Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  A silent beat allows us both to take a breath before he speaks. “At the risk of starting an argument, have you considered keeping that little house as a summer place and renting a condo up here for two years so she can return to her old school? I think that would help.”

  My teeth hurt from clenching my jaw so tight. “Or you could slow down your race to the altar.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “It is. My moving here hasn’t been any harder on Katy than your becoming a father to new children so fast. She feels like she’s losing you. And don’t get me started on Lauren.” I tell myself that Katy’s living with me in this small town is healthier than staying in the pressure cooker up there with Richard and his new family. But what if I’m wrong?

  “Fine, Anne. I don’t want to fight with you. For fuck’s sake, I’d thought this bickering would end when we got divorced.”

  His framing our marriage that way makes me want to cry. We did bicker more often in recent years. Our marriage might’ve been happier if I hadn’t set aside all my own ambitions in the service of my family. If I’d had gallery events and interesting friends, the balance of power between Richard and me would’ve been more equal and Katy would’ve had more than one example of success to consider. Hindsight is seriously kicking my ass lately. “I don’t want to fight, either. Therapy should help us all communicate better. I found a reputable doctor in Morningside.”

  Another interminable pause has me chewing the inside of my cheek.

  “I spent all night staring at the ceiling considering this,” he begins. “Don’t you think therapists create as many problems as they solve—handing kids pills like they’re passing out Smarties? We’re smart. We can read up on this and figure it out.”

  If it weren’t maddening, his hubris would amuse me.

  “Between your career and your new family, exactly when do you plan to become an expert in child psychology, too? I’ve read every parenting book on the planet, and that hasn’t helped one bit. And now I’m here on my own, so I can count on even less help from you on a daily basis. This has reached dangerous levels that neither of us is equipped to handle. Especially not now that I suspect my gram might’ve had some kind of mental breakdown before my father was born.”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  I rub my face. “We found some memorabilia during the renovation, and when I questioned Gram, she mentioned some weird stuff . . .”

  “She’s got dementia,” he scoffs. “It’s probably all nonsense.”

  “It’s possible that she’s blending her memories with those of people close to her. But it fits with the melancholy my dad always spoke about. I’m still investigating, but I’ll feel better after a doctor diagnoses Katy and explains why she’s turned to self-harm. Katy doesn’t want my advice, but she might engage with a professional. Someone who keeps her confidences. A dispassionate adviser who won’t judge her. Please, Richard. We can’t afford to take any chances.”

  Did I hear a sniffle? “You’re right.”

  “Thank you. If you send me a handful of dates and times when you’re available in the next two weeks, I’ll set up a family appointment.”

  “Okay. I’ll check with Lauren, too. She has a closing coming up—”

  Horror pries my jaw open. “What’s Lauren’s schedule got to do with anything?”

  “She’s part of this family now, too.”

  My heart turns to ice. “She’s also part of the problem, and Katy’s not ready to see her yet.”

  “We’re the adults. If Lauren is part of the problem, then she needs to be part of the solution.”

  “Down the road, yes. But our first appointment should be private. Katy’s raw and she doesn’t trust or like Lauren. I assume you told her about the cutting . . .”

  “She won’t share it with anyone, but she had to be informed.” The edge in his voice suggests they had their first real fight over all this. Will this fine crack in their relationship splinter or seal?

  Seems I still hate my husband’s mistress-soon-to-be-wife, but for once that doesn’t make me feel like the bad guy. “Katy will be mortified.”

  He huffs. “I’m doing the best I can juggling Lauren, her kids, my firm, and now all Katy’s trouble.”

  “No one said parenting was easy, but we all have to deal with the commitment we took on. You’re a senior partner now, so you should be able to move your schedule around.”

  “You’ve never appreciated how hard I work or the personal sacrifices I made for our family.” The truth is that, at first, his work ethic made me proud. But as time went on, I began to resent his career as if it were the other woman in our lives. Then he’d accuse me of nagging, when all I’d ever wanted was more family time. “You and Katy have both benefited from my success.”

