There's a Word for That

by Sloane Tanen

  Bunny reached for her nose. “You’re insufferable.”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Please don’t weep. You must remember I’ve seen this all before. What did you think was going to happen? That I would be flattered that you chose my town to desoil yourself in before taking your sparkling personality back to London?”

  “I didn’t choose any of this, you smug little ass. I just wanted to see you. I never can get it right with you, can I?”

  “Poor, talented, capable, helpless Mum.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?” wailed Bunny. She was desperate for Mitchell to intervene, but he just sat there listening.

  Henry squared himself in his chair, ready to face off. “I don’t hate you. I’m tired of you. I’m tired of your drama. I’m done falling for your helpless routines. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I’m exhausted. You are an exhausting person. I just want a quiet, peaceful life.”

  “Can’t you see I’m trying to get better? I’m here.”

  “Being an alcoholic is the very least of your problems. You can’t treat narcissism. Certainly not in Los Angeles.”

  “Mitchell,” Bunny said, grabbing his arm.

  “This is very good,” Mitchell said, nodding. “Excellent work. Both of you. I’d really like to thank Henry for being so honest about his feelings.”

  “And I’d like to—”

  “Bunny,” Mitchell said, holding up his hand. “Henry is telling you how he feels. Clearly there’s a lot of anger, but he’s very brave to share. He’s helping you, he’s helping himself. He’s helping us heal here today and I must say I’m impressed.”

  Bunny sprang out of her seat. “Impressed? You’re impressed? I thought you were my spiritual tour guide! The only thing he’s helping me do is clarify all the reasons we don’t get on. It’s not me. It’s him. It’s you, Henry. You are the reason our relationship is so strained.”

  “Strained?” He laughed. “It’s pulp, Mother.”

  “Yes, well, I see that now.” She sat down and began arranging her sweater. “No reason to keep trying. You’ve made your feelings very clear.”

  Henry leaned forward, trying to get her attention. “Now you can cut me off, cut me out. Won’t that feel good? You can punish me like the bad, boring, uninspiring boy I turned out to be. But here’s the catch, Mother. I don’t need your support. I don’t need anything from you. You taught me not to rely on anyone and I don’t. So good job there.”

  “You’re a terrible son.”

  He was shaking like a wet dog now. “And you were a terrible mother!”

  Bunny gasped, feeling as if Henry had slapped her across the face. She’d always suspected he felt that way, but that he’d said it aloud, in front of Mitchell, was shocking. He did look a little guilty.

  “Aha!” Mitchell said, obviously delighted. “Were. You were a terrible mother. I emphasize the past tense here because—”

  “Because you think I should forgive her?” Henry asked, putting his hand to his ear as if he were in pain. “We’ve been doing this a long time, Mitch.”

  “It’s Mitchell,” he said with an affable wink. “I think you’re very angry. But I’m not entirely sure your mother can be blamed for everything you’re mad about.”

  “I appreciate your five-minute armchair analysis, but I’ll stick with my narrative, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it’s the truth. You try following a fictional character through adolescence like a crippled shadow.”

  Bunny moaned. “God. Not that again.”

  “Suppose it is the truth,” Mitchell said. “But why hold on to a narrative that makes you so angry?”

  “We can’t rewrite history,” Henry said, rubbing the decapitated Buddha again. “Or do we do that here?”

  Mitchell smiled. “Ever heard of forgiveness?”

  A tear belied Henry’s hostile position. “It’s funny that I keep being asked to forgive her,” he said, looking at the Buddha. “I can’t remember ever hearing an apology.”

  “An apology for what? What did I do to you?” Bunny asked.

  “Case in point,” Henry said.

  “Henry,” Mitchell began again, “I think you did a good thing coming here today. I know Bunny appreciates your coming, don’t you, Bunny?”

  Bunny had her face turned to the window. She was straight as a board.

  “Bunny?”

  “I’m sorry, Henry. I’m sorry if I worked too hard, if I didn’t give you what you needed. I’m sorry.”

  “Heartfelt,” said Henry.

