Spin Doctor

by Leslie Carroll

  I waited until Izzy pulled herself together, then we went under the tent to enjoy what I have to say might have been the hit of the day: the Jamaican wedding feast (with wedding cake and fortune cookies for dessert) concocted by Meriel and William on behalf of No Problem, William’s fledgling Flatbush restaurant.

  “This is fabulous,” Alice said to me, munching on a jerk chicken drumstick. “How did Claude and Naomi get hooked up with them?”

  I told her about the frantic two A.M. phone call from Claude. “They suddenly lost their caterer and asked me if I knew of anyone who could come in at the last minute, more or less.”

  “And you thought for a moment and said ‘No Problem!’” Alice posited, mimicking a Jamaican accent.

  I took a sip of sorrel. This time it had been liberally laced with rum, and nearly sent me spinning halfway across the dance floor. “I wish I’d been that clever!”

  12

  FAITH

  “Well, Stevo could give me no good reason why he won’t, or can’t, replace the washing machines,” Faith said. “It’s like Ten Little Indians. Now we’re down to only two fully operating units. He took away the broken numbers two and four, leaving one and three still working tolerably well; but five apparently isn’t draining the water after the rinse cycle, so no one will use it, of course; and six makes such an awful whirring sound during the spin cycle that you think it’s in torment.” She grinned mischievously at me. “I just wanted to get that in before you start telling me I’m avoiding again!”

  “Touché! So what’s really up this week?”

  Faith settled back into the couch. Even in her body language she had come a long way from the cautious perching she used to do only a few months ago. And the fact that she was now comfortable undergoing therapy on what had been her own couch made me even more pleased with her progress.

  “Well…I decided that it was finally time for me to sort through all of Ben’s books and papers. After all, what am I going to do with shelf after shelf of medical textbooks and treatises, and I think one of the local medical schools, or at least the public library, could use them. If not, if they’re too outdated, perhaps a theatre or film company could gut them and use the spines as props. I’ve read about that, you know. I e-mailed—yes, e-mailed—Columbia University, Ben’s alma mater, to ask if they might want his papers. After all, he was highly respected in his field. They were very receptive, and are sending a grad student to look them over next week. He’ll take what he thinks the university might like to archive, and leave the rest to me to either retain or discard.”

  I couldn’t resist applauding. “Faith, this is fantastic! You have no idea how proud I am of you!”

  “Oh, it was like a grand treasure hunt,” she continued. “Thank you. I’m pleased as punch with myself, if you really want to know. After so many decades, one forgets what one owns, so it was quite a journey of discovery in a number of ways. Firstly, that I could tackle Ben’s voluminous library without weeping, which felt more like a broad jump than baby steps, I’ll have you know; and then to find all kinds of wonderful things that I had completely forgotten about.” Faith tapped her head. “When your brain gets old, a lot begins to seep through the cracks.”

  “Tell me about some of the other stuff you found. What else you discovered,” I urged her. “And how you felt about it.”

  Faith glanced down at her purse. “How I felt about it? Young. A girl again. Yes, I have to admit I felt young in some ways. My God, I unearthed items I hadn’t seen since my college days, and suddenly there I was back at Smith, a shy freshman…too timid to speak up in poetry class. I think I never raised my hand in any of my classes until my second semester as a sophomore. I found something for Molly too,” Faith added, her cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile revealing a dimple I don’t think I’d ever noticed before. “Do you happen to have a cell phone? On you, I mean.”

  I patted the pocket of my jumper. I always keep it on vibrate when I’m down here, in case Molly or Ian needs to reach me before they head off to school.

  “Do you think Molly is still upstairs?” Faith asked. “I know we’re in the middle of a session, but I don’t mind the interruption. In fact I’m sure it would be worth it.”

  Reluctantly, I rang the apartment and summoned Molly to the laundry room.

  “What’s up?” she said, dropping her backpack on the center table with a tremendous thud. “I was almost halfway out the door.”

