There's a Word for That

by Sloane Tanen

  “No, no, please.” He opened the door and got out of the car. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit muddled after today. Stay.” He laughed self-consciously and pushed his hair off his brow. He needed a haircut. “I just hate all this emotional claptrap. Digging up the past, airing grievances. What’s the point?” he said. Then he stopped himself. “Forgive me. I’m prattling on.”

  She removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were round and dark, the color of Cadbury’s chocolate.

  “The thinking behind family therapy eludes me too,” she said. “Like anything good could come out of a process that’s so fundamentally uncomfortable.”

  They smiled at each other and stood there for a few awkward seconds.

  “New car?” He looked at her posh black Range Rover and wondered where the Honda Civic had gone. He’d registered it only because normal utilitarian cars (like his) were so rare in Los Angeles, especially at places like Directions.

  She regarded him curiously. “My dad’s leaser. He didn’t like me driving a rental car.”

  Henry nodded and tried to think of something witty to say, but he had nothing. Why had he mentioned her car, for God’s sake? He must sound like a stalker.

  “Okay, then,” she said. She put her sunglasses on and waved lightly before heading back to her SUV. He waved back, abashed, and got into his Subaru.

  He pressed the button for the gate and began the slow descent down the mountain to the highway. Damn. He’d forgotten to ask her name. He watched her in the rearview mirror as she followed closely behind him. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the hill that he remembered the creep.

  Marty

  At least Janine would be at his birthday dinner Saturday. That was some good news, Marty thought. Seeing her a few times had taken the edge off his moods a little. They’d gotten their old rhythm back after a couple of visits. Janine had always known how to make him laugh. Not that she (or anyone) had called to wish him a happy birthday today. And not that spending his birthday in rehab sounded like a good time. Seventy-five years old. Christ!

  He remembered last week’s Kinfolk Dinner with Gail and Amanda and wondered again why Janine hadn’t come and why the more high-profile guests, the actors and politicians he’d seen around, weren’t there either. Did they have a separate dinner? A better dinner? Was he flying economy class now?

  As it turned out, Janine hadn’t been invited because Amanda “wasn’t ready” to see her sister. Whatever the hell that was about, he didn’t want to know. And Gail was trying to use Janine to manipulate him. He was still chewing on Gail’s barbed insinuations that Janine would be disappointed to learn the extent of his apathy at Directions, to find out how little her father had been participating in the program, how little he seemed to care about getting healthy. Gail had even suggested that she herself might not be around when he got out if he didn’t stop ridiculing the staff and start sharing in Group. Was she getting daily progress reports on him? How very fucking infantilizing. He wondered at what precise moment his life had turned into a Molière farce.

  He’d been carefully rationing the tiny bags of white powder he’d slid into the lining of his Lakers cap. He knew he had to make the supply last but the dope he’d packed had shorter legs than Tom Cruise—either that or his tolerance was higher than he’d thought. The rush hadn’t even carried him through the appetizers of that Kinfolk Dinner. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the memory of Gail arriving with newly plumped lips and a three-thousand-dollar handbag he’d never seen but had assuredly paid for. He tried to block out the memory of Mitchell, the charlatan founder of Directions, delivering his inspirational liturgy under that forty-foot-high fiberglass Buddha in the center of the dining room. Mostly, though, he tried to block out how badly he wanted another bump.

  Now that he’d spent some time with Janine, he felt a little better. She didn’t seem disappointed in him. She seemed happy to see him. He took a deep breath. He just had to get through today’s Group.

  Alice, the moderator, was standing in the center of a circle of eight chairs. “Would you like to begin?” she asked Marty, not without sarcasm. He’d been going to Group as required, but he’d yet to really participate. He shook his head. He wasn’t quite ready.

  “C’mon, guys,” she said, looking past Marty for a more forthcoming contributor. “Who can tell us why it’s important to participate in group therapy?”

  “Because it helps us feel like we’re not alone,” Tommy said.

  “In part, yes,” Alice said. “And?”

  “And to help us feel less shame through sharing,” he added.

