Favourite Daughter

He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark, widely spaced, caring. “Glad you two are getting along. I know today is a hard day.”

I may complain to Sam too much about Betsy. I’ll change that, perhaps. But I’ll start tomorrow. It’s so easy to talk to Sam, unlike my family members. And he’s always on my side. I allow him to see me open my purse, reach for tissues. My facade of cheer crumbles. The ceremony is tonight. “It’s such a hard day. One year since Mary died. And can I confide in you, Sam?”

“Of course, Mrs. H.”

“Betsy isn’t really nice to me. She’s mean.”

“You’ve told me that. I’m sorry. Maybe she’s sad.”

I shrug. “That could be it. Or maybe it’s something else? Guilt?”

Sam meets my eyes in the mirror. “Guilt? For being mean to you?”

No. It’s so hard to get people to see things sometimes. “No, for fighting with her sister, at the park, on the day Mary died. Never mind. It’s not important. I’m saying too much.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. H., you can tell me anything.” Sam and I have been together now since a month after Mary’s funeral. I don’t drive much anymore, or so I tell him. It fits with my grief and I like being chauffeured by a person who listens to my every command. Sam takes me most of the places I need to go. He still drives for Lyft, but he blocks out our schedule: doctor’s visits, grocery store trips. And Friday morning, whatever errands I need to run, if I can get myself up and out of the house and away from my addicting computer.

Some errands I handle on my own, but he doesn’t know that. “Well, let’s see. I don’t think I have to worry about Mary’s birth mother showing up and ruining things this evening, so that’s good.” I love being able to confide in Sam. He is so loyal. Like a friend. I smile at the thought.

Sam says, “You don’t like Elizabeth, that much I know. But how do you know she won’t be there?”

“I made it clear she isn’t welcome. We had coffee this morning.” Oops, I sound a bit mean. I soften my voice. “I hope she listened. I asked her to see things from my point of view. I’ve lost so much.” I dab at my eye with a tissue. Sam looks concerned. He’s watching in the rearview mirror.

“Do you have a dress for tonight?” he asks.

I haven’t given my attire much thought. Funny, I’ve been imagining my coming-out party, but not my dress. Sure, I could wear the orange silk one I’d expected to wear last night, still hanging up with the expensive price tag dangling under the arm. But no, Sam’s right. Why not splurge? I need to look good. Focus on the future. David owes me some retail therapy.

Sam turns into the parking lot of the office building and into a reserved space.

I say, “I suppose I do need to find a sunset color dress. That’s what the invitation says. Any ideas?”

“I’ll make a couple calls, Mrs. H. What is the name of the store you like?”

“The Boutique. It’s pricey but fabulous.”

“On it.” Sam does whatever I ask. Why can’t everyone in my life be like this? My husband couldn’t even be faithful in our marriage during our first year together. My daughter can’t share a meal with me. But Sam, he listens. He cares.

He hops out and opens my door for me. I walk into the now-familiar lobby of the sleek twelve-story office building. Dr. Rosenthal’s office is on the first floor, discreetly located around the corner from the elevator bank. I keep my sunglasses on and scurry inside. I’ve never run into someone I know here. I suppose if I did, no one would be that shocked to discover I’m visiting a shrink.

Dr. Rosenthal was highly recommended by Detective Alan Branson, who was the lead investigator on Mary’s case. He told me it would be helpful to talk to someone, to help me sort through my devastating loss. Part of me thinks he was tired of being the one I talked to, but I’m pretty sure he had a crush on me and handed me off to Dr. Rosenthal so he wouldn’t be tempted. He’s an honorable man. There aren’t many of those around these days, I’ve discovered. #MeToo.

I don’t know if the detective still talks with the doctor, about me, or Mary, and of course, everything is confidential with her. But as far as Detective Branson was concerned, if he needed to, I would let him read the notes of our sessions. He’d fall in love with me even more. I tried to do everything he told me to do, and I listened carefully to everything he said. It’s always a good idea to have the police on your side, crush or no crush.

The bored receptionist meets my eyes and nods as I take a seat in the waiting room. She and I know each other now, but we never speak. There is nothing pleasant to say, nothing fun about being here. It’s just an important part of what I do now. At least she understands I don’t want to talk to her. Most people don’t.

