George Hartmann Box Set

by Kelly Utt

  “Georgie, why didn’t you tell me about this right away?” Ali asks. “We’ve always been open and honest with each other. We can’t let what happened change us. And besides, have you forgotten your wife is an attorney? Even though my specialty is immigration law, if you have even the slightest brush with legal trouble I need to hear about it.”

  “I know, believe me,” I reply. “I don’t want to hide things from you. I was ashamed of my behavior. Ashamed of my anger. I mean, how immature is it to tussle with a stranger on a public street over such a minor issue? It’s absurd. Yet, there I was.” We again sit quietly for a minute, processing.

  “George?” Marjorie inquires.

  “Yeah?” I reply softly.

  “Might you be open to going to talk with a professional?” she asks.

  “Like an attorney?” I ask. “You think the guy might try and sue me?”

  “No,” she replies. “Like a psychologist.”

  “Oh,” I say. An uncomfortable quiet settles in amongst us as I ponder the suggestion. I can immediately tell that the others think it’s a good idea, but they’re hesitant to say so. I’ve never been to therapy of any kind.

  “George, I gotta say, I think Marjorie’s idea is a good one,” Liam offers. “There’s a lot going on lately. We talked about this when you called me the night you moved in. You’re adjusting to a new city, a new home, a new job, and to civilian life after a long career in the military. That would be a big deal for anyone. Not to mention that soon you’ll be adjusting to having a new baby. And adjusting to Ali taking time off from work and staying home with the kids. Even though you’re old pros by now when it comes to parenting, Will’s arrival is going to change things. It has to. Every new personality added to a group changes the dynamic. When you stack what happened with the break-in on top of all of that, well, it’s a hell of a lot.”

  “It does sound like a lot when you list it all out that way,” I reply.

  “George,” Marjorie adds, “when I hear you talk about anger being inside you, it makes me think you may have unresolved grief left over from losing your dad. That stuff can stick with you for a long time if it isn’t processed and released.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “You think that’s it, Mom?” Ali asks.

  “It might be,” she continues. “It’s worth exploring the possibility. You definitely don’t want to let all of this fester and impact your relationships. What happens when your anger starts becoming directed at your family and friends instead of strangers?”

  “I don’t even want to go there,” I say.

  “I know you don’t,” Marjorie affirms. “You’re a good man, George. But I think you could use a little help right now. There’s no shame in it.”

  “I hear you,” I say. “I know there’s no shame in it. I just never pictured myself in therapy.”

  “Did you talk to anyone after your dad died?” Marjorie asks.

  “I went to a few support group meetings at the local hospice with Mom, but I mostly listened. I’ve never talked to anyone about my feelings,” I say.

  “Your dad died suddenly, right?” she continues.

  “Yeah, he had a massive heart attack and died within a few hours,” I explain. “There was no warning. He was strong and healthy and in great shape. He played racquetball most mornings before he went into the store to work. I suppose it’s possible he had symptoms he didn’t tell us about, but Mom and I had no clue anything was wrong. It was shocking, to say the least.”

  “He was only forty-one when he died,” Liam adds. “George was sixteen. It was devastating.”

  “Yeah, devastating is the only way to describe it,” I say.

  “And the two of you were close?” Marjorie asks me.

  “Very,” I reply. “We were very close.” There’s another moment of quiet as we sit with my statement. It must be sad for them to see my pain, which is in many ways still fresh even after all these years. Liam, of course, has his own pain from Dad dying. He was very close to his big brother.

  “Georgie, say yes,” Ali urges. “I want you to be okay. The boys and I need you to be okay. Tell me you’ll do as Mom suggests and go talk to a psychologist.”

  I’m not sure if Ali fully realizes it or not, but I’d do anything she asked me to. That woman is the center of my entire world.

  “Of course, I’ll do it, Ali,” I say, tears forming in my eyes again. “I’d do anything for you, my love. And it sounds like this is also what I need to do for me. I’ll do it right away.” I cup my hands gently around Ali’s face and kiss her softly on the lips. She has tears in her eyes as well.