  “Until it cost us everything that mattered.” I pat my hot, damp face, embarrassed by the confession. “I know you don’t see it that way, but that’s how I feel. We were happier when we had less.”

  Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue. There’s some commotion behind his end of the line. “I’ll send you dates later and check in with Katy this afternoon.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that. Bye.” I set the phone on the table, heavy from the high cost of all our mistakes.

  My tea is ice-cold, and scudding clouds have rolled in off the bay. With my eyes closed, I indulge the dangerous, wistful what-if: What if I hadn’t gotten pregnant at twenty and married Richard? I might be an artist, living in Northern California with an interesting, eclectic group of friends. Might’ve experienced myriad lovers, too. The fantasy shimmers like pixie dust for a few seconds, but then the idea of life without Katy blows through to scatter that glitter. No career or fame or lust would eclipse being her mother. Not even with all the hurt and anger and anxiety flooding my system.

  There must be some way to turn this around. My thoughts drift to my grandpa and the advice he would’ve offered, like the time he came out of his shed and found me crying under the maple tree because Tori Decker had taunted me at the town pool by stealing my sketch pad and showing it to the other girls while laughing at me.

  Being an outsider and somewhat of an introverted preteen had made it difficult to form friendships. But that wasn’t what hurt most—I didn’t even want to be Tori’s friend because she never struck me as kind. Her poking at my drawings, though—the place where I’d poured all my pain and joy—planted doubts when there’d been none. Rejection is a part of art, but my first critic being so wicked to my face in public was a breathtaking moment I’ve never forgotten. She’d planted seeds that sprouted with my early career’s failure to thrive.

  My gaze settles on that neglected shed, which remains in the corner of the yard because I couldn’t bring myself to tear down that last reminder of Grandpa. He and I had cleared cobwebs and stored patio furniture in there at the end of each summer. The mundane memory swathes my heart in warmth, then inspiration strikes.

  It was here that my grandparents handed me paper and paints as an outlet for my complicated emotions. Art saved me then, and it might help me now.

  It might even help my daughter, too.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANNE

  Richard is working on his tablet beside me when Katy returns to the waiting room after her introductory session with Dr. Grant. I tap his arm while smiling at our daughter. Hope as fragile as soap bubbles fills my lungs. “Hi, honey. How’d it go?”

  “Did you like Dr. Grant?” Richard slips his tablet into its case.

  Katy shrugs. “She wants to talk to you guys.”

  Richard sighs.

  As subtly as possible, I elbow his side. “Oh good. I’m eager for her help.”

  Katy’s mouth pinches. “Yippee!”

  “That’s not helpful.” Richard stands. “We’re here for you—at almost three hundred dollars an hour—so I’d like you to take this seriously.”

  I would stomp on his foot if Katy weren’t here. Meanwhile, she plunks onto
a seat and whips out her phone. Not a good sign.

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “She wants to talk to you alone.”

  Richard and I exchange a glance. “Okay. We’ll be back soon.”

  When we enter Dr. Grant’s office, she stands and comes around her desk, hand extended. “I’m glad you’re both here today.”

  “Of course,” we say in unison, then fall silent. I don’t know what I expected, but Dr. Grant is young—maybe my age at most—and looks more hippie than MD in her flared jeans and velvet tunic.

  “Why don’t you each take a seat.” Dr. Grant gestures toward the sofa and chairs. Her office is arranged like a cozy living room. Creams and pinks, soft lights. Very calming. My muscles involuntarily relax, but my brain is on high alert.

  I take a seat on the sofa. Richard chooses a bucket chair and sits, feet spread apart, elbows to knees. “So how do we fix our daughter?”

  “Your daughter is very astute, I see,” Dr. Grant replies, wearing a professional smile. “She suspected that would be your attitude.”

  Richard shrugs. “Is wanting to solve this a bad thing? I love Katy and don’t want her to hurt herself again.”

  “Of course you don’t. No one is suggesting otherwise. But words like ‘fix’ and ‘solve’ aren’t necessarily the terms we should be thinking about when it comes to complex emotions and anxiety.”

