by Clare Naylor
I wondered whether Lara’s shrink might be good. He was apparently an old-school Jungian who unlocked the archetypes in her dreams and enabled her creativity to flow. I wasn’t sure that I had any creativity, though, and he was bound to have a beard, and they always gross me out and leave me obsessing about the scraps of lunch that must be left behind in them. So the Jungian doctor was consigned to the garbage can of fate, too. I could always go see one of Scott’s litany of shrinks. I had all their numbers, because I had to make the appointments. But, talking to Lara, it seemed that they were mostly addiction specialists—and clearly not very good ones.
I eventually hit on the idea of asking the most fantastically well-adjusted person I could think of who their shrink was. Which made complete sense, really, I mean, you were hardly going to ask somebody with a really bad skinny-cigar nose job who her plastic surgeon was, were you? It should be the same with your mind. I looked around my office. Hmm, no shining examples of mental health here. I scanned my phone list and found no joy there either. I did a mental X ray of the building, but the sanest and nicest people I could think of were the Josés, and I suspected that their health-care policies might not stretch to sitting in an Eames chair once a week and wondering whether their mothers’ guacamole had been good enough. And I’m not making light of this either. I once knew a guy who went to Smith who had huge resentment issues with his parents because they hadn’t introduced him to pasta until he was twelve years old. He thought it had made him socially disadvantaged.
Did the fact that lack of sanity seemed to exist in direct proportion to the number of visits to shrinks in my workplace mean that I ought not to risk a visit? I wondered as I bundled up my health pack and eased my new Blue Cross card into my wallet. Of course not. I ought to at least give myself the chance to discover whether I was a fuckup or not. And it could be fun. Like reading your horoscope. Or doing online quizzes about what your choice of colored balls tells you about your mood.
I turned on my iMac and logged on to the Blue Cross Web site. Eventually I found a doctor whose picture I liked the look of. Her name was Dr. Shirley Vance, and her eyes were understanding and insightful. I had decided on a woman because I couldn’t imagine discussing sex with a man. Not that there was any sex to discuss, but I remained optimistic that my situation might change, particularly if the therapy was a success and I became as open as one of the doors of perception. Or something.
I waited until lunchtime, when Scott was safely deposited at Ca’Brea with Jennifer and Brett, who, since the day of tantrums on the set of Wedding Massacre, had become the hottest couple in town. They were planning on buying Madonna’s old house in the Hills just as soon as her divorce came through and his soap-actress girlfriend of six years moved out. The office was deserted, and I dialed the shrink’s number.
“Dr. Vance speaking,” she said, answering her own phone with perky efficiency.
“Hi, Dr. Vance. My name’s Elizabeth Miller, and I got your number through Blue Cross. I was wondering if I could schedule a . . . session?” I think that’s what they were called. It was more like an aromatherapy massage than a root canal, I figured—or hoped—so it wouldn’t be an appointment, but a session. Right?
“Well, Elizabeth, I have a free hour every Tuesday from seven to eight. Would that work for you?”
“That sounds great. But I’m only covered for sixteen sessions, so I hope that won’t leave you high and dry if I turn out to be okay after sixteen.”
“That’s just fine, Elizabeth. We’ll start with one session and see how we go. Okay?”
She sounded so understanding and reassuring, something that you just didn’t encounter in this town. I wondered if that’s why so many people went to therapy here. It was a replacement for family, friends, and lovers who would want to be in your life longer than a movie shoot.
“So what I’d like you to do for me, Elizabeth, is to write a list before you come and see me tonight of the reasons you think you need therapy.”
“Okay, sure. I’ll try.” Hell, nobody told me you actually needed a reason. I thought it was like taking up Rollerblading, just something you did when you moved to California. “But how long does it need to be?”
“This isn’t a test. Just write down what you feel is important. See you at seven.”
I sat and chewed my pen for a bit longer and wondered why I was voluntarily giving over my evening to tell a complete stranger my flaws. Apart from the fact that the latest season of Six Feet Under had just finished and I had nothing much else lined up.
