by Kelly Utt
“I have a reclining chair in one of the front offices where patients sit during hypnotherapy,” he replies. His speech is as heavy and deliberate as his gait. “You passed the room on your way in. There are speakers in there which allow me to play recorded music, and I talk into a microphone here at my desk to provide hypnotic suggestion. It’s all very relaxing. You can open your eyes at any time.”
“Fascinating,” I say.
“Are you interested in hypnotherapy?” Dr. Epstein asks.
“Well, maybe. I might be. I mean, I don’t know,” I say. He holds my gaze even as I flounder. Most people would look away.
“What do you know about hypnotherapy?” he asks.
“Mostly what I’ve heard from Jen,” I answer. “Jen Wright is a good friend of ours. She and my wife Ali have been best friends since they were young… first grade, I think. Anyway, Jen said you helped her quit smoking.”
“Is there something you want to quit?” Dr. Epstein inquires.
I take another deep breath before answering. “Well, nothing to quit like a person quits smoking, exactly, but I’m here because I seem to have developed a lot of anger inside and I don’t want to be an angry person. I especially don’t want to hurt my loved ones. I owe it to them to sort things out before things get worse.”
“When I asked you to start from the beginning,” the doc probes. “Why did you choose the day of your father’s death?”
“Oh, wasn’t that what you meant?” I ask. “Sorry. I just thought… I don’t know.”
“No need to apologize, George,” he responds. “Can I call you George?”
“Sure,” I say, feeling embarrassed. He has a good point. Why would I start with the day of Dad’s death? Beginning with either the story of us having just moved or the story of the break-in would have made a lot more sense. I’m feeling like a hurt kid with raw, unbridled emotions hanging out for everyone to see. I’ve worked hard all of my adult life to keep that type of thing under wraps.
“George,” Dr. Epstein continues, noting my discomfort. “You’re doing well. Take another breath.”
A few words of kindness from this very intense man mean more to me right now than I ever would have anticipated. I do take another breath, and tears flow from my eyes. I’ve been keeping my muscles tight ever since I walked in the front door. They’re all wound and bound and I don’t even know how to hold my body in this moment. I jerk a hand up and cover my eyes, one with my thumb and the other with my index finger.
In one smooth motion, Dr. Epstein takes off his glasses and places them down on his desk along with his clipboard, notepad, and pen, then leans forward towards me and settles with his elbows on his knees. “George,” he begins. “This process is harder than most people realize. It’s difficult to open ourselves up. To examine old wounds. And to share our most intimate feelings with a total stranger. I understand that.”
“Yeah,” I offer feebly.
“Within these walls, there’s no right or wrong way to act. No right or wrong thing to say. You don’t need to keep your guard up. In fact, things will move along more smoothly if you let your guard down completely. It may feel like I’m judging you at first, but in time I hope you’ll come to realize that I’m simply doing what I do in order to help you connect the dots and make sense out of difficulties in your life. Every person on this planet is different. We have different personalities, different histories, different reactions, different experiences, and so on. But at the same time, there are some common patterns to human behavior. I’ve been trained to spot those, and to use my knowledge of human psychology to help my patients unhinge things when they get knotted up.”
“Okay, I see,” I say.
“It’s a beautiful journey,” Dr. Epstein explains. “It’s hard, don’t get me wrong. It will take work on your part. Very quickly, though, you’ll get a feel for how rewarding the work is.” He pauses for a minute, assessing me, then smiles and continues. “Will you take the journey with me, George? I’ll be by your side the whole way. I know you can do this.”
More tears come in a burst as I shake my head up and down to indicate that I will take the journey with him. Dr. Epstein hands me a tissue and I wipe my eyes as my chest heaves. “Thank you for the pep talk,” I manage.
“No thanks needed,” he replies. “I’m going to step out and fill my coffee mug. Can I get you something as well?”
“I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but water would be great,” I say.