  “Faith has something for you.”

  Molly looked stupefied. “For me?”

  Faith nodded and withdrew a slim volume from her handbag. “I understand you like to write,” she told my daughter. “And your mother is turning me into a firm believer in risk-taking and moving on. So…I am taking the risk that you will enjoy this…and moving on in the sense that I have derived much pleasure in the past from this book, and from a brief acquaintanceship with its author…and feel it’s time for another to reap its rewards.” She handed the book to Molly, who looked at the cover, opened it up to inspect the flyleaf, and began to tremble.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I couldn’t tell whether she was going to shout or break down in tears. “What? What is it?”

  My sullen, surly teenage daughter had been transformed, at least for a few moments, into an utterly awestruck girl. I appreciated the change, however long it lasted. “Oh. My. God. Mom, look. Youhavetolookatthis.” She handed me the book. “Where did you get it?” she asked Faith.

  I read the inscription. “‘To my old classmate Faith. A Smith girl through and through and one I will never forget. ‘To Virtue, Knowledge’…and happiness always, Victoria Lucas, a.k.a Sylvia Plath.’”

  “It’s The Bell Jar, Mom. The Bell Jar. And Sylvia Plath autographed it! This so rocks!”

  “Yes, I know, sweetheart. Faith, this is a tremendous gift. Oh, my God,” I said to Molly, “don’t you dare even consider selling this on eBay or I will have to kill you.”

  “Ma, are you crazy? I would never!” She hugged the book to her chest and a tear rolled past the right side of her nose. “Don’t tell my mother, but this is the best present I ever got!” she said, embracing Faith. “I can’t believe you knew Sylvia Plath. That is so awesome! Ohmigod, thank you so much! I can’t wait to show this to Mr. Werner.”

  “Sweetheart, perhaps you should leave it at home and just tell Mr. Werner about it. It makes me nervous, bringing something so precious, so obviously special to you—not to mention, irreplaceable—up to school, and have it banging around in your knapsack and everything. Don’t you think? We could photocopy the flyleaf on our all-in-one printer and you could show him that.”

  Molly sighed. “Okay. For once I agree with you. If this got wet or ripped, or ripped-off, I think I’d kill myself. Oops. See what Sylvia Plath’ll get you! I’ve had her book for two minutes and already I’m thinking of suicide.” She leaned in to Faith and gave her another kiss on the cheek, then threw her arms around me, grabbed her knapsack, and without another word left the laundry room like she’d just been shot out of a cannon.

  “Amazing.” I shook my head. “My daughter receives a gift that makes her mention suicide, and here I am thinking that it could be the best thing that ever happened to her!”

  Faith grinned. “You are talking about the book of course. Being the best thing.”

  “Yes, the book. Of course, the book.” I laughed. “Eli and I have been struggling for years to find the silver bullet, the ‘open sesame,’ the magic something that would jolt Molly into raptures. I was hoping that it actually existed. And apparently it does, as we have just witnessed. I just had to have faith, I suppose, that the answer would eventually reveal itself.”

  My client winked. “Yes, that—and isn’t it funny how Faith had the answer!”

  Progress Notes

  Naomi Sciorra and Claude Chan: Things are more than back on track for this couple; I hadn’t hoped for this much progress this fast. The partners decided to get married, affirming the importance of the
commitment they share with one another. In the same session we revisited the issue of the adoption, and through a bit of active prodding, the partners discovered an irony in their lives as business owners that illuminated the issue even further, and served to crystallize key elements of the process for them. Feeling more emotionally secure after Claude’s wedding proposal, followed by the epiphany they experienced in their session, Naomi was able to open herself up to alternative ways to view the thorniest issue (for her) of the adoption process. With a new eye on the humorous, or at least ironic, aspect of the situation, she made tremendous progress. Claude is visibly happier now that Naomi is happy; and her epiphany made the decision regarding the adoption papers a far less onerous one than it had previously seemed. Additionally, their public ceremony serves to further cement their partnership and provides them with an even more solid foundation on which to raise a child.