  “Good man, George,” Roddy says.

  “Atta boy,” Liam adds, wiping away a tear of his own. “I’m awfully proud of you, nephew.”

  “You’ll see,” Marjorie says as she smiles broadly and nods her approval. “It will be good. You’ll be glad you had the courage to step out of your comfort zone and get help. Do you have a contact here in town?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “I can ask Mom. She probably knows therapists from her job at the hospital.”

  “Actually,” Ali says, “Jen went to see someone in town she really liked. Dr. Joseph Epstein is his name, if I remember correctly. She says he’s great at getting to the bottom of things and that he seems to have a knack for honing in on just the right angle to facilitate real change. His Ph.D. is from Columbia, and he’s a hypnotherapist, too. He used hypnotherapy to help Jen quit smoking.”

  “Did it work?” Liam asks.

  “Yes, she’s been smoke-free for almost five years. Jen is a sociologist, so I trust her assessment of Dr. Epstein’s professional qualifications. She’s not a practitioner herself. Her focus is teaching and research. But I consider her expertise to be generally in the same realm.”

  “Let’s give him a try,” I say. “I’ll call Jen and ask for his number. I wonder if Ethan should see someone also.”

  “I thought about that, too,” Ali says. “I may want to see someone myself.”

  “Dr. Epstein would probably refer Ethan to someone who specializes in child psychology,” Marjorie says. “Why don’t you begin by yourself, George, and then ask him for recommendations?”

  “Right,” I reply. “I really appreciate your input, Marjorie. Thanks for looking out for us.”

  “Of course, dear,” she says. “I promise you’re going to get through this.”

  Ali and I feel remarkably better with a clear direction. Something to do to move us forward. Maybe we’ll be alright after all. The mood lightens, and Ali seems perkier and starts talking about decor for the house again. I never thought I’d actually be glad to talk about home decorating, but right now I most certainly am. It’s a sure sign of progress.

  A large item on Ali’s decor to-do list is on its way right now. Last fall before we left D.C., we drove down to order a handcrafted dining table from a company that builds them from scratch on a family farmstead in rural Eastern North Carolina. We knew we had a huge space to fill and that we wanted room to host plenty of guests, so it made sense to have a table built to our specifications. A friend recommended the company after their own positive experience. We must have looked at hundreds of photos before selecting a design with a plank top and straight, clunky legs made out of rough-sawn reclaimed barn wood. We also went to great lengths to examine sample blocks with one of the owners in order to be sure we chose the perfect finish and stain color. The final product is being delivered tomorrow and I want Ali to be excited about it. Hopefully, the table’s arrival will take her back to the positive memory of the trip to North Carolina, as well as allow her to look towards happy memories sure to be made in the future. I want my wife to be happy. A table seems like a good thing to latch onto. I mean, we’ve got to eat.

  We haven’t been out of the house together since the break-in, but when Liam suggests we finally try The Parlor for dinner and a drink we cheerfully agree to go. It should be fine. The alarm system is active and linked to my mobile
phone. Roddy, Liam, and I will make sure to check the house thoroughly when we get home before everybody else goes inside. Pepperoni Parlor, here we come.

  I call Mom and John Wendell to see if they want to meet us, but John Wendell isn’t able. Mom says he’s been sleeping more than usual and having trouble picking his feet up to get into bed. I sure hope he’s better soon. I don’t want to think about the alternative.

  7

  You Can Open Your Eyes at Any Time

  The Odyssey Psychology Center is located in a charming turquoise house on a hill just off East State Street in downtown Ithaca. Ivy covers most of the ground out front and a string of twinkling lights frames the entryway. It hasn’t snowed in a couple of days, but the sun isn’t making much of an appearance this particular afternoon. Given the gloomy weather, I’m especially glad for the little lights and the cheer they offer. A bell chimes as I open the white wooden screened door and then the heavy black metal door to step inside. The whole place has a friendly vibe. I can picture people lingering to chat on the porch in the summertime while a fat, happy cat works the crowd and offers its belly for rubs.