“How about hot tea?” Dr. Epstein asks. “We have one of those machines that mixes it up just right. A warm beverage is always good on a cold day.”
“Black tea would be nice if you have a little sugar to add,” I say. “Thank you.” I’m reminded of Ali offering warm beverages to the movers and how her kindness was returned with an intrusion of the worst type. I’m glad Ali is a kind person, and I appreciate Dr. Epstein’s kind gesture now. He isn’t aware of the association. Even if he was, what, am I going to get upset every time someone offers me a warm beverage on a cold day? Do I want people to tiptoe around me, careful not to offer warm beverages? Certainly not.
“Very good,” he responds. “When I get back, you can tell me a few of the happier stories you mentioned. How does that sound?”
“Yes, that sounds great,” I say as I finish drying my eyes.
Dr. Epstein plods off towards the kitchen as I attempt to collect myself. I’m exhausted and drained from the emotional effort our short conversation has required. Therapy is going to be harder than I anticipated.
The doc returns and, as promised, we sip our warm drinks and talk about lighter topics. I tell him more than he probably wants to know about Ali and our boys and I show him a few pictures from my smartphone. When the session time is finished, he explains that since I’m self-pay and not dependent on insurance company approval we can schedule as many appointments as we wish and thus move the process along quickly. A slot is open tomorrow afternoon, so I agree to come back in for session number two. I guess this is an instance when being wealthy is a big help. Having the ability to pay for therapy and to speed it up as the doc and I see fit is huge. It makes me sad to think of all of the folks out there who desperately need therapy and can’t afford it. There are a couple of hours left before the family at home will be wanting me for supper, so I decide to pop in at Mom and John Wendell’s. I might as well. It’s a short drive from Dr. Epstein’s. The heated seats in my Tesla don’t even have a chance to warm up before I arrive. I’m feeling the cold more than usual today, so I wrap my scarf around my neck and put my gloves on my hands before getting out of the car and walking up onto Mom’s porch to ring the doorbell. I have a key, but figure I’m already arriving unannounced and don’t want to startle John Wendell by appearing inside the house unexpectedly. It takes Mom what seems like a long time to answer the door. In reality, it’s just a few minutes, but it’s out of the ordinary.
“George, oh,” she says as she steps outside onto the porch of her stone cottage and closes the caramel-colored wooden door behind her. “Good to see you, dear. How is everyone?” She isn’t wearing a coat and clearly wasn’t planning to spend time outdoors.
“We’re doing fine, Mom. Why aren’t we going inside your house?”
“Oh, well, I thought we’d talk here,” she replies.
“Do you have a guest?” I ask.
“No, dear, just me and John Wendell right now,” she says.
“Mom, you’re acting kind of strange. What’s going on?” I ask as she looks down at the faded wooden porch planks under her feet and wrings her hands as if debating whether or not to tell me something. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to burden you, George. You look exhausted. You have so much going on with Ali and the boys and Lady, after what happened...” she replies sheepishly.
“Stop it. You’re my mom. You could never be a burden to me,” I say emphatically. “Roddy and Marjorie are still in town helping us out and Liam says he can stay a while longer, too. Th
ere’s plenty of support to go around. What do you need? Is it John Wendell?”
Mom sighs heavily and nods as she turns and opens the door to allow me inside. “Prepare yourself,” she instructs over her shoulder. “It isn’t pretty.” Upon hearing this, my heart begins beating faster and a chill goes up and down my spine. I stand up straight and tell myself I can do this. Although I’m beginning to wonder how much a person can take at once.
Mom’s cottage is small. It has three bedrooms, but the whole place isn’t more than about eleven hundred square feet. She could afford any home in Ithaca if she decided to start using the money Dad left her. This place suits her though. It’s on the National Register of Historic Places and has a plaque saying as much hung out front on the wall near the door. It was used as a private nursing establishment known as a cure cottage for tuberculosis patients in the early twentieth century like the ones made famous up at Saranac Lake. That’s fitting since Mom is a nurse, I suppose. She keeps it up nice. The wooden trim which frames the windows and supports the roofline is always painted a fresh, crisp white. She loves flowers and has a springtime show of color in her front yard every year all the neighbors envy. The colors really pop against her warm, wooden front door. It’s the kind Ali likes with the little windows at the top.
