A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  Chapter 35

  Help

  "How do this work?" I ask.

  "Well, it's up to you, Charlotte. There are no set rules or strict guidelines we have to follow. But the things that are causing you the most trouble would be a good place to begin."

  "Oh," I say, and find myself looking around this light-gray office. It ain't quite Cuckoo's Nest, but you can tell a white person work in here. Everything is so nice and neat. Too nice. Ain't no papers on her big maple desk, except for that questionnaire I gave her that she's reading over right now. There's one of them black blotter things, a fancy gold pen sticking up out of a marble holder that I bet ain't got no ink in it, a burgundy stapler and Scotch-tape dispenser, and a yellow pad with lines on it right next to a sharpened number-two pencil like my kids use at school. Things is just a litde too perfect in here for my taste. I can't even smell nothing.

  And where's the couch? I don't see no couch. Just a window seat, and it's full of stuffed animals. The walls is lined with all these weird pictures that look like some kids just scribbled crayons or markers on some paper, and since they probably her kids, she felt obligated to frame 'em and hang 'em here instead of at home, where nobody she know gotta look at 'em, just people like me: complete strangers. Wait a minute. She ain't wearing no wedding ring, so I betcha she ain't even got no kids. I'll tell the truth: if I was a man and I passed her on the street, she ain't nothing I'd do a double take for. But if somebody was to do her makeup-at least put some on her-and if she got rid of that mousy brown hair and maybe highlighted it or at least added some blond streaks, she could maybe halfway pass for attractive.

  But she's a psychologist. She should know this shit already. Maybe she like the way she look. And, plus, I know she's rich, so I wouldn't be surprised if these pictures wasn't painted by some famous artists and she probably spent a fortune on this shit. White people sure know how to waste money.

  But. Belinda, the very nice white girl I still work with at the post office (since I found out just how fast a hundred thousand dollars can last), told me that last year, after a divorce and losing custody of her kids, she took a three- month leave of absence and spent quite a bit of time with a psychologist who helped her get her head back on straight. She found some confidence, too, which Belinda said she never really had much of in the first place. I could relate to that, 'cause you can fake having confidence. I'm real good at it.

  Last week I just came out and told her that ever since my mama passed away I got too much on my mind these days, and could I get that woman's number. I didn't feel like telling her all the details when I knew I'd just have to repeat the shit to the doctor. So. I saved it all for this white lady in this navy-blue suit that look like it could be Ellen Tracy, but with the kind of money she making, she wouldn't be wearing Ellen, but, then again, some rich white people is stingy and spend all their money on silly art and drive cheap cars but got investments all over the world, so it could even be a knock-off. She coulda got it at Loehmann's, Marshall's, or even Ross, but, hell, who cares?

  This is exactly why I'm here. My mind be zigzagging all over the damn place. Everybody said that the grieving process takes a long time, but I was feeling like this even before Mama died. It just got worse. I really don't know where to start or what to say. I done already answered a million questions on that form she still flipping through, so she should know my whole history up to this very minute. Some of them questions was a litde too personal and none of her fucking business, so I either left 'em blank or just lied.

  They say you should always get two opinions, which is why, right after I leave here, I'm going to see another doctor. This one's a psychiatrist, and she's black. Last Sunday, right after church, Smitty's wife, Lela, told me ever since she accused him of cheating on her it was 'cause she had forgot he had told her he was going fishing, and she said she had to admit that there was a whole lotta loose ends just hanging and not connecting to stuff like they used to, and she was worried that maybe she was going nuts, so the pastor's wife gave her the name of a psychiatrist who she went to see, and Lela said that doctor told her right off the bat that she wasn't crazy, and she said the doctor-who didn't even seem like a doctor, but just a woman you would want to be your friend-made her feel comfortable. Lela said she didn't want to sound like no racist, but she thinks it's 'cause they was both black and it was just some things this doctor already understood and she didn't have to explain. Lela said she done got to the heart of quite a few of her problems and her thinking is getting clearer.

  When Dr. Simpson looks at me, I feel kinda weird. I'm scared of what's about to come outta her mouth, but when she opens it, she just says, "You've got a number of stressful things going on in your life right now, especially with the recent loss of your mother, don't you, Charlotte?"

  "Yes I do."

  "Which of these do you feel is occupying your mind most?"

  "All of'em."

  "Wow, all of them are preoccupying you."

  "Yeah."

  She just sits there like she's waiting for me to say something, but I'm waiting for her to say something first. Finally, she says: "You said your son might be gay?"

  "Is."

  "That must really be hard to digest."

  "It certainly was. Don't you think it's sick?"

  "Doesn't matter what I think. It's what you think about it."

  I just look at this bitch. She probably from California. They all think like this in California. I get more comfortable in this chair and then I say, "I don't like it. It ain't normal. He should be liking girls."

  "But if he doesn't like girls, does that cause you to have ill feelings toward him?"

  "I don't know. I love my son, but I just can't accept the thought of him kissing no boys, and Lord only knows what else they do. It's weird, I don't care what you say."

