself. Which”—he holds up a palm, nodding—“I
get
. I don’t feel like cleaning either, especially after being at work all day.”
“I’d much rather be at work all day,” she says, wondering, as the words settle in the air, if this is true.
“Then get a job. No one’s stopping you. Or go back to law school.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Seems pretty easy to me.” He is paper-toweling translucent pink shreds of raw chicken off the cutting board. “Honestly, Susan? Things aren’t that bad. I mean, yes, some things could be better. But I’m not gonna drive ninety miles to talk about how I should’ve bought you better presents on your birthday.”
Or any presents.
“But what about the kids?” she says. “They sense things—Bex asks—”
“The kids are fine.”
She takes a long breath. “Are you saying they wouldn’t benefit from our relationship improving?”
“It’s kind of interesting that you don’t give a fuck about
my
benefit. That douchebag brainwashed my mom, and she never stopped blaming me. Me, who was basically a child.”
“I know it wasn’tyour fault he left, but—”
“The therapist didn’t even care why I hit him. Said it was ‘immaterial.’ Really, dude?”
“You broke your dad’s nose.”
“Well, he did a lot worse to me. Which is my point. The goal of therapy is to make you feel like dog shit in the name of insight. I’m gonna pay
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