There’s been enough room in the house for Mom and John Wendell, but that’s about it. The remaining bedroom serves double duty as a project space for crafts and a makeshift exercise area for the treadmill when it’s too cold to walk outside. There’s a screened porch on the back which effectively extends the living space though. It’s quaint. Mom’s favorite part of the property is no doubt the garden in the backyard. I’d estimate that raised garden beds take up half of her yard. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s talked about getting chickens, too. When she first bought the place, Dad had just died and we had just moved here from Brooklyn. The house and yard were a total wreck. I helped fix things up some, but I was in high school and only had so much free time available. Mom has done the lion’s share of the work since I’ve been gone. She’s done a great job. She deserves to be proud.
I follow my mom into the front room and close the door behind me as I wipe my boots on the mat. I don’t take my coat or scarf off. I don’t want to waste any time getting to John Wendell.
“Can I go to him?” I ask.
“Go ahead,” Mom replies as she waves me past her and towards John Wendell’s bedroom. “He’s been either sleeping or very drowsy the past few days. I’ve been home with him. I think he’s delirious. And I’m speaking of the medical definition of delirious. I’m pretty sure he’ll be diagnosed with delirium. I’ve already called Dr. Madera.”
“Does she want him to come in?” I ask as I make my way down the short hall to my grandfather’s bedroom door. It’s open and I can hear him breathing hard and sort of mumbling.
“She’s checking with the other partner in her practice and is going to call me back. One of them may be able to make a house call tomorrow,” Mom says.
“I didn’t know they did that anymore,” I reply.
“Yeah, apparently they do when you’ve been a nurse at the local hospital for decades. Or maybe it’s because John Wendell is so popular in this town,” she offers. “Either way, we’re getting him seen.”
“Do you think it can wait until tomorrow?” I ask.
“Probably. He doesn’t want any medical interventions. You do realize that, right? No heroic measures. No resuscitation. Not even oxygen,” she explains. “And remember he had the prostate cancer a few years back? It’s slow growing in elderly men and doctors don’t usually recommend treatment, especially for folks like John Wendell who would refuse treatment anyway.”
“I see. I do remember that. So you’re telling me there may not be anything they can do,” I say. “At least not anything John Wendell would want them to do.”
“Yes, exactly,” Mom replies.
“Wow,” I say as I work to steady myself. When I round the corner of the bedroom door frame and see my grandfather under the blue and white square-patterned quilt Grandma made when I was a kid, I’m pulled towards him. He looks so frail and small. Almost like an infant. It’s difficult to see him like this, but in an odd way, it’s not as difficult as I expected it to be. In this moment, I know I’m prepared to see him through whatever may come. A feeling of calm settles over me. I’m sure glad I’m here in town and not hundreds of miles away in D.C. As I near the side of the bed, I gently take his hand in mine. He stirs a little but doesn’t wake up. Mom gets me a rocking chair from the other side of the room and I sit down without letting go.
“Why in the world didn’t you tell me, Mom?” I ask. “This looks serious.”
“It does, dear. It is,” she replies. “John Wendell is an old man. And he is adamant about being allowed to go peacefully when it’s his time. This could be drawn out long while. Or he could recover and get back to normal. Either way, it’s one of those things that is typically a marathon instead of a sprint.”
“So why not tell me sooner and let me help?” I ask.
“George, even though you haven’t filled me in on all the details yet, I’m pretty certain you’ve just had one of the worst weeks of your life. Correct?” Mom prompts.
