“So…you’re going to advise us on how to decide who Alex and Lucia should live with?” I must look stupid now, like I’m missing something. But I don’t care. I need to know what’s happening and where this woman stands.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m going to facilitate a discussion in which you and Mike decide what’s best for everyone.”
I don’t have anything to say to that. Wait, yes I do. “That’s not going to happen, Susan. You haven’t met Mike yet, have you? He’s totally unreasonable. He doesn’t listen to anyone. It’s his way or the highway, basically. That’s part of why I left him.”
She laughs at that. “Well, why don’t you let me give it a shot anyway? It can’t hurt, right?”
I shrug. “I guess not. Unless you end up with the same headache he gives me.”
She laughs again. Then she looks at her watch. “Well, our time is just about up.” She stands, so I do, too. “Natasha, before I see you again, I’d like you to think about stress and how you deal with it. I’d like you to come up with a list of ways that you take care of yourself emotionally, or ways that you think you might like to try. Can you do that for me?”
This is starting to sound like something from a cheesy movie or a self-help book. I can tell she really means it, though. She seems like a nice person in general, so I humor her. “Sure. Yes, I will.”
“Thank you.” She reaches out to hug me good-bye, which seems like an inappropriate thing to do. Maybe even borderline sexual harassment. But she’s older, so she probably doesn’t see it that way, and I go ahead and let her hug me a little.
She hugs me a lot. It feels awkward.
Then it feels okay all of a sudden. Warm. Nice. Safe, in a way.
This is totally corny, but it almost feels like…like she’s a mom. An older mom who’s more experienced than me, who knows what I’m going through and wants to help. Which, if I’m lucky, might actually be the case.
Now that I’m in the Blazer, on the way home, I feel sorry for this Susan Graham. She really doesn’t know what she’s in for with Mike. Yes, she’s definitely more on the ball than the previous mediator was, and she seems to believe that she can handle him. But that’s what I thought, too, throughout our marriage. That I could handle Mike and his constant bitching, negativity, and neglect. And I couldn’t. It escalated as the years went on. It wore me down, and I had to give up. And since the divorce it’s gotten exponentially worse.
I can’t believe she gave me homework. A list of ways I deal with stress, or would. Should. Could. Am I supposed to type it up and print it out for her? Create a slide presentation, maybe?
It’s easier to find my way back home than it was to find her office. Left, right, left, and I’m back on the freeway. It’s a little chillier now that the sun’s gone down. Time to turn on the heat, aim it at my extremities.
The fact that I can’t think of anything to put on Susan’s list—is that an issue? Should I be concerned?
When am I not stressed, first of all?
My stress isn’t the kind that needs handling. It’s the stress of everyday living. Do I wish I had a maid and a nanny so I could relax more? Sure. Is that going to happen anytime soon? No. So I take care of my business, without whining about it.
When was the last time I was really stressed? Easy: Mike pulling this lawsuit on me. Finding out that he’s trying to take the kids away.
And how did I deal with it? Or how did I want to? I wanted to…
Black hair pale skin scratchy stubble hotel bedspread…
No, don’t think about that now. Drive the car. Cut around this slowpoke and keep your focus on the road.
What did I actually do? I cleaned the kitchen floor. Yes, that’s how I handle stress.
Be honest, Natasha. You yelled at the kids first, and then you cleaned the kitchen floor.
Be honest. First you yelled at the kids. Then you cleaned the kitchen. And then you ate, you piggy. You ate that big piece of cake you said was left over for the kids but that you kept hidden in the very back of the refrigerator.
I ate. Late at night, in my bed, tears and snot running down my face.
God. I’d better think of something else to put on the list before I see this woman again.
Alex
I’m glad Angelica’s here today, because the last two times we came to Ms. Buena’s, she wasn’t. And I can’t see her at school, because second grade and third grade have recess at different times.
Mom said we’re only staying here for a little while. So I tell Angelica we should play spies first, by ourselves, and then we can play X-Men until my mom comes to pick me up. She says okay.