  “It’s a start,” Mitchell said. “Can we agree on that?”

  “I need a cigarette,” Bunny mumbled.

  “I’d like to point out how very right Henry is about something,” Mitchell continued. “Henry’s dead-on about your drinking not really being the problem. The drinking is your balm. This,” he said, drawing an invisible circle around Bunny and Henry, “this is the problem. This is where the works starts.”

  “Oh no,” Henry said. “There won’t be work. I’m not working on anything. My work is done.”

  “May I suggest that we cut things short today?” Mitchell asked.

  “You read my mind,” Henry said.

  “Let’s digest all this and reconvene once everyone has had a chance to calm down. Can you come back tomorrow?” Mitchell asked Henry.

  “God, no,” Henry said. “I’ve got classes all day. No, absolutely not.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “No.”

  “Wednesday?” Mitchell smiled. “We can keep going. I’m a very patient man.”

  “Fine,” Henry said, standing up. “Wednesday. But this won’t be a regular thing. I’m busy. Too busy, too old, and too tired for this. And for what it’s worth,” he said, glowering at Mitchell and pointing at the Buddha in potpourri, “using the severed head of Buddha as décor is an insulting cultural misappropriation. Can you imagine decapitated Jesus ornaments scattered about? You people should have some respect.”

  Janine

  Janine scheduled an appointment at Directions for later that day, left, and returned two hours later having accomplished nothing. She’d stupidly thought she could go to Carneys and be back in time for her appointment, that her dad would get a kick out of her showing up with a bag of Carneys chili fries and hot dogs. She hadn’t been there since she and Amanda were kids. She knew the funny yellow train car perched on the Sunset Strip was a tourist trap these days (maybe it had always been), but she had laughed to herself en route, excited at the prospect of surprising Marty, knowing he’d appreciate having something so benign to talk about. She wondered about that signed headshot of her hanging on the wall between Leif Garrett and Michael Landon. Would it still be there? She realized the old pictures would probably have been taken out of their frames and replaced with images of newer, more relevant celebrities. There wasn’t room for everyone. Still, she hoped Michael Landon remained there, grinning, like a relic from an era when thick flannel and smiling were still cool.

  As it turned out, her memories of Carneys were as out of date as her memories of driving in Los Angeles. That she’d been clueless enough to think she could get from Malibu to West Hollywood and back again in two hours clarified just how out of touch she was. The traffic was a joke. She’d had to turn around in Westwood, and she still had barely gotten back in time. Now she was starving and even more irritated than she’d been when they’d sent her away. At least she’d made it. She was given a visitor’s badge at the reception desk and handed off to a friendly woman named Sheila, a short, round blonde with a thick Southern accent.

  “Your dad talks about you a lot,” Sheila said as she led Janine down a long tiled corridor. Directions seemed more like a spa than a rehab facility. It was certainly nicer than the other rehabs she’d visited.

  Janine couldn’t help looking around for that English guy from the morning. He was cute, with that shaggy hair and glasses. She liked his accent and the way he held eye conta
ct with her. But what a jerk with the Henry Holter routine. Was that supposed to be funny?

  “Your dad is just so excited you’re here,” Sheila continued as she opened a door to an all-white room. A sliding glass door looked out onto a portico with a fountain and a statue of a peaceful-looking Buddha. Janine felt herself relax a little as she took a seat. Maybe she’d get one of the little heads in the gift shop. Directions probably had a gift shop.

  “He’ll be right in,” Sheila said.

  “What’s with all the Buddhas?” Janine asked, not wanting to be alone.

  “Oh. Buddha symbolizes self-perfection and the four truths,” Sheila said. Her Southern accent was at odds with the academic rhetoric she’d clearly committed to memory. “Life is full of suffering. Suffering is caused by craving. Suffering will cease only when craving dies…” Sheila sighed. “I forget the fourth truth.” She looked distraught at not having successfully delivered Buddha’s message.

  “Sounds hard,” Janine said.