Then Talitha came back in, carrying a Star Books bag and a smile as wide as Carbon Canyon.
“Hey.” She dropped down onto her chair and addressed anyone who’d listen. “I just met the most amazing guy in the bookstore. We’re going riding in Santa Barbara this weekend.”
“Wow, that was fast,” I remarked.
“Well, what’s to lose?” She pulled a bunch of CDs and magazines from her bag and began flicking through them. “The way I see it, I’m old enough to know what I like and young enough to still take a chance.”
“Great philosophy,” I said as I realized that it was two-fifteen, so I took the phones off voice mail.
“Yeah, isn’t it? My shrink told me that. And I’ve gotten lucky more times since I started taking her advice than I even do when I wear my Victoria’s Secret Miracle Bra. Which is saying something.”
“I imagine it is,” I said, thinking that, if nothing else, Dr. Shirley Vance might give me dating tips and stop me from having to be seen with Men Are from Mars on my bookshelf.
“Yeah, nothing to lose but your life,” Courtney chimed in when she got back from the watercooler. “I mean, are you completely sure he’s not an ax murderer?”
“Christ, Courtney, he likes horses. When was the last time you heard of a guy who likes horses being an ax murderer?” she asked with inimitable and unassailable Talitha logic.
“Guess I didn’t,” Courtney had to admit. “Does he have a friend?”
As almost everyone had now trickled back into the office and the afternoon had begun in earnest, I decided I’d leave my list for later. I took a pen and jotted down the messages.
“Scott, my man.” It was Tony. “Filming’s all under way, you’ll be relieved to know, and the director isn’t such a shit-for-brains as I thought he might be. I’m trying the Atkins diet like you told me, but I have to say, man, it makes yer stink something awful. Anyway, let us know about that thirty-three-million offer for the next X-Men movie.”
The second message was from Ryan, who wanted to schedule a meeting with Daniel and Scott, and then one from Katherine Watson’s assistant. Katherine was the superagent in charge of the Literary Department here at The Agency, who, truth be told, I had a bit of a schoolgirl crush on. I’d often just gaze at her in meetings, and if I got into the same elevator with her, I’d step out feeling a bit light-headed. And I don’t think that I was alone. I had never heard a bad word said about her by anyone, and literally every time I went to Reception to pick up a package, there was always a huge bunch of lilies or antique roses or a Tiffany bag with her name on it waiting to be collected. Katherine was thirty-six, with the body of a cheerleader, three angelic children, and a dreamboat of a French commercial-director husband. She spoke four languages, was fluent in baseball, and was about fifteen times prettier than any actress we represented. And while it wasn’t odd that her assistant was confirming a meeting with Scott, it was strange that it was outside the office, for breakfast at the Hotel Bel-Air, and there was no record of it in the diary.
“Hey, Lara. Did you book Scott and Katherine in for breakfast?” I asked Lara when she came in a couple of minutes later.
“No. Why?”
“It’s just that it’s not in the diary and it’s at the Bel-Air. Kinda far from the office and a bit odd . . . don’t you think?” I scrawled it into the diary anyway.
“Why is it odd?” she snapped, and looked too closely at me for comfort.
“
Well, I suppose it’s not really. It’s just that . . . well, maybe they’re having an—”
“An affair?” She narrowed her eyes.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just strange. That’s all.” I shrugged, wishing I hadn’t said anything. Lara leaned back in her chair and began tapping out an e-mail. “Hey, Lizzie. Wanna come to a party with me next Saturday night?” she asked without looking up. “A friend of mine in Silver Lake is having a Halloween party. I’ll pick you up.”
“I’d love to,” I said, as my head flooded with excitement. She was a funny girl, Lara. She looked like she wanted to stick pins in your eyes one minute and then invited you to a party the next. Still, Silver Lake? Groovy people? For that I didn’t mind a few pins in the eyes.