We tell Lucia and Tiffany and them that we’re going to make them a surprise in the other room and they have to play dolls until we come back. Baby Junior’s too little to know that dolls are for girls only, so he likes to play with the big one that has a flowered dress. Tiffany takes all the dolls out of their boxes, and me and Angelica go to Miss Buena’s room. Miss Buena’s in the kitchen.
We sit down behind Miss Buena’s bed to plan our mission. But first Angelica says, “Your mom is mad at my mom.”
I say, “No she’s not.”
She says, “Yeah she is. That’s why y’all never come over here when we’re here anymore.”
I’m thinking about that. I don’t know if it’s true.
Then she says, “That’s why they never take us to the park anymore.” She’s right.
I say, “Why’s my mom mad? What’d your mom do?”
Angelica doesn’t like it when I say that. I can tell. She puts her hair in her mouth to chew on it, then spits it out. She’s looking down, and I know she’s a little bit mad. She says, “My mom didn’t do anything. She said it’s because of your dad. He doesn’t want them to be friends anymore. I heard her tell somebody on the phone.”
I don’t know if she’s playing a trick on me. I don’t think my dad knows Angelica and them.
But maybe he does, and maybe he thinks they’re trashy. He says that sometimes, if people have old, beat-up cars like Angelica’s mom does. He says they’re trashy and don’t like to work hard enough to buy better cars.
I don’t care what kind of car they have. I say, “Well, my dad never said I can’t play spies with you.”
She says, “What if he does say it?”
I say, “It won’t matter, because spies are secret. So we’ll keep being spies, and he won’t know.” She doesn’t say anything. But I can tell she’s not mad anymore. So I say, “Let’s do our mission now, before it’s too late.”
Today’s mission is to spy on Miss Buena before Mr. Oscar comes back from the drugstore. Every time Mr. Oscar leaves the apartment, Miss Buena calls somebody named Robbie on the phone and talks to him about Cristina. Cristina’s pregnant, and she’s almost ready to have her baby. Mr. Oscar doesn’t know, because he got mad at Cristina a long time ago and never talks to her anymore. He thinks Miss Buena doesn’t talk to her either. She doesn’t, but she does talk to Robbie. Angelica was the one who found out that Cristina is Tiffany’s mom. She got that information from spying on her mom. Angelica’s a really good spy sometimes.
Miss Buena comes into her bedroom and says, “Alex. Angelica. What are y’all doing? Y’all aren’t playing doctor, are y’all?”
I say, “No, we’re playing X-Men.”
She says, “Well, why don’t y’all go play it in the living room. Or watch your cartoons. I have to do something in here. I’ll be out in a little bit.”
We say okay and go to the living room. Miss Buena closes the door almost all the way. That means she’s going to get on the phone. I go turn on the TV so she’ll think we’re watching it. But instead we go sit in the hall by her door, to listen.
Something happened. Miss Buena is saying, “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. Oh, my God!”
“The baby died,” Angelica whispers.
“How could it die?” I whisper back. “It’s still inside her.”
Miss Buena says, “
Is he doing okay?” Then she says, “Six pounds. Oh, my gosh.” Then she says, “Oh, thank God. I’m so glad, Robbie.”
Angelica says, “The baby didn’t die. She had it already.”
Miss Buena says, “I want to. But do you think she wants me to?” Then she says, “I really do want to, Robbie. But…I don’t know. I have to talk to Oscar first. I should tell him.”
Then she listens for a long time. Then she says, “When?” Then she says, “That’s too soon. You can’t travel with the baby that soon.” Then she says, “Oh, my gosh. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
Then the apartment door opens, and Mr. Oscar’s back. He comes in and puts a bag on the table. Then he says, “What are y’all doing?” to me and Angelica. We stand up. I hear Miss Buena say, “I have to go. I’ll call you back.”
She comes out of the bedroom, and I say, “Miss Buena, we were going to ask you if you can make us quesadillas.”