“Hello, Jane. Please come in.” Dr. Rosenthal opens her door and welcomes me.

I do as she says, and once inside her office, I settle into my regular spot: a light blue velour La-Z-Boy. Of the other choices, a wooden rocking chair, a saggy forest green couch or the La-Z-Boy, I was drawn early on to the soft velour.

Dr. Rosenthal takes her seat behind her thick wooden desk, folds her hands together. “You look good, Jane. I know today’s the day she was found. I’m so sorry. The first anniversary of a tragic death is very difficult.”

“That’s why we’re having the memorial, I guess.” David’s stupid idea.

Dr. Rosenthal stares at me. “I know it’s hard but the ceremony is happening, so let’s try to do a little work to get you prepared.”

“Sure. Of course.” I meet Dr. Rosenthal’s eyes. I’m preparing for the future, stepping back into the spotlight. I’ll be fine. I suppose she doesn’t realize that.

“Jane, today’s ceremony will be hard. Guests will say the wrong things but they don’t mean to upset you. I need you to practice your meditation. Your breathing.” The doctor is a big believer in meditation. She’s given me CDs to listen to, her voice attempts to calm me in between sessions. Dr. Rosenthal is staring at me. I must have drifted off.

I’m not sure what to say. I nod.

“People will say insensitive things, like Mary’s in a better place or everything happens for a reason, or you’re lucky to have another daughter. They will blurt hurtful things because they’re uncomfortable.”

“I know. I’m their worst nightmare.” I try to feel guilty about that, but I don’t. I blow my nose. The sound makes Dr. Rosenthal cringe every time. I rather enjoy the reaction.

“It’s frightening for most of us to imagine what you have lived through. How are you and David?” She pulls off her reader glasses, twirls them in her hand.

“He’s very busy, at work.” He’s also a liar, and a serial cheater.

“Hmm.” Dr. Rosenthal says a lot without words sometimes. She stares at me. I am supposed to fill the air again.

Fine. “We’re focused on Betsy. We had a beautiful family dinner in the dining room Sunday night, even though I accidentally set four places. Habit, I guess.”

“Oh, Jane.” She covers her mouth with her hand. I surprised her with that one.

“I know. It was a mistake. Everything is just so hard. I’m trying. Dinner together was a good start. It’s complicated.”

Dr. Rosenthal nods. “Grief is complicated.”

I nod. “Some days I don’t want to get out of bed.” That isn’t true, but it’s what she wants to hear. Recently, I can’t sleep. I’m agitated, restless since I stopped taking all the sedating drugs she prescribed.

This new information about David, and his inability to be faithful, his lies, well, all of that makes me want to kick a hole in a wall or light a fire in his closet. I see his shirts smoldering, his perfect row of ties light up in a blaze. I stare at Dr. Rosenthal, milling over my revenge fantasies while she analyzes my grief.

“You should be moving through the acute stage of grief by now, but I fear it may be more severe. From what you’ve told me, you may have what researchers are calling complicated grief.” She pauses. “Not many people have heard about the diagnosis.”

I have. I’m smart. I smile. “I am complicated.” My attempt at humor falls flat. But my acting skills are superb. My research also pointed to complicated grief. I’ve read all about it online. Hand me the golden statue.

Dr. Rosenthal isn’t smiling, so I suppress my grin.

She tilts her head, makes a note in my file. “Anyway, women are more vulnerable to complicated grief than men. It often results from a difficult loss, like the loss of a child. It’s a pathological condition. Do you think we should put you back on the pills?”

Oh good, the diagnosis I was shooting for, and an offer of more pharmaceuticals. Does the diagnosis cover a cheating husband and a disrespectful surviving daughter, too? As you surmised by now, there is too much going on for me to numb myself into oblivion for days on end, as tempting as that sounds. Been there, done that. It isn’t a productive state. Things and people slip away from you if you’re not paying attention.

“No, I don’t think more pills are necessary.” True. I could knock out an entire herd of cattle with what is in my medicine cabinet presently.

“All right, well, we’ll stay on top of it. Grief isn’t as simple as the five stages.” Dr. Rosenthal pulls out her box of Cheez-Its and offers me a handful. I decline as always. It’s our pattern, codependent patient/doctor thing. It feels familiar, and weird. I know she’s trying to deepen our connection. But I think we’ve got a good thing going here.