  Sheila shrugged. “It’s good to aspire, I guess. I try and apply the truths to my fitness routine and diet, and I always fail. I just love carbohydrates. French fries, pies, chips.”

  “Who could possibly live without desire?”

  “Buddha,” Sheila said. “I bet he didn’t crave his grandma’s cheese grits.”

  “No.” Janine laughed. “Probably not.”

  Sheila waved and turned to go.

  “Wait.” Janine realized she was absolutely terrified to see her dad. Visiting him in rehab wasn’t a new experience for her, but they’d both been younger the last time, more optimistic, at the very least more willing to pretend things might improve. She also hadn’t been running away from an internet scandal back then. Did he know that was why she’d suddenly put the airline ticket on his credit card and shown up? Was he mad at her? Now that she was here, any convictions she’d had about him felt so much less certain.

  “It’ll be okay,” Sheila said, opening the door to leave. “Everyone’s nervous.”

  “Sheila!” Janine heard her father say just outside the door. “How’s the diet?” His voice was jovial.

  “Well, you know. It’s not easy, sir.”

  “You look damn good to me,” Marty said, sounding like a big Texan oil mogul. “Leave yourself alone.”

  “You’re sweet,” Sheila said. “But nobody wants a fat girl in Los Angeles.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Marty said. “Fuck ’em. You’re a Southern belle. To hell with ’em.”

  Janine’s heart swelled. Her father always started talking with a Southern accent when he spoke with anybody from the South. It wasn’t entirely an affectation. He’d grown up in Fresno, the son of Polish immigrants, and thought of himself as a man of the people. And Marty always loved an underdog. It made sense that he’d sympathize with Sheila and her private battle with cheese grits, just as he’d always sympathized with Janine as the less pretty sister, the damaged former child actress, the daughter his wife didn’t love. God, he was impossible to dislike. He always found the interesting part of someone’s generally uninteresting personality, and he made people feel they were very special. Probably that’s why his movies were so good. He’d made the geeks the heroes long before that idea had occurred to anyone else.

  “Hi,” she said, standing in the middle of the room. He was in the doorway. She willed herself not to cry. The booming voice she’d heard in the hall was wholly disconnected from the old man in front of her. He was shriveled up. Janine felt an adolescent urge to cut herself, to release the pain before it swallowed her whole.

  “You’re too thin,” he said as he walked into the room, wobbling a little. He opened his arms and held on to her tightly when she stepped into them.

  “I am?” she asked, strangling her emotion with forced laughter. He gazed at her with adoration. Nobody looked at her that way. How long had it been since she’d seen him? Maria’s funeral had been over a year ago. Several times he’d made plans to visit her in New York, but each time Gail had called Janine up and explained in hushed tones that it might be best to put it off because “as much as he wants to see you, he doesn’t want you to know he isn’t feeling well.”

  “Nice hair,” he said now, not sounding entirely convinced but clearly needing a neutral topic so he could catch his breath. He looked at her a moment too long, as if trying to make sense of something, maybe marking the passage of time on her face too. Then he blinked away his tears, never one to wallow in emotions. “Have you seen Gail?”

  “I just flew in yesterday.” She wiped away her own tears and decided not to mention that Gail had already left half a dozen messages on her phone, no doubt in a panic that Janine would be seeing Marty alone.

  “Call her. Call her today,” he ordered as he carefully sat down on the sofa. Janine didn’t want to call her. This trip wasn’t about Gail and she could live without her unsolicited advice on how Janine should behave with her own father. “She can’t wait to see you,” he went on. “How about your sister?”

  “I just got here, Dad. We e-mailed.”

  He wrinkled his forehead. “Is something going on between you two?”

  “No. We’re good.” Janine had no intention of getting into it. Her dad didn’t want to hear the details any more than she wanted to explain them. “How are you, Dad?”

  “Me?” he asked, as if it were a strange question. “Good. I’m good.”

  Really? He was good? He was in rehab…again. And even now, sitting with him in the meeting room, Janine didn’t feel she could come right out and ask him how the detox was going. She’d sooner ask him about his sex life. In the same way, if her dad did know about TMZ, he’d pretend not to. That was the way they did things in their family. You didn’t talk about anything meaningful. There was no point in picking at the scabs.