  Meriel Delacour: At long last we are getting to what is at the core of Meriel’s dissatisfaction, albeit still in a roundabout way. She lights up like a Macy’s barge on the Fourth of July when she discusses her son’s plans for his Jamaican restaurant. Despite her repeated avowals that this is his project and his alone, and that she needs to stay out of it as much as possible and let him do his own thing, it’s evident how much joy she is deriving from her contributions—her input on the decor and recipe selection in particular. In our upcoming sessions, I plan to work deeper, confronting if need be, to encourage her to speak out regarding her own needs. Does she really yearn to be an active part of William’s new venture? Is it this desire specifically that is at the root of her disaffectation within her current employment, or is it simply the urge to be doing anything that gives her job satisfaction and self-worth? Depending on her answer, I need to give her a gentle nudge onto that yellow brick road to wherever her Oz is.

  Faith Nesbit: Faith’s continued forward momentum continues to astonish me. I am unspeakably proud of her. After four and a half years, she is finally taking active steps to distribute or discard her late husband’s medical books and papers, items that clearly have sentimental meaning to her, but which play no current role in her own life. To actually have those things removed from her apartment is tremendous. Faith’s baby steps have become strides without any demonstrable loss of self-confidence. In many ways she would appear to be the model client; and in fact, clients like Faith give therapists faith (with a small f) in our own ability to make a difference. They reinforce our decision to enter this profession. I want to encourage Faith to keep up the good work, and make sure that she’s not moving faster than she really feels comfortable going, in an effort to either please the therapist or to overreach—because if either of those is in play here, there exists the obvious danger of damaging backsliding and regressive behavior.

  Me: I must admit that in many ways I’m a pretty happy camper these days; happier than I’ve been in quite some time. On the professional front, a number of my clients have made tremendous progress recently. In addition to exchanging vows, Claude and Naomi are currently on the same page now regarding the adoption issue; one couldn’t ask for a better client than Faith; Alice seems to have a firmer handle on her career issues and looks radiant and happy with Dan Carpenter; Izzy is taking steps toward a reconciliation with her husband Dominick; and Meriel has finally opened up—truly blossomed—in terms of expressing what really rings her bells.

  And, miracle of miracles, on the home front the same has happened to Molly. Faith’s wildly generous gift to my daughter of her own author-autographed edition of The Bell Jar blew both of us away. Molly has taken to keeping it on the night table by her bed and reading it only when she’s wearing an old pair of her grand-mother’s cotton gloves, the better to protect the book. In all her life I’ve never seen her treat a toy or a pet that well. Not that she’s suddenly metamorphosed into a new person. That might be interesting, but actually unhealthy. No, she’s still the same Molly, but she’s Molly with a fire burning inside her about something. If I were Catholic, I’d light a candle to celebrate this most welcome sea change in her behavior.

  The family had a delightful time up in Seneca Falls for Claude and Naomi’s wedding. It was the first full family outing since Coney Island. And when Eli pulled me onto an empty dance floor, in front of seventy-five other guests, I thanked my lucky stars and planets for whatever had wrought that change in my husband, Mr. Too-shy-to-dance-in-front-of-anyone. Not only did he have the confidence to lead me out onto the floor, but he danced very well too! I don’t know why he’s been so reluctant all these years to strut his stuff. Yeah, there was that “ouchy” discussion in the bedroom a while back, but I have to trust Eli when he insists there’s nothing wrong with us. In the more than two decades we’ve been together, counting our dating years, he’s never given me any reason not to trust him, and it’s true that he’s never been a terribly verbal person. So I really have no right to fault him for not having those skills in his bag of tricks, and expect him to suddenly express himself with the agility of someone who is considerably more articulate. I have to remind myself that as frustrated as I may get over his disconnected behavior of the past few months, maybe I need to cut him some slack.