She pops a few overly orange crackers in her mouth and talks while chewing. “Grief is stressful, so it’s common to alternate between acknowledging the emotional pain of your loss, and setting it aside. Grief comes in waves, like the ocean.”

The cold, dark ocean. I look at my freshly painted nails. The color is called deep ocean dreams. Yes. Makes sense for grief and death to come in waves. It may take up to four minutes to die from drowning, but drowning people can only struggle on the surface for sixty seconds before submersion occurs: a truly horrible way to die. Poor Mary. I blink and look up at Dr. Rosenthal.

“Jane, do you have any unusual fixations these days?” She stares at me, her dark eyes trying to pierce through me, see inside my mind, see the truth.

“No, not really.” I wonder if she knows more than three thousand people die in the US because they choked on their food?

Death by Cheez-Its? Possible but unlikely.

It’s time for her to think I’m getting better. After today’s memorial service, of course. Next week, she should tell anyone who asks that I am suffering from complicated grief but I am improving. So, no, I won’t share my tragedy obsession, or my fear of the ocean. Or the nightmares. Or the bubbling rage I feel toward my husband at this moment.

She’s still waiting for me to speak, to elaborate. Her eyebrows smash together on her forehead, she twirls her pen in her right hand.

“No fixations, not really, unless you count getting Betsy through high school graduation. I mean, that’s typical mom stuff, right? It takes all of my attention. I’m volunteering in her school, shopping for the perfect graduation dress. We’ve been looking at colleges online, swapping stories about all of her friends’ futures. It’s wonderful. I’m just a typical mom in most respects. Preparing family dinners, making sure Betsy does her homework. Baking cookies. Wow, I must be getting better if I’m complaining about typical housework.” I smile. I am so normal it hurts.

I’m the perfect vision of a happy homemaker. I always set the perfect table, remember?

“Well, that all sounds good. How is Betsy?” Dr. Rosenthal notes. “She could benefit from counseling. I know she feels extremely guilty about her sister’s death.”

This I know is true. Betsy was there, fighting with Mary at the park. She feels responsible deep down. I’ve been mining her guilt, too, feeding it, fueling it like a fast-moving wildfire. I say, “I hope she hasn’t convinced herself it was her fault. I hope she didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course she didn’t. It’s just that the mind is powerful. She should come to me so we can be sure she’s processing all of this correctly. Grief is confusing, as you know. At the beginning, it’s really intense, all consuming. It cancels out everything else, all the people and activities that are important to us. But over time, it settles down, makes a space in our hearts, our lives. It’s not healthy for Betsy to believe any of this is her fault. I know you’re reinforcing that.”

I shift in my La-Z-Boy, wiggle my toes. She is correct. I am reinforcing things. “Don’t worry. Betsy’s fine. She is my daughter, strong like I am. I’m so proud of her. I’m getting better and so is she. I’m her role model. We all turn into our mothers eventually, right?” I smile. Betsy is my legacy.

“Are you like your mother, Jane?” Dr. Rosenthal’s face is frozen, a poignant look, as if this is an important question. She still doesn’t realize I don’t discuss my mother. Ever. She doesn’t realize I’m in control of these sessions, not her. Sorry, Doc. For the record, I’m not like my mother. Gayle Lambert was a monster.

Dr. Rosenthal is so easy to manipulate, as you can tell. I pivot: “You’ve said all along that grief is the most painful form of love. Betsy loved Mary very much, even though they were opposites and they fought a lot, too much. Betsy has that bad temper, you know. Must be from David’s side. Poor Betsy, I don’t want to imagine her hurting anyone.” I shake my head. I’m a gentle, simple housewife worried about her daughter’s explosive anger. Meanwhile, I’m the one seething, but we won’t discuss that right now.

“Rage can be a sign of underlying issues. Tell her to come in. It’s important.” Dr. Rosenthal is leaning forward on the desk.

Really? “It will have to be after she graduates on Thursday. She’s too busy right now.” I smile. I have no idea what she does, but she is busy. I’m the best mother.

“Mmm. Let’s get back to you.” Dr. Rosenthal takes another handful of crackers, pops them in her mouth and slides the box out of sight. Orange crumbs dust her black sweater.

I am my favorite topic. “Yes?”

“Are you still isolating yourself in your home?”

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