  “Sheila seems nice,” Janine finally said because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Marty looked confused for a minute. Then: “Sheila!” he shouted. “Sheila’s terrific. She’s from Atlanta. Her parents can’t understand what she’s doing in LA. Frankly, neither can I. I keep telling her to go home.”

  “So what’s it like here?” she asked, because she didn’t really want to talk about Sheila. She wanted to know how her father was doing.

  Marty launched into a biting, albeit funny, recitation of daily life at Directions: The vegan breakfast buffet, the benefits of canoe catharsis versus equine therapy, and the director’s fireside chats, which Marty had never actually attended. He hadn’t tried the canoes or the horses either, only the gluten-free oatmeal.

  She couldn’t help feeling disappointed that he actually believed his jokes and obfuscations would convince her, of all people, that he was fine, that nothing had really changed. Or maybe he was putting on the show not for her but for himself. Whatever the case, it was becoming clear that her dad wasn’t committed to any sort of rehabilitation. Janine knew that last time he was here, he’d smuggled in drugs. Is that what was going on now?

  “Gail’s great. She’s been terrific,” he said in response to a question Janine hadn’t asked. “She really looks out for me.”

  “That’s good,” Janine said, shifting uncomfortably. They were stepping into a hazardous zone now, and she had to proceed carefully. Her dad was asking her to sing Gail’s praises, but Janine wasn’t about to comply. Maybe her apprehension was a cliché, but a lifetime of experience with her father’s ex-wives and girlfriends had taught her to be suspicious of Gail’s motives. She’d bet a finger Gail wouldn’t have been looking out for him quite so well if she weren’t anticipating some long-term financial gain.

  It’s not that Janine wasn’t grateful to Gail. In some ways, she’d been good for her dad; she’d gotten him to rehab, however futile this stint turned out to be. Like a one-woman concierge service, she got the seemingly impossible done. The problem was that her father was so dazzled at the prospect of somebody else taking care of things for a change that he’d completely abandoned himself to Gail’s
competence. Janine resented the way Gail enfeebled him, made him doubt his ability to think for himself and distrust the people he loved most. And Janine found his exhausting insistence on selling Gail to her—and maybe, more depressingly, to himself—hard to stomach.

  “You and your charming sister could be a little warmer to her,” Marty said with a frown. His voice was brisk now, disapproving. “She’s trying with you two and I think it’s about time we stopped playing the ‘I don’t like Daddy’s girlfriend’ card. You two aren’t exactly little kids anymore.”

  “I’m plenty nice,” Janine said, humiliated and a little furious. What the hell had she done? She was glad she hadn’t brought him chili fries, much as she could have used some herself.

  “Maybe you can have dinner or something with her?” he asked, his tone softening. “You like her, right?”

  “Sure. I like her fine.”

  “Good.” He wiped the perspiration off his forehead. “Good. How long can you stay in town?”

  She did her best to shrug off her annoyance about Gail. Gail didn’t matter. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

  She saw his jaw start to tremble, the way it always did when he felt emotional.

  Now she wanted to change the subject. “What do you want for your birthday? We celebrate a week from Saturday, right?”

  “How about a ride home?” he said with a choked laugh. Then he looked at her and said, his voice cracking, “Thanks for coming out to see your fuckup of an old man.”

  She bit back her tears before saying anything. “I missed you too, Dad.” She wanted more than anything to get out of the room. “Can we go for a walk or something?”

  He nodded and stood, shakily. “Call Gail today,” he said again. “Don’t forget.”

  Hailey

  “Do you mind getting the door?” Jaycee yelled from inside the bathroom.

  “God,” Hailey said. She put down her book and threw the blanket she was under off the couch. “I thought you were supposed to be taking care of me.” She stomped to the front door and swung it open. A messenger was holding a long gold box and staring down at a handheld device. He looked all of twenty, with oily skin and a raging case of acne.