  Tommy was an overweight CEO who had gotten drunk and driven over his caddie at the golf club. The kid was in a wheelchair now. It was a sad story but Tommy’s gnawingly earnest regret irritated Marty. And what self-respecting adult went by the name Tommy?

  “Shiva?” Alice asked. They all turned to Shiva, the exceedingly fuckable housewife with the Persian accent and the bored, wanton stare. Shiva sighed and examined her nails as if she had a spa appointment and this meeting wouldn’t hold her interest much longer.

  “We do the group to feel like it’s okay, you know,” she said without looking away from her hands. “The crazy shit we do. Or have done.”

  “And to know we’re not alone,” Lauren, the friendly crack addict, added, checked out and oblivious to the fact that she was repeating what Tommy had just said.

  As far as Marty was concerned, the only discernible benefit of Group was that he felt better about himself by virtue of not having run over a kid (Tommy), locked his children in the car while getting a coke fix (Shiva), or shot at (but missed) his ex’s new girlfriend “because she deserved it” (Lauren). Group made Marty feel like a goddamn Boy Scout.

  “Talking in a group,” Alice began again, “allows us to alleviate some of the shame, sorrow, and guilt we feel about our addiction. Addiction causes us to do things we regret and feel guilty about. But”—dramatic pause—“the things we have done in the past don’t define who we are today. You with me?”

  Everyone nodded. Marty thought that was bullshit. If the choices you made didn’t define who you were, what did? Good intentions?

  Alice passed out paper and pencils to everyone in the circle. Marty dropped his pencil. Alice picked it up and looked suspiciously at his shaking hands. His fingers had been tingling and numb the last few days. The sensation disappeared within a few minutes of taking a Xanax, but he had to be conservative with those too. He’d packed a two-month supply but the fascists at intake had found and confiscated most of them. He had twenty-eight pills left, all crammed into the waistband of his sweatpants. Not enough to sail through rehab without experiencing some discomfort, but better than nothing.

  “In today’s exercise,” Alice began, “I’d like you to imagine that this is your last day on earth. Write down what you would do. Who would you spend the day with? Would you be happy with the way you’ve lived your life?” She grinned as they groaned in collective protest. “What do you think people would say about you at your funeral?”

  A few moments of blessed silence as people wrote down their responses. Marty stared at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with Alice, hoping to avoid participating. He hated these exercises, the pretense of a catharsis that always ended in an embarrassing admission of self-loathing. That’s what Alice wanted, for them to admit they hated themselves so that she could force them into phase two of the charade: assuring one another that they weren’t so bad after all. They were like a support group for the goddamn Legion of Doom. What a joke!

  Alice allowed them five minutes to write. She called on Tommy first. As expected, he started to cry, blubbering about how he wouldn’t deserve a funeral. Alice promptly suggested an exercise in forgiveness while Shiva and Noelle began bickering. Then, as if on cue, Cathy, an heiress to the Clorox bleach fortune and Marty’s favorite fellow fuckup, stood and walked over to Tommy.

  “You didn’t put the kid in the wheelchair, Tommy,” Cathy said in her mann
ish voice, so gravelly it sounded paved in asphalt. “The alcohol did. Not you.” Cathy was a big woman, easily as tall as Tommy. She put his big red face between her big red hands. “You are not your addiction.”

  Tommy nodded. He was clinging awkwardly to Cathy’s ample back.

  “Thank you, Cathy,” Alice said. “That was very well said.”

  Cathy was a good dame but this was her sixth stint at Directions. Her veteran status and gin blossoms were testament to the fact that the program didn’t work.

  Marty raised his hand. He figured if he comforted Tommy, Alice might spare him from the sharing bit today. Alice nodded encouragingly, delighted to call on him.

  Marty leaned forward in his seat. “You gotta give it a rest already. Beating the shit out of yourself every day isn’t helping anybody.”