She puts her hand on my head and says, “Of course, m’ijo. Let me go heat up the sartén.” She goes to the kitchen to heat up the black quesadilla pan. Mr. Oscar sits down and picks up the TV remote. Me and Angelica go back into Tiffany’s room.
Junior’s crying. Angelica tells Monique, “What did you do to him?”
Lucia says, “He’s crying because Tiffany said his doll looked ugly.”
It takes Angelica a long time to make Junior stop crying. Then Miss Buena comes in and says, “Alex, Lucia, your mama’s here.”
Mom doesn’t come inside. She waits for us in the hall. We have to hurry up and grab our backpacks. I say, “Bye,” but Angelica doesn’t look at me.
In the hall I want to ask Mom if she’s mad at Angelica’s mom and if she’s really not allowed to talk to her anymore. But Mom’s walking too fast for me to say anything, and she doesn’t look like she’s in a good mood for questions.
Natasha
This is a scene from a nightmare.
“No, you shut up. You let me talk now. Shut up.”
This is like a joke, a bad cartoon. The cat and the mouse who hate each other but won’t leave each other alone.
“You’re always talking. You never listened. You think you’re more important than me and everyone else.”
What is Susan thinking as she watches this? I can’t even look at her. I’m ashamed, but I can’t stop.
“No, you’re wrong. You’re exaggerating. You’re lying.”
“This is why I left you. Who could live with someone like you?”
“What are you talking about? This is why I left you.”
There’s a click. It’s Susan. She’s set down her phone on the table. The phone has a timer, and it shows ten minutes. Her Christmas vest—black with red poinsettias—should keep me from taking her seriously. But the vest has some kind of teacherlike authority, apparently, because Mike and I stop yelling.
Susan says, “Well, we’ve spent one-fifth of our session on this so far. How do you feel? Better?”
We don’t answer.
“Is it helping? If so, we can continue. Would you like some water, either of you? Your throats must be getting hoarse.”
I take the opportunity to make my case. “No, it’s not helping. He didn’t come here to compromise. He came to make accusations and try to convince you that I’m some horrible mother who deserves to have her children taken away.”
Susan looks in my direction and starts to speak. Mike, neck turning red and threatening to pop out of his shirt collar, says, “Tell her what you came to do. You want to sit there and act like Little Miss Perfect and like I’m too stupid to know how to take care of my kids.”
Susan looks at him, then back at me. “Is that true, Natasha? Is Mike too stupid to take care of the kids?”
Yes, he is. But I say, “It’s not that he’s stupid. It’s that he never cared about taking care of them until now, and now he’s only pretending to care in order to punish me.”
She turns to Mike. “Are you doing this to punish Natasha?”
“No.” Yes, he is.
She asks him, “Is Natasha a horrible mother?”
He pauses like he has to consider the question. He says, “Not always.” God, I hate him. Just roll over and drop dead, you hateful, smug bastard. “But she’s selfish. She puts her own needs before theirs. And she has a bad temper, and she takes it out on the kids.”
I open my mouth to contradict this bullshit, but Susan interrupts me. “Okay. So we have an overview of what you perceive as each other’s parenting faults. What about your positive traits? Natasha, what does Mike do right as a parent?”
I feel myself giving her a look. This is some cheesy Afterschool Special crap. I don’t see why I should give Mike any compliments at this point. “I don’t know.”
“Nothing?” she prompts. “Come on. Tell me one thing.”
Only so I can’t be blamed for not trying here, I say, “I guess he’s good at playing with the kids. Taking them outside and riding bikes and stuff.” Then I throw in, “Since he has time to do that and I don’t.”
Susan nods, then turns to Asshole. “Okay. And what do you say, Mike? What is one of Natasha’s good parenting traits?”
“She doesn’t have any,” he says, fat chin sticking into the air, waiting for me to jump over the table and punch it.
“Oh, come on, now,” Susan says. “She doesn’t have any? You married a woman without one good parenting skill, got her pregnant twice, and let her stay home with your kids for eight years? If that’s true, what does it say about you as a dad?”