  With a heavy sigh, Richard slides deeper into the seat and crosses a foot over one knee. “Fine. How do we help our daughter stop hurting herself?”

  “Before you can help, it’s important to understand the things that can cause this kind of behavior—”

  I interrupt. “I’ve done some research and learned that cutting is a way to control her emotions. The physical pain releases endorphins and gives her something other than the emotional pain to focus on.”

  Dr. Grant nods. “Yes, that’s all true, but again it doesn’t get to the source—the why of Katy’s inability to cope with emotional pain without those measures.”

  True. I’ll shut up now.

  “Let me guess, it’s all my fault for being too hard on her, and for asking for the divorce,” Richard grumbles.

  “Let the doctor talk, Richard,” I say, embarrassed that we’ve both interrupted her already.

  Dr. Grant returns Richard’s gaze. “High expectations can increase anxiety in some children, and divorce causes additional turmoil. Adolescents are learning to manage things like love and sex and adulthood, so when a family splits apart, it can shake their sense of what those relationships are supposed to look like, and what they can rely on.” If Katy hadn’t exhibited troubling behavior long before the divorce, I might take comfort in Dr. Grant’s blaming Richard. But, in fairness, both he and I have, in our own way, imposed a lot of expectations on Katy. I see that now. “However, it’s likely that Katy was born with a propensity toward anxiety—”

  “Her extreme reactions to frustration began around four,” I interrupt. Again. But the history is important. “Before that, she was an easy baby. Content and able to occupy herself. She listened well. She wasn’t impulsive or rebellious.”

  Dr. Grant’s friendly expression is contradicted by eyes that warn me of unpleasant oncoming news. “Recent studies suggest that parenting styles, particularly the mother’s, can impact a child’s anxiety levels. So, for example, if a child is naturally good at self-control, but then a mother usurps that child’s autonomy, it actually increases anxiety in that child.”

  Hot tears spring to my eyes. Since hearing Katy’s accusations, I’ve combed through all the minutes of our life together to see what I did or could do or should do differently, only to now have my worst fears confirmed. I’m the reason my daughter is hurting herself. My actions have hurt the person I most love in the world. I’m a worse parent than my father.

  I gulp a breath, needing oxygen.

  Richard sets his hand on my forearm. “Anne is an excellent mother. She dotes on Katy. Supports her. Keeps her organized and gives her everything she needs.”

  I clutch Richard’s hand, blinking back tears. If my throat weren’t swollen, I would say thank you. It’s unbearable to think that nothing I did was right.

  Dr. Grant pulls a tissue from a box and hands it to me. “Yes, that’s what Katy says. She describes you as very loving and supportive. But in this case, the way in which you go about it may inadvertently be contributing to Katy’s anxiety.”

  I blow my nose while an endless loop of “You’re a bad mother” plays in my head. My thoughts harden against the criticism. What does she know about our family after a mere forty-five minutes of listening to a confused sixteen-year-old’s perspective? Dr. Grant’s not wearing a wedding ring. She probably doesn’t even have children, so she knows nothing about how parent-child dynamics rarely emulate the examples set out in theory or in parenting books. Every single decision is an audible and some days are a win simply for lack of a catastrophe.

  I inhale slowly and blow out a breath. My family needs help, so I must keep an open mind. “I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand.”

  She hands me the entire box. “Sometimes when we swoop in and take control of our kids’ lives with all the best intentions—to protect them, to push them, to help them reach goals—we simultaneously rob them of a sense of autonomy and control over their own destinies. That loss of control is often at the root of anxiety.”

  Is that what I’ve done—robbed her of something so critical instead of filling her with love and confidence? I swallow the bile that rises up my throat.

  Dr. Grant turns to Richard. “Likewise, when a parent imposes his own goals and values on a child, it can also create problems if those conflict with the child’s.”

  Richard scowls with a dismissive shake of his head. “Sorry, but what decent parent doesn’t want their child to do well in school, learn to compete, and become their best self? That’s all Anne and I have ever asked of Katy.”