“Well, yeah, that’s a fair assessment,” I say. “I haven’t filled you in because I didn’t want to stress you or John Wendell out. Particularly John Wendell. You shouldn’t do this alone though. This is why Ali and I decided to move to Ithaca in the first place. We want to be here for you.”
“I know,” Mom replies.
“Besides, we’ve been doing a lot of sitting around and trying to absorb the shock. The worst part of that is over. I think it would be good for us to have something productive to focus on. None of this is easy, but feeling helpless is the worst. I’d rather be doing something-- anything.”
“Well, I can understand that,” she says.
“While talking with everyone yesterday,” I continue, “Marjorie suggested I go see a therapist.”
“Really?” Mom asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “And I did. I was able to get in right away and I saw someone this afternoon before I came here. Ali and I both felt better almost instantly once I made the appointment and we knew we were moving in a good direction.”
“George, that’s such good news, dear,” Mom says. “I’m thrilled. I wouldn’t have expected you to agree to that. At least not without putting up a fight.”
“Maybe it’s easier to take when the suggestion comes from someone other than my mother,” I say with a laugh. I must have been louder than I realized because John Wendell startles and opens his eyes to look at me. I smile and squeeze his hand. When I do, his face lights up with the biggest, most genuine smile in return. He squeezes my hand back and raises his head part way off the pillow.
“Good to see you, son,” he says, plain as day.
“Mom, look,” I say. “I think he’s waking up.”
“Give it a minute,” she responds as she shakes her head and sighs once more. As if on cue, John Wendell’s eyelids begin to look heavy and he nods back off to sleep. “This is how it’s been.”
“Damn,” I say.
“Yeah,” Mom responds slowly. “You said it.”
We sit for a while and listen to him breathe.
“What do we do now?” I ask my mom. “Do you want me to stay here tonight?”
“Goodness, no,” Mom replies. “You have a family to tend to. It’s been me and my daddy right here in this house for years. We’re just fine on our own together. You go home. I’ll keep you posted. What do you have planned for tomorrow?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” I say. “We pick Lady up from the animal hospital in the morning.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Mom says as she raises a hand to her mouth and tears begin to form in her eyes. “She’s your girl. I’m so glad she’s okay and that she’s coming home. The boys are going to be so happy to see her.”
“I know,” I repl
y. “We’ll have to watch over them closely so they aren’t too rough with her. They may not realize she isn’t up to full speed just yet. Especially little Leo.”
“Right,” Mom says. “They’ll get it. You’ll probably be surprised at how they instinctively know to be gentle.”
“I hope so,” I say as I lean back in my chair, more relaxed now. Talking to Mom while sitting here with John Wendell feels good. “Ali’s friend Taye is coming in from Albany tomorrow to help us figure out if there’s anything else we can do to make the house safer.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mom says. “I thought about him the other day and wondered if you two would call him for help. He started his own consulting firm, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He left the FBI a few years ago and went out on his own. He’s done really well for himself,” I respond.
“Doesn’t he work with high-end clients who have big houses like yours?” she asks. I’m a little surprised Mom didn’t add a passive aggressive comment about the size of our home. Maybe she’s feeling generous after all we’ve been through.
“He does,” I say. “He’s the perfect person to advise us. We can trust him. I know I’ll feel better after he’s taken a look at things. Ali certainly will, too.”
“Good,” Mom says.
“Oh, and our dining table is being delivered tomorrow from North Carolina. Remember when we went down there to pick it out and place our order?” I ask.
“I do remember. Ali was so excited about that table,” Mom replies. “I sure hope it will be a bright spot for her. I know how she loves to decorate.”
“She sure does,” I reply. “She was talking about it this afternoon. I take that as a good sign. We’ll see how she feels when it arrives.”
Mom and I sit quietly for a few more minutes, studying John Wendell and each other.
“I went ahead and signed up for another therapy session tomorrow afternoon,” I say. “I can change it if need be though. Want me to stop by here? Or to go to Dr. Madera’s with you if you end up needing to go in?”