we each pictured a heart, frozen in mid-beat, locked in a human ice chest.
It was at the end of one of those sessions, in the midst of one of these epiphanies, that I finally cried, and Dr. Phaler whipped out her box of sticky tissues—epidermal and pink.
But as the year spun forward, and I spent every Thursday from 4:00 to 4:50 in her office with its nearly empty bookcases and comfortable purple chairs, she started to ask for specifics. I told her how my mother, since I was a child, had told me I was fat, had not allowed me to put one morsel of food in my mouth without sneering at it—hexing, cursing, poisoning it—first. I told her how, in the weeks before she left, she’d begun to walk around the house half dressed, flirt with Phil, call me a pig in front of him—and Dr. Phaler, blue eyes darting around the room, pressed me for more. I told her about the night my mother came into my room and yanked the sheets off me, demanded to know if I was fucking Phil, called me a slut, and told me I was too fat and ugly to please a boy like that—and, finally, after all the hours of composure and nodding, nodding and composure, Dr. Phaler looked appalled and said, “What kind of mother would do a thing like that?”
It was her first judgment, and it stunned me.
Inexplicably, I felt something rush into my mouth—placenta, tentacles, phlegm—and, without missing a beat, I said, “
My
mother.”
Of course, it had been rhetorical, and, answering that question, I sounded defensive, angry, all my naked longing and loss in those two words.
After that, at least once a session, Dr. Phaler asked that question, but I no longer answered.
Now, Dr. Phaler is braiding the silver chain from which her silver glasses dangle between her fingers. The fingers are elegant. The fingers of beautiful women—aren’t they always like fancy cookies?
Lady fingers
.
I could imagine Dr. Phaler forty years ago, a little girl carrying a napkinful of cookies across the jade green of a lawn party in her own honor.
“No,” she says, “I didn’t expect you to say you
miss
your mother, but I do wonder how her absence for
one full year
might
make you feel
.”
I swallow. I say, “Surprised, I guess. I guess I’m surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I guess I’m surprised she could hold out this long. I guess if nothing else I thought she’d come back for money, or shoes, or something else she needed.”
“What about you?” Dr. Phaler sets those pale blue eyes on me. “Is it surprising that she could hold out this long on
you?
”
Now Dr. Phaler’s glaring at the floor, at the face of my bad mother projected on her expensive oriental rug. She does not approve of my mother. She is paid to disapprove of my mother. It is what psychologists like her do for a living all day all over this country—express outrage at the failings of our mothers.
But why? Among some species, it’s considered natural enough for a mother to gobble down her young—
A mother gets hungry.
A mother gets bored.
And who could blame her? As a baby, you were fat, and pukey, and dull. You knew only a handful of words, but she spent all day trying to talk to you. You clamped your mouth shut as she fed you, then knocked the spoon from her hands, laughed as it clanged across the floor. You shit your pants when she dressed you up, then screamed as she changed your clothes. You threw your shoe from the car window. You scratched your name in the paneling on the side of the station wagon.
“Do you love Mama?” she asked, and you shook your head
no, no, no
.
Not guilty by reason of insanity
, any reasonable jury could conclude.
“Kat,” she says, “I asked you a question. Aren’t you surprised that she could hold out a whole year on
you
?”
Dear, beautiful Dr. Phaler—
Angel of Naivete.
Angel of Stupid Questions.
For a year her predictability, her belief in the simplicity, the banality, of the human brain has thrilled and astounded and
It was at the end of one of those sessions, in the midst of one of these epiphanies, that I finally cried, and Dr. Phaler whipped out her box of sticky tissues—epidermal and pink.
But as the year spun forward, and I spent every Thursday from 4:00 to 4:50 in her office with its nearly empty bookcases and comfortable purple chairs, she started to ask for specifics. I told her how my mother, since I was a child, had told me I was fat, had not allowed me to put one morsel of food in my mouth without sneering at it—hexing, cursing, poisoning it—first. I told her how, in the weeks before she left, she’d begun to walk around the house half dressed, flirt with Phil, call me a pig in front of him—and Dr. Phaler, blue eyes darting around the room, pressed me for more. I told her about the night my mother came into my room and yanked the sheets off me, demanded to know if I was fucking Phil, called me a slut, and told me I was too fat and ugly to please a boy like that—and, finally, after all the hours of composure and nodding, nodding and composure, Dr. Phaler looked appalled and said, “What kind of mother would do a thing like that?”
It was her first judgment, and it stunned me.
Inexplicably, I felt something rush into my mouth—placenta, tentacles, phlegm—and, without missing a beat, I said, “
My
mother.”
Of course, it had been rhetorical, and, answering that question, I sounded defensive, angry, all my naked longing and loss in those two words.
After that, at least once a session, Dr. Phaler asked that question, but I no longer answered.
Now, Dr. Phaler is braiding the silver chain from which her silver glasses dangle between her fingers. The fingers are elegant. The fingers of beautiful women—aren’t they always like fancy cookies?
Lady fingers
.
I could imagine Dr. Phaler forty years ago, a little girl carrying a napkinful of cookies across the jade green of a lawn party in her own honor.
“No,” she says, “I didn’t expect you to say you
miss
your mother, but I do wonder how her absence for
one full year
might
make you feel
.”
I swallow. I say, “Surprised, I guess. I guess I’m surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I guess I’m surprised she could hold out this long. I guess if nothing else I thought she’d come back for money, or shoes, or something else she needed.”
“What about you?” Dr. Phaler sets those pale blue eyes on me. “Is it surprising that she could hold out this long on
you?
”
Now Dr. Phaler’s glaring at the floor, at the face of my bad mother projected on her expensive oriental rug. She does not approve of my mother. She is paid to disapprove of my mother. It is what psychologists like her do for a living all day all over this country—express outrage at the failings of our mothers.
But why? Among some species, it’s considered natural enough for a mother to gobble down her young—
A mother gets hungry.
A mother gets bored.
And who could blame her? As a baby, you were fat, and pukey, and dull. You knew only a handful of words, but she spent all day trying to talk to you. You clamped your mouth shut as she fed you, then knocked the spoon from her hands, laughed as it clanged across the floor. You shit your pants when she dressed you up, then screamed as she changed your clothes. You threw your shoe from the car window. You scratched your name in the paneling on the side of the station wagon.
“Do you love Mama?” she asked, and you shook your head
no, no, no
.
Not guilty by reason of insanity
, any reasonable jury could conclude.
“Kat,” she says, “I asked you a question. Aren’t you surprised that she could hold out a whole year on
you
?”
Dear, beautiful Dr. Phaler—
Angel of Naivete.
Angel of Stupid Questions.
For a year her predictability, her belief in the simplicity, the banality, of the human brain has thrilled and astounded and
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