  He’s not wrong. We do want those things for her, and they seem like normal things to wish for. I’m so confused. Are parents not to ask for or expect anything? Do we just let kids raise themselves?

  “Again, it’s the methods—not the motivations—I’m asking you to rethink. In the coming weeks, try stepping back and giving Katy a little more autonomy. Let her make mistakes, learn from them, and grow, so she realizes she can manage her life on her own. When she figures that out, her anxiety will decrease. And as anxiety decreases, she won’t need to hurt herself to exert control.”

  My body and brain are numb from the thought of dismantling all my habits and building a whole new model of parenting. Thank God I’ve asked Dan to price out the shed conversion. Taking Dr. Grant’s advice will require me to put up a cot in there and paint daily from dawn till dusk.

  “Autonomy?” Richard stands and paces, his voice laced with incredulity. “Like when she decided to smoke pot at school and almost got kicked off the soccer team?”

  “Actually, yes. That lesson was a big one for her, and I’m certain she learned from it. But let’s talk about the vaping for a second. It’s not uncommon for kids with anxiety to turn to alcohol and weed to take the edge off. It doesn’t mean she’ll become a habitual user or turn to heavier drugs.” Dr. Grant doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by Richard’s incredulous expression. “So again, while I’ll use dialectic therapy to help Katy develop better coping tactics, I’d like you two to work on your relationships with her, and with each other. This is, in many ways, a family problem, and everyone needs to work together with patience, trust, and love—not shame. I like to tell parents to strive for alliance, not compliance.”

  Richard shoots me a look that so resembles Katy’s pre–eye roll face I might laugh if I weren’t so upset.

  “May I ask a question?” I pull my hand to my lap after having raised it like a schoolgirl.

  “Of course.” Dr. Grant leans forward, elbows on her thighs, hands clasped.

  It hurts to swallow an
d I’m damp with perspiration. “Are we too late to undo the damage? She’s almost seventeen. I read that, in many important ways, kids are formed by early grade school.”

  “I don’t believe it’s ever too late, especially if Katy wants to do the work. I sense, deep down, she does and is willing to work with me in earnest.”

  “So what are the rules or specific ‘don’ts’ I should keep in mind?” I ask.

  Dr. Grant chuckles, although I see no humor in any of this. “It would be nice if it were that clear-cut, but there isn’t one right and wrong way. You can have discussions with and make suggestions to her, but it will be best to let her make the final decisions. Think of this as giving each of you back some freedom, too. By taking the pressure off yourself to be Katy’s everything, you can use this time to fulfill some of your own goals. That will also relieve Katy of the burden of being the center of your world.”

  My throat is so tight it hurts to breathe. The irony that I gave up everything to help her only to now learn that doing so is what actually hurt her levels me. When new tears flood my eyes, I don’t even try to hide them.

  Richard stops pacing to stand beside me and set a hand on my shoulder. “Okay. Enough hindsight quarterbacking Anne’s and my parenting. We were young parents who did the best we could. We’re still doing our best, and laying the blame at our feet after the damage is done isn’t helpful.”

  He’s in full lawyer mode now. Sober. Resolute. Confident. I envy that and appreciate his desire to ease my pain, but the truth is that we probably wouldn’t be here if we had been terrific parents.

  “I don’t think you’re bad parents. Hopefully, when you’ve had time to digest everything, you’ll see that. I’m only suggesting a few changes to help Katy.” Dr. Grant falls silent.

  “So what comes next?” I can’t believe I’m reaching for Richard’s hand a second time, but there it is. As tense and distant as we are most days, I’m glad he’s at my side right now.

  “Let’s start with weekly sessions with Katy. At home, try to keep the obvious things she could cut herself with out of sight or put away. Continue to suggest healthy outlets, encourage friendships with new kids, help her get in touch with her core identity—the things she loved as a child are instructive—all of that will help her build up her esteem and give her other ways to channel her frustration and emotional pain. But don’t force any of it. Drop a suggestion and then let it lie. Also, substitute behaviors—things like rubbing ice on her skin or snapping a rubber band on her wrist—might help prevent more cutting while therapy gets underway.”