  Dr. Epstein shares office space with six other mental health professionals. There’s no receptionist to greet me as I enter the front room, but there is an empty desk where I’d expect a receptionist to sit. On top of the desk and facing outward is a clipboard and pen with a stack of forms and a sticky note bearing my initials G.H. in large print blue marker. The forms have Dr. Epstein’s name featured prominently at the top, so I’ll assume these are for me and that he wants me to fill them out. I take a seat in one of the plush armchairs near the front door and begin. I’m glad the doc had an opening which allowed me to get in to see him right away. I’m a little nervous, but sort of excited, too. I provided a short summary of my situation on the phone when I made the appointment and I’m adding more detail now as I fill out the intake forms. I’m curious as to what he’ll find important and how the process will work. Jen assured me I’ll be comfortable. When I’m finished with the forms, I look around the room while awaiting further instruction. I wonder if the name Odyssey is a nod to Homer’s ancient Greek epic poem The Odyssey, which tells of the return journey to the island of Ithaca. We are in Ithaca, after all. Even though it’s not Homer’s Ithaca, the New York city of Ithaca was in fact named for the Greek island. And, of course, the therapy process could be called a personal odyssey. John Wendell would probably get a kick out of the play on words. I make a mental note to tell him about it.

  I hear a door creak from down the hall and then the shuffling of quick, heavy footsteps on the wooden floors. An impeccably dressed, tall, African-American man emerges and greets me with a self-assured smile. He looks to be somewhere around Liam’s age. Or Marjorie and Roddy’s. It’s hard to tell for sure. He’s definitely a generation beyond me, but probably not quite as old as Mom. He has thick, curly black hair that is just beginning to turn gray and he’s wearing a bright red bowtie.

  “Dr. Hartmann?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir,” I say as I scramble to my feet in time to meet his outstretched hand. He moves fast. I quickly realize this guy isn’t going to be the sleepy, uninterested therapist character I’ve seen in movies. His presence is front and center. Intense even.

  “I’m Joseph Epstein. How do you do?”

  “Great, yes,” I say, a little unnerved. “Good. Good to meet you, sir.” It feels like he will see right down to the very core of my being. And he’s trained to make proper sense of what he finds.

  “Very well then,” he says as he tilts his head forward and looks me over for a minute while his blue bifocals slide slowly down his large, broad nose. He’s standing square in front of me with his feet planted wide. It’s a confident stance. He aims to face me head on. There’s nothing aggressive or antagonizing about his demeanor. It’s just open and direct. It takes me by surprise, but it’s actually pretty inspiring. It’s as if he’s challenging me to meet him openly, honestly, and confidently. I suppose the plan would be for me to then go out and meet the difficulties in my life in the same manner.

  “I finished up the forms you left,” I say, lifting the clipboard up to give to him.

  “Good,” he says, continuing to look at me intently. He waits for what feels like a long while before raising his hand to take it from me. “Thank you,” he replies. He then motions towards the back of the house with his head, swivels around, and begins plodding towards what I assume is his office. I follow. We pass several closed doors, most of which have soft light emanating through their frosted windows. Outlines of people can be seen in some. A couple of rooms are dark. I guess each therapist keeps an independent schedule. I wonder if it ever gets rowdy or if it’s always this quiet.

  “In here,” Dr. Epstein sort of grunts when we reach his room. It’s crowded, but cozy. We both sit down, full of purpose and focused on the task at hand. I feel sixteen again as he asks me to start from the beginning.

  “It was a sunny November Sunday when he left us.”

  My heart jumps in my chest at the memory of Dad’s sudden death. It probably doesn’t help matters that my own age is just one year shy of his when he passed. For what it’s worth, I had hoped to be over it by this point in my life.

  “He was building a deck out back mid-morning when I called to talk to him about football scores. I had spent the night at a friend’s house,” I continue as the doc scribbles notes on a clipboard. “By supper time the same day we were carrying his clothes home from the hospital in a bag.”