  So, I have to say that things are relatively good right now. I’m in a better place, emotionally, than I’ve been in a long time, even though I’ve been hesitant to admit that things were less than perfect. One of the principles of psychotherapy is that if the client and the therapist each have hope that the client can be cured, the cure will indeed be made manifest. I held out hope that my woes were only temporary and that with patience and persistence things would improve eventually, and indeed they have.

  Not only that, they can only get better.

  DELICATES

  13

  ME

  Then again, many people espouse the philosophy that things can only get worse before they get better. So when the phone rang very late on a Saturday evening about a month later, I feared once again that one of my clients had done themselves some harm, and steeled myself to handle the crisis.

  But I hadn’t prepared myself for what had in fact transpired. The initial conversation went something like this.

  DISEMBODIED MALE VOICE

  [moderate to heavy New York accent]

  Susan Lederer?

  ME

  [hesitantly]

  Yes…this is she…

  VOICE

  Mrs. Lederer, do you have a daughter named Molly? [He rattles off our address as well, for verification.]

  ME

  [barely a whisper]

  Oh my God.

  VOICE

  Oh, no, nothing to worry about Mrs. Lederer.

  ME

  [audible exhalation]

  Whew. Who are you, by the way?

  VOICE

  Mrs. Lederer, this is Officer Lupinacci over at the twentieth precinct on Eighty-third Street. We have your daughter Molly up here—

  ME

  What happened? Is she okay?

  LUPINACCI

  Physically, yes. There was an incident earlier this evening in which your daughter was involved.

  ME

  [audibly panicking again]

  Holy shit…

  LUPINACCI

  She’s unharmed, Mrs. Lederer.

  ME

  You said…you said the incident was “earlier this evening.” [Getting a bit angry now, despite my better judgment.] Why did it take this long for someone to phone me? Isn’t everyone entitled to make one phone call after they get arrested, or does that only happen on TV? Didn’t Molly have her cell phone with her?

  LUPINACCI

  Well…Mrs. Lederer, your daughter’s cell phone was confiscated. It’s being held as evidence.

  ME

  Evidence?? And isn’t there still such a thing as a pay phone?!

  LUPINACCI

  Mrs. Lederer, we’d like you to come up to the Two-oh so that your daughter can be remanded into parental custody.

  ME

  Of
course. Right. Of course. [Words desert me.] I’ll grab a cab. Please tell Molly that I love her and I’ll be there as soon as I can.

  I hung up the phone and immediately called Eli, who was at his studio working on Gia, but I got the answering machine. I punched up his cell number and it went through to his voice mail. “Guess who’s got to handle this alone,” I muttered angrily as I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Perhaps I should have looked more, I don’t know, maternal, but they were the nearest garments to hand, and I didn’t have the presence of mind to worry about which outfit might convince Officer Lupinacci that I’m a good parent. Honest, Officer, I swear it. Just ask my other kid—who was sound asleep until I woke him up to explain that Mommy needed to go out for a little while to pick up his sister.

  CUT TO:

  INT. POLICE PRECINCT. NIGHT.

  [A frantic mother overtips cab driver in her urgency to attend to more pressing matters. She races into the precinct as though, well, as though she’s about to rescue her daughter who is in dire danger.]

  So, that’s the scenario. I asked two different people behind two different information desks—one in uniform and one a civilian—where to find Officer Lupinacci, and was directed to two different doors, one of which turned out to be the men’s room, where the janitor kindly pointed me in the right direction.

  Molly was being detained in a small office cluttered with paperwork and littered with coffee mugs and the aluminum foil and plastic detritus of a day’s worth of takeout and delivery. It was not the monklike interrogation room that you see on Law & Order. My daughter was pale, and looked very scared. Dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes made her look like she was nearly thirty. Torn between chewing her out for ending up here in the first place and weeping from relief that she was apparently unharmed, I just threw my arms around her, inadvertently whacking her in the back with my purse.