Ouch. You go, Susan. I’m surprised she said that. Mike’s surprised, too. His eyes go wide, and he says, “Well, she wasn’t bad the whole time.” He pretends to have to consider some more, then says, “I guess she’s good at scheduling stuff. Making sure the kids get to school and all their appointments on time, I mean.”
Susan nods. “So we can agree that each of you has good traits. Each of you has strengths that the other may not. Agreed?”
I don’t want to nod, but I do. Mike barely tips his big head.
Susan flips a page on her clipboard and picks up her pencil. I take the opportunity to swallow hard a few times. My throat is getting hoarse, actually, and my lips are starting to chap from all the talking. Yelling. Susan clears her own throat and says, “Let’s try a little exercise. I’m going to read a list of roles that parents are often called on to play. I want you think about each role and tell me which of you plays it most often. Ready?”
We nod.
“Disciplinarian.”
“Me,” I say. Obviously it’s me. I’m the only one who cares about making the kids behave.
At the same time, Mike jerks his head in my direction and says, “Her,” as if being a disciplinarian is a bad thing and he’s pinning the label on me before he can be accused of it himself.
“Okay,” says Susan, making a mark on her clipboard. “Social planner.”
“Me,” I say again. No contest.
“Her,” says Mike.
“Motivator.”
I have to think about that one, but Mike chirps, “That’s me,” so I let him have it.
“Adventure seeker.”
“Me again,” Mike practically crows. I’ll let him have that, too, since it isn’t actually a parenting skill. I’m guessing whoever made this test had to throw in some fake ones so the bad parents could score at least a few points.
Susan nods, then says, “Nurturer.”
That’s me.
“Dreamer.”
That one makes no sense, so it’s Mike.
“Housekeeper.”
Me. Who the hell else would it be?
“Repairperson.”
Mike, I guess. But I’ve had to do more of it since he’s been gone.
It goes on and on, and I get it now. We each have our roles. Neither one of us does everything. But…“I just have to point out,” I say, “that Mike gets all the fun parts. And I’m guessing that his girlfriend takes on the hard parts for him, just like I us
ed to.”
“Right,” he snaps. “Which is why the kids should live with me. Because with me they’d have a two-parent household.”
Jesus Christ. What an asshole. I turn to go off on him.
Susan speaks before I can. “So, Mike, will you tell the kids that? Will you tell Alex and Lucia that your girlfriend can take their mother’s place and they won’t need Natasha anymore?”
That shuts him up for a second. Then he says, “Well, no. Not exactly like that.”
“This is important,” Susan says. “This is something I need each of you to keep in mind. When you’re calling each other names, you’re also calling Alex and Lucia’s parents names. Do you know what I mean?” She turns to Mike. “Would you walk up to Alex and say, ‘Yo’ mama’s so selfish, she doesn’t care about you as much as she cares about herself’? Would you let anyone else talk to him like that?”
On the one hand, I want to laugh at Susan’s attempt at ghettospeak. On the other hand, I’m angry because I know Mike has said things like that in front of the kids, and yet he’s sitting here shaking his head like he’s never bad-mouthed me in his life.
Maybe, though, it’s because those words sound so harsh coming out of this stranger’s mouth, and he doesn’t want to believe that he’d talk to the kids like that. Maybe she’s actually getting through to him.
“What about you, Natasha? How would you feel if someone walked up to Lucia and said, ‘Your father doesn’t care about you—he’s only pretending to in order to get back at your mother’?”
Okay, this isn’t fair. It’s not the same in my case.
It stings. Yeah, it would hurt, and I’m a jerk when I act like that in front of the kids. I admit it.
“These aren’t things we want our children to believe, are they?” she asks us. No, they aren’t. She’s like a kindergarten teacher, scolding. But she’s right. “And these things aren’t true, are they? Don’t we know that?”
Better With You Here (9781609417819) Page 23