  "Okay," she says. "We can come back to this issue another time, if you don't mind?"

  "No, I don't mind. But what about my husband? And my sister who don't like me and always accusing me of being jealous of her, which is not true? And then, before my mama passed, she asked that all her kids spend Thanksgiving together, and I'm supposed to go to my sister's fancy big house when deep down I don't want to, but if I don't, I'll be labeled the wicked witch, and I don't want no more friction if it can be avoided. So what you think about this?"

  "Wow. That's a mouthful. How about we start by talking about your situation with your husband?"

  "I'm listening."

  "What do you think about it?"

  "He's a liar and I don't trust him."

  "I think that makes a lot of sense. Given what you've said here about him, it would be hard to trust him."

  "So you think I should go on and divorce him?"

  "I think we have to figure out what you really want to do about this. I imagine you have mixed feelings and are conflicted about some of this."

  "Yeah, but so what?"

  "What kinds of things does he lie about?"

  "I only caught him in two. But they was two big ones."

  "Can you tell me what they were?"

  "Yeah. Ten years ago he had a affair with some woman and I busted him on it, and now I just find out that she had his baby and he been taking care of it all these years."

  "And?"

  "And that's it."

  "That's why you want to divorce him?"

  "Yeah, wouldn't you?"

  "I can't say what I'd do in this situation. I'm more interested in what you're feeling."

  "I'm pissed off. I hate his guts. I don't trust him. Don't believe a word he say."

  "Do you still love him?"

  "That's beside the point."

  "That's beside the point?" the doctor says. Is she a echo doctor or what?

  "What's love got to do with it? Like Tina said."

  "Charlotte," she says, folding her hands.

  "Yeah."

  "Tell me why you're here. What you want me to help you do."

  "I told you on the questionnaire
. I want to make some changes in my life, and it's so much stuff going on I just don't know where to start. I need to sort some of it out."

  "Well, you are starting. You're here, today." She takes a quick peek at her watch.

  "Is my time up already?"

  "Not quite. About ten more minutes. We stop at ten to the hour."

  "Okay," I say, trying to hurry up. "I also wanna talk about my job."

  "What about your job?"

  "I hate it. I wanna quit. I work for the post office, but I wanna start my own business and stop punching in and punching out. I'm tired of getting up at the crack of dawn five days a week and still ain't making no money. I wanna do something on my own. I forgot to mention that I hit Little Lotto for a hundred thousand."

  "Wow, that should've come in handy."

  "It'll be gone before Christmas at the rate I'm spending it."

  "So-do you have any entrepreneurial ideas?"

  "A few."

  "Tell me."

  Why she have to put me on the spot like this? Shit. I don't know, but I hear myself say, "I wouldn't mind starring my own catering business, 'cause I'm a good cook and I know all kinds of rich people from the routes my carriers deliver to, and a lot of 'em been knowing me for years, when I used to do the same routes. That would be one."

  "Do you know much about this business?" "I could learn. My sister does something like this out in California."

  "Perhaps you could ask her for advice?"

  "No. I wouldn't wanna do that."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't wanna get into that right now."

  "Okay. Any other ideas?"

  "I can sew. 1 was thinking of maybe doing some upholstering or making drapes, or maybe learning how to do interior decorating, or refinishing furniture, I don't know."

  "These all sound like great ideas. And fun, creative things to do. A lot of successful people in these areas."

  "Yeah, I just want one that's gon' be the most profitable."

  She looks up at me like I just said the wrong thing. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," she says. "Money is really important to you, then?"

  "Ain't it to you?"

  "Yes. But I'm more curious as to how vital it is. I mean, would you choose to do something you didn't feel passionate about because it made you more money, versus something you felt passionate about that didn't make quite as much?"

  "I can learn to like a lotta things. I been at the post office for eighteen years and it's just starting to get on my nerves. I just need a bigger payoff."

  "Okay," she says, in a sing-song voice.

  She's getting on my nerves. We ain't solved nothing in all this time, and I thought I'd be able to walk outta here with some solutions. "What about my husband? What should I do about him?"

  "Oh, Charlotte. I can't answer a question like that for you."

  "Why not?"

  "First of all, I don't tell my patients what to do, I try to ask questions so that you discover the best way to resolve a situation, and sometimes that requires more than one session. I mean, you have a history with this man. There are so many issues that come into play, and we haven't even begun to discuss them yet. Would you like to start there next time?"

  "I guess so. But just tell me. Based on what you do know, do you or do you not think I should divorce him?"

  She picks up her yellow pencil and then puts it back down, real slow. "1 can't answer that question, Charlotte, and it would be totally unprofessional for me to even try. Let's talk about this further next time. When can you come back to see me?"

  "I don't know," I say, getting up.

  "I'm open this time next week."

  "Let me check my schedule and I'll call you, okay?"