Seconds later Scott breezed into the office with the full force of a twister over Oklahoma.
“Hey, ladies,” he said, hands out waiting for call sheets and responses.
“Hey, Scott.” I was still in class-creep mode, which was admittedly annoying but a necessary evil I felt since the recent Tony debacle.
“Lara?” Scott said, when he received the same pins-in-the-eyes treatment as I had from her. The only difference being that she didn’t invite him to a party seconds later. Instead she resolutely ignored him. “Hey, Lara,” Scott said, trying to see if she had her earplugs in.
“Screw you, Scott.” She looked at him fleetingly and then continued tapping on her keyboard.
“Wassup?” He appeared genuinely stung when she said this. But she didn’t answer. Scott began to look awkward. Then spotted me sitting there staring and pulled himself together. “I’m in my office if anyone needs me,” he said, stating the obvious and ambling too casually toward his desk, where he sat and picked his fingernails for the next half hour until he headed off for a strategy meeting in one of the conference rooms.
With Scott gone for an hour and Lara hammering out her novel in a fashion not dissimilar to a pneumatic drill, I decided that I’d get to work on my list for Dr. Vance. Why did I think I needed to see a psychologist? I took a sip of my green tea, picked a peanut out of a biscotti, and began.
REASONS I NEED THERAPY
I have perfectly good vegetables in the fridge but display a perverse unwillingness to either cook or eat them. Perhaps I don’t believe I’m worthy of vitamin-enriched and delicious food. Subclinical need to malnourish myself by preferring pizza? Early-stage eating disorder? Or latent self-loathing?
Not confronting the very real dangers in life that face me, such as race riots, earthquakes, and forest fires. Instead preoccupied with unfounded fears, such as what Victoria might do to me if I accidentally behead one of her Barbie dolls.
I switched majors twice in college. Then switched career path from politics to entertainment. Have also switched cereal brands four times since I arrived in L.A. Commitment issues?
I have had several lovers but not many serious boyfriends. Used to consider myself a product of my generation, but no longer sure. Perhaps I choose the wrong men on purpose? Perhaps just ugly?
Prefer working for unpredictable boss with no discernible value system in company where schadenfreude is a group activity of choice to working for sweet, green representative from Virginia who has team BBQs on Sunday afternoons. Why???
No longer recycle.
I wondered if Dr. Shirley Vance would provide me with a veritable pharmacy of medication for my maladies or simply declare me a lesbian. I didn’t really mind what she did, to be honest. I’d try anything for an orgasm these days. I looked up from my computer for what felt like the first time all afternoon and realized that it was six forty-five already and I had to get to her office in rush-hour traffic.
“Lara, I’ve got to run. I have an appointment with my shrink at seven,” I said as I raced out the door. And when I looked back to check that I’d turned off my computer, I swear I saw untold relief written on everyone’s face. They must have wondered what kind of freak I was, not having a therapist this whole time. Maybe they were a little leery of me for that. Hurray, I thought as I ran out. I’m one of them!
I parked in the garage and sprinted into the elevator, pressing the button for the fourteenth floor. I found Suite 1402 and went into the waiting room. I was depressed already, and I hadn’t even made it into her office. It was something about the stained industrial carpet and the wall of buzzers listing thirteen different doctors. I walked hesitantly over and found DR. VANCE written in block letters with a green fountain pen. I buzzed her name and waited by the speaker in the wall for a response. Nothing came, and I buzzed a second time, more assertively.
Then a netherworldly response came through the wall: “Elizabeth, please take a seat, and I’ll come get you in a second.” Then she was gone.
I sat down on a ripped leather-look chair that stuck uncomfortably to the backs of my thighs and stared at the Styrofoam ceiling tiles that you used to throw pencils at in school. I contemplated making a run for it while I still had the chance. But just as I was about to pick up my purse and case the exit, a pair of long, trousered legs walked in the door and sat down opposite me. It looked like Jake Hudson. I pulled my hair over my face and peered up through it surreptitiously. It was Jake Hudson. And, Jesus, I know I should have had weightier matters on my mind, but he was just so doable.