  Tommy feverishly nodded in choked, emotional silence. “Thanks so much, man,” he finally said. He stood up, opened his arms, and started walking toward Marty as though he wanted to give him a Cathy-style hug. Marty leaned back and shook his head but Tommy was approaching fast. He threw his arms around Marty, who remained seated, so his face was crushed into the soft fold of Tommy’s generous belly. Alice looked like she was going to have an orgasm as Tommy returned to his chair. Marty thought about making a run for the door.

  “Very, very well put, Marty,” Alice said, beaming at him. “What about you, Tobey?” Alice gestured to his sheet of paper. “What would you do on your last day on earth? What do you think people might say about you at your funeral?”

  Tobey was the newest addition to the group. He was just a kid. He hadn’t shared yet but Marty had overheard his roommate telling Lauren that he’d taken a loan out on his parents’ house to finance a marijuana dispensary in Harvard Square. Tobey didn’t smoke pot; he just sold it. He was into the junk.

  “I’d get smacked on hayron with my lady and feel pretty fuckin’ good till departure time. Don’t care about my funeral, as I won’t be there.”

  “Touché.” Marty clapped, laughing. “Touché.”

  “You think you’re cool?” Noelle asked Tobey. “You think going to Harvard makes you above us, you arrogant piece of crap? That this is all some kind of joke?”

  “No,” Tobey said. “I think this place is a joke.”

  “Why is Directions a joke, Tobey?” Alice asked, but she didn’t give him a chance to answer. “If you keep reminding people how little you care about yourself,” she said, addressing the whole room now, “eventually people will give up on you. And that’s a shitty, lonely day. Trust me. I’ve been there.”

  Marty’s heart quickened, almost painfully. He felt like he’d disappear if Janine gave up on him. He’d written her name, shakily, on the paper. He’d spend his last day with his older daughter. He loved Amanda, but their relationship had never been easy. Not that they didn’t love each other, but they didn’t seem to like each other all that much. Janine understood him. In his heart, where such things mattered, he had never put anyone before her. She’d even say so at his funeral. He was sure of it.

  Just then the door opened and an attractive older woman walked tentatively into the room. She had a Band-Aid across her nose and two black eyes, though the bruising was fading to a greenish yellow. Marty squinted, sensing something familiar about her. Her white hair was sleek and pulled back at her neck. She had on silk pajamas. An actress?

  “Is this Alice’s group?” she said in a British accent.

  “Yes,” Alice said. “Come on in, Bunny. Please. Have a seat.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I was—”

  “Oh no,” Marty said with a feverish shake of his head. “No, no, no, no.”

  Bunny looked at Marty and squinted. She obviously didn’t recognize him. That pissed him off. She looked around at the other attendees, wondering what she was missing.

  Marty dropped his head between his knees. He looked up at her after a few seconds, red-faced. “No, no, no!”

  “Martin Kessler?” she asked with a glimmer of recognition. She leaned in, as if a closer look might erase the past fifty years from his face. “Martin! You’ve gotten so old!”

  “Perfect,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Just fucking perfect.”

  “I guess I should be flattered you still recognize me even though I’m looking a bit worse for wear!” Bunny touched her bruised face and then waved her hand like she couldn’t care less. “My God, Martin, what on earth are you doing in my group therapy?”

  “No way, folks. Not happening.”

  “You know each other?” Alice asked.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen,” Marty said, standing up to offer her the seat he’d planned to vacate momentarily anyway, “is my ex-wife Bunny Small.”

  “Bunny Small!” they all said together, as if Elvis himself had just walked in.

  “No last names!” Alice shrieked. “What is the matter with you, Marty?”

  Noelle gasped. Shiva had her hands over her mouth. Even Tobey looked impressed. Everybody made room for Bunny. Everybody wanted to sit next to her.

  “Did you not hear me?” Marty said, straining to be heard over the commotion. “She’s my ex-wife. I don’t care if she wrote the fucking Constitution. This ain’t gonna work. I am not exorcising my demons with my ex-wife and a Greek chorus.”

  Alice took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to Mitchell, but we’re not your audience, Marty. We’re all just working together.”