  "Okay," she says, and stands up and conies from around her desk. Damn. She must be about six feet tall. No wonder she ain't got no husband. I shake her hand and tell her I'm looking forward to seeing her next week, but as soon as I get outside, I take that little business card she gave me and throw it in the first trash can I come to.

  Well, this is a switch. First of all, Dr. Cecily Greene's office ain't even in no office building. It's in a brownstone. When I walk in, there's a litde rock fountain in the hallway with water trickling through it. It's pretty. I smell incense burning. Whatever kind it is, I like it. And is that jazz I hear playing in the background? Before I get a chance to sit down, a handsome woman in her early forties with a short curly afro and great makeup application opens the door and smiles at me.

  "Hello, Charlotte. I'm Dr. Greene, but please feel free to call me Cecily."

  "Okay," I say. She smells good, too. What is that she's wearing? If I get a litde closer, maybe it'll hit me. When she turns around, I'm almost staring her in the face. I feel like a damn fool. "What's that perfume you wearing?"

  "It's a combination of essential oils."

  "What kinda oils?"

  "Jasmine, ylang-ylang, and geranium."

  "Never heard of 'em."

  "I've got an extra little botde I keep here in my office you can have."

  "No, I wouldn't want you to do that."

  "I mix them myself. It's no problem."

  "Thanks."

  "So-sit anywhere you like," she says, pointing to two big thick oversized velour chairs. Purple with orange piping. Nice. Across from them is a loveseat, and this is a deep-tangerine color with purple piping. I sit in one of the chairs. She got a few books and what looks like medical journals stacked on one side of her desk, which looks like a antique. I see a Essence magazine and Black Enterprise and a crossword puzzle and a coffee cup with a teabag hanging over it that's sitting on one of them little cup-warmers. There's a purple glass dish sitting on the corner of the desk and it's full of hard candy and mints. I want one, but I ain't gon' take one.

  "Can I get you something to drink? Water, juice?"

  "Nope. I'm fine."

  She walks over and turns the music off and then comes and sits across from me. I don't know why I ain't nervous.

  "So-Lela referred you to me."

  "Yep."

  "Good. She's nice. A very smart sister. So, tell me, Charlotte, what can I do for you?"

  She used the term "sister"? I can't believe a doctor would say that, but I like it. "I don't know, Cecily," I say. "Where's your questionnaire?"

  "I don't use one."

  "Why not?"

  "Because they don't really tell me anything about you as an individual. It just puts you in a yes-or-no square box, you feel me?"

  Did she just say, "You feel me?" She did. Yes she did. I like this, too. "Yeah, I do," I say, and just look at her.

  "Let me tell you how I work. First of all, most of my patients come to me because they've had some kind of trauma or negative experience and they're suffering. One of my goals is to help relieve some of your suffering and help you to learn something about yourself. But it's something we do together."

  "Okay, but I don't really feel like I'm suffering, except over the death of my mama, but when it comes to everything else, I'm just pissed off."

  "I'm sorry to hear about your mother."

  "Thank you."

  "Who are you pissed off at?"

  "At my husband, my older sister, and my son. Some days my daughters is on the list, but not today. That's it for right now."

  "Well, let me tell you how we can start. If you feel comfortable with me, during our first three sessions my hope is to begin to get a clearer picture of you and your background. This includes everything from what you believe in to any traumatic experiences you may have had, such as the loss of your mother-and that's a biggie for most of us. As time goes on, when we're really getting somewhere, these will probably be the times when you're going to feel a little uncomfortable because I may say something that stirs something up. This is when you might not want to come back, but this is when we're getting beneath the surface. This is when many of my patients start to cancel appointments and become angry with me to some degree, because they want to blame me for
their discomfort."

  "I won't do that," I hear myself say.

  "Let's hope not. So-you have one sister for sure; do you have other siblings, Charlotte?"

  "I have a older sister and a younger brother and sister."

  "So you're in the middle."

  "I guess. But can I just tell you what my husband did, and then, if we have time, I wanna tell you about the fight me and my sister had right after Mama's funeral-well, actually, it was the day of the funeral-and this is the oldest sister, who was Mama's favorite, and she thinks everybody jealous of her 'cause she got money, but I ain't, and she thinks her shit don't stink- forgive my French-and she gets on my last nerve, and even though I love her I can't stand her ass half the time, but because Mama made us promise, I'm supposed to spend Thanksgiving at her damn house, and I'm trying to get myself mentally prepared for more bullshit or else figure out how to just get along with the huzzy once and for all and be done with it. Should I start with my husband first?"

  She kinda leaned back in her chair, but she got a smirk on her face like she already know what the deal is. Or-maybe I'm just a complicated case. Hell, I don't know. "You certainly may."

  And then I tell her the whole thing. Afterwards, my throat is dry, so I ask for some water and she gets it for me and comes and sit back down. She looks dead in my eyes and says: "Let me get this straight. This is something that he did ten years ago and you're going to leave him now?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, what's happened over the last ten years? Have there been other affairs?"

  "I don't think so. No."

  "Does he have a gambling or drinking problem?"