  That got a reaction. Dr. Epstein gasps and grips the edges of his clipboard with both hands.

  “I could tell a happier story,” I offer. “Like the one where my wife Ali and I meet.”

  I have lots of happier stories, and would rather talk about those, truth be told. In addition to everything else going on, the typical winter blahs are affecting me. Even during good, uneventful winters, it seems like I can’t help but dwell on the fragility that is my one precious life this time of year. Unless I’m ruminating on the precious lives of Ali, Ethan, and Leo, that is. Safe, happy, healthy, together, I silently repeat to myself at night in bed. Not every single night, but close. Safe, happy, healthy, together. Safe, happy, healthy, together. Please, Powers That Be, keep the four of us safe, happy, healthy, and together.

  “Is it normal to wish, consciously, nearly every day, that your family stay safe, happy, healthy, and together?” I ask Dr. Epstein. “I mean, do normal people think about it that often?”

  Dr. Epstein raises an eyebrow and pauses, then nods and allows me time to continue. He can tell I have a lot to say. I imagine he’s had a lot of practice listening. Allowing his patients to unleash and unload in a safe space.

  “You should know I’m a typical guy,” I say, suddenly aware that I might be coming across as ultra-sensitive. “That’s important, right?”

  I’ve never been to therapy before and honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Although I guess I shouldn’t say the word honestly to Dr. E. since that might make him wonder if all the rest I’ve said wasn’t honest. Learned that in Airman Leadership School. I catch Liam saying the word honestly from time to time and tease him about it. He should have learned the same things during his stint in Airman Leadership School. He’s not really that much older than I am, but maybe his old man version of the training was different.

  I shift my approach. “I love her dearly, but my mom never really liked me being headstrong and assertive. I find myself sort of hiding those aspects of my personality around her. My Dad understood,” I try. “He understood me in a way that gave me a great foundation in life. You know? A foundation of love and support.”

  Another nod.

  “What is it about dads that allows them to accept and love their sons unconditionally?” I ask, “to really see them, like in the movies?”

  Two raised eyebrows this time. He must be thinking about all the horrible fathers. Or maybe about what a bizarre reference the movies is. I should be more c
areful how I phrase things.

  “Have you seen it in movies?” I ask, watching expectantly for his response. “Where people look each other in the eye and say things like ‘I see you?’ Those scenes often happen at gut-wrenching parts of the story, when it seems like the main character isn’t going to make it.”

  A smile this time. At last. It brightens up his entire face all the way up to his temples and strong hairline. Maybe Dr. Epstein is a movie buff and we’ll have something lighter to chat about. Or maybe he’s amused by how much of a nervous mess I am. I’m asking so many questions he isn’t answering though. Too many? Damn, it’s embarrassing how unsure of myself I feel lately. And this setting is bringing all of that right out for show. I feel like some kind of strange, cracked and shaken shell of my old self.

  I take a long, deep breath. “That’s it in this world. Probably. Beginning to end. Being seen.”

  “And are you being seen?” Dr. Epstein asks.

  I fidget on the leather couch as he makes more notes on his clipboard. It suddenly strikes me that Dr. Epstein is old enough to be my dad, but still middle aged. Funny how we can both be in the same middle age category, yet could theoretically be father and son. I wonder if he has a son.

  “I think so. I’m seen by my wife and kids,” I reply. “And I have a great extended family: my mom, my grandfather, an uncle I’m really close to, a mother-in-law, a father-in-law, two brothers-in-law, and a niece. Each one is supportive and genuine. Mom is the most complicated.” No response.

  The office has stacks of things everywhere. Papers, file folders, and books are up to the armpits, as Mom would say. The walls are filled with framed newspaper clippings, certificates, and diplomas from City University of New York and Columbia University. One particular certificate catches my attention: New York Hypnosis Society, President, it proclaims.

  “Do you hypnotize people right here?” I ask, smoothing the leather seat cushion beside me absentmindedly.