  “Not on my dime, sister.”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” Bunny said with a smile that was more crooked and gloating than he remembered. “We barely knew each other. It’s water under the bridge and all that sort of thing.” Her tone conveyed both astonishment at his presence and complete indifference to it. “It’s too strange that you’re here but it couldn’t possibly really bother you after all this time, Martin.”

  How dare she? Marty thought. How dare she pretend she’d evolved so goddamn much that sitting around swapping rock-bottom confessions with her ex-husband was just fine by her. “Don’t call me that!” he barked.

  “What?”

  “Martin. Don’t call me Martin.”

  “Okay. Well,” Bunny said, “for the record, I don’t have a problem with this arrangement…Marty.”

  “Is that so?”

  She nodded, looking a little too pleased with herself.

  “What do you say, Marty?” Alice asked him. “Bunny’s fine with the arrangement.”

  “Ah,” Marty said. “Is this another opportunity to see why Marty can’t let go of his anger? To see why Marty thinks being trapped in this shit shack is pretty bad but why being trapped in this shit shack with an ex-wife might be just a wee bit too much to ask? I’m feeling a little tested here and I’m not sure I like it.”

  “There are no coincidences in AA,” Alice said.

  “But this isn’t AA,” Marty said, seething.

  “It’s still a good slogan,” Alice said with a wink. “I’ll talk to Mitchell about all this, but for now, I need everyone to just calm down. Let’s just all sit together and do some deep breathing, okay?”

  Bunny took the empty seat next to Tommy. He stared at her as though she were a rib-eye steak.

  “Tommy,” Alice snapped. “Eyes closed, please.”

  A few minutes passed. Bunny looked up and met Marty’s eyes.

  Happy birthday, Martin, she mouthed.

  Despite himself, he felt his throat tighten. After all these years…his heart swelled with gratitude and sadness. Bunny Small, whom he hadn’t really thought about in over forty years, had remembered that today was his birthday.

  Henry

  Henry finally told his mother about his upcoming ear surgery after their therapy session. He’d explained that he wouldn’t be able to visit her for a week or so afterward, that he’d miss some of their meetings. She seemed touchingly concerned, pulled out her jadeite lighter, and lit a cigarette. They both looked wordlessly out at the water.

  He was anxious about the surger
y (the surgeon would be going through his skull, for God’s sake), but he’d done his best to hide his apprehension from Bunny. No point rousing her dormant maternal concern this late in the game. As expected, once he’d reassured her he wouldn’t be absent for longer than a week, she was more than happy to change the subject.

  “You’ll never guess who’s here, Henry.”

  He waited.

  “Martin Kessler.” She was beaming.

  “Who is Martin Kessler?”

  “My first husband!” She swatted his shoulder and looked at him as if he were mad for not recognizing his name.

  “I thought he died.”

  “My God, Henry. Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because that’s what you told me the last time you mentioned him, which would have been about thirty years ago.”

  “I never said any such thing.”

  “You did, actually. You told me he’d died and that you felt lost, so you decided to move back to London and that’s when you met Dad.”

  “Don’t be absurd. We got divorced and I moved back to London.”

  Henry was irritated but not surprised. His mother’s personal narratives had always been unreliable. Historical events were nothing but bits of fiction to be told however she saw most fitting at the moment. He had to take a few deep breaths to keep himself from “emotionally attacking her,” as Mitchell so delicately put it. “If you say so.”

  “Of course I say so.” She laughed. “What an imagination you have.” Henry noticed a curious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “He was in my group-therapy meeting,” Bunny said. “Can you imagine that? It’s just, it was so strange to see him there. He looks so old! Why did I marry him? We had nothing in common at all.”

  “I’m sure you’ve changed quite a bit too.” Henry knew very well she didn’t like to be reminded that she aged just like other people.

  “You couldn’t possibly understand at your age. It’s just that it all goes so damn quickly and at some point you realize it’s completely meaningless. It feels like yesterday I was married to this brilliant, handsome young man and now he’s a little old chap in a drug-rehab center. He must be seventy-five!”