He pulled out his cell phone. “Hey, man. Heard from my lawyer that you kicked some ass on that deal. Well, I’m glad, because he’s as dumb as a lug nut.” Jake had stood up and begun to pace around the room as if he owned it. “Goddamn right. I’ve offered him seventeen-five, so let him tell me that he doesn’t do action now. He can kiss my ass.” And he laughed throatily and stopped by a mirror and watched himself talk.
“Elizabeth Miller.” The late Dr. Vance chose that moment to appear in the doorway and summon me.
I scuttled to my feet, looking all the time at my shoes, then shuffled toward her. Thankfully, I don’t think that Jake Hudson noticed a thing. Not me. Not that I was the girl he’d kissed on his deck. Not the fact that I was visiting a shrink. Only that his right eyebrow might be a little higher than his left, and, far from disliking this, he felt it gave him the air of Sean Connery.
“Nice to meet you. Why don’t you come into my office.”
I followed her down the corridor and thought how similar she looked to my mother from behind. I could just see her at home watching PBS in sheepskin slippers. Her office was cozy and unassuming, and she motioned to the sofa in the corner.
“Take a seat. Now, did you write your list?” she asked.
I produced my crumpled piece of paper and passed it to her like a sixth-grader handing in her homework. She smiled knowingly as she read my effort. I knew that she could see right through me. Probably even read my mind from the way I was blinking. I could contain myself no longer.
“My parents think I have commitment issues,” I blurted out. There was a long and terrible silence. I could have gone on to fill it with a whole list of other things or some tears of relief at finally being able to express myself. But as I was about to take a breath, she preempted me.
“Well, what do you think, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see.” She nodded in an understanding way.
I realized then why people did this. Why they came to share their problems. It felt so good to be able to be honest. Such a relief. I began to sink back into the sofa and relax, ready to have all my broken and misshapen bits fixed.
“Well, I think that by simply showing up here today, you proved your parents wrong. But that doesn’t mean that you haven’t struggled with this issue in one of your past lives,” she said quietly.
I wasn’t sure that I had heard her correctly, so I continued. “Well, I just want to make sure that my not having a boyfriend isn’t symptomatic of a greater problem,” I said.
“It very well might be,” she said. “Now, I hope you don’t mind if I consult my friends.” I looked toward the door, wondering if I had agre
ed to donate my therapy session to medical science in an unwitting moment. But there was nobody in the doorway. And neither did she pick up the phone.
“I don’t quite understand,” I said, shifting forward a little on the sofa. I was no longer quite so supremely relaxed as I had been.
“Vivianne would like to ask you a question,” she said.
“Right.”
“So what would you like to ask her, Vivianne?” she said, though there was still nobody here. “Oh, Tom, you have an observation, too. Well, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to wait your turn.”
I looked around to see if there was a glass wall behind which might be a panel of people fascinated by me, but there didn’t appear to be. “Excuse me, but who are you talking to?” I eventually asked.
Dr. Vance smiled reassuringly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lizzie. You don’t mind being called Lizzie, do you? Or is it just your father and your boss who call you Lizzie?” I looked askance at her. “You see, I hear voices. They’ve been with me from childhood, and they’re very au fait with past lives, and they’re also very intuitive about my clients.” She was smiling. “And they’re telling me that your current unwillingness to settle down is simply due to the fact that you were a man in almost all your past lives.”
“I was what?” I sat bolt upright.
“I know. Amazing, isn’t it? And quite unusual. But it does happen. And in your case it’s left you with habitual commitment anxiety, because you’re programmed, as a man is, to sow your wild oats. Nothing to worry about, and you’ll settle down in a few years’ time.” She smiled warmly. But it was too late for me.
“Dr. Vance, I think I have to go. I’m sorry,” I said.