Marilyn Berg came highly recommended, and her office was a heady mix of earthenware jugs and Moroccan-inspired lamps and pillows. When Cohen walked in, nervously shucking his shoes at her request, before settling his long legs awkwardly into the sitting lotus position, he cleared his throat once, and then again.
‘Your office is very ... eclectic,’ he told her.
She smiled vaguely, tossing her red hair, palms outstretched.
‘Don’t think of this as an office, Cohen,’ she chided, in a Southern accent that reminded him strongly of mint juleps, fried chicken and peach pie. ‘I really want you to believe that this is a safe space for your thoughts and feelings.’
‘You have a desk.’
She smiled at him again. ‘To some people, it might be a desk. But to others … it’s merely a storage chest for thoughts and feelings.’
Cohen stared at her. ‘You also have a printer. And a filing cabinet.’
‘Well now, it might look like a printer, but actually, I look on it as a thought distributor. And the filing cabinet? You could call that a thought collector. You need to open your mind a little here, Cohen honey.’
‘Alright,’ he agreed blandly. ‘I suppose your stapler is a thought puncher?’
Marilyn’s smile faded slightly. ‘I think we’re getting caught in semantics here, Cohen,’ she said, with the raise of one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘I feel as though you’re putting up a wall. I feel that you’re using misdirection and aggression to deal with what you find to be a deeply uncomfortable situation.’
Marilyn, as it turned out, had lots of thoughts and feelings.
She felt like Cohen didn’t want to be there.
She felt like Cohen didn’t appreciate her therapy.
She felt like Cohen had little respect for her as a psychologically trained ‘thought processor’.
She felt like Cohen had issues with strong women.
And, of course, she felt like Cohen had issues with his mother.
Ah yes, Esther. It always came down to Esther, didn’t it?
After two sessions of painful and protracted therapy – which just seemed to Cohen like stilted conversation at an over-inflated price – Marilyn got desperate. She tightly suggested that one morning Esther be brought in for a one-on-one mother and son bonding session. An open-door opportunity into each other’s minds. A chance to heal the hurt, to balm the wound. A quiet moment, just the two of them.
But Marilyn would need to be present as a ‘thought doctor’, naturally.
‘Let’s reconnect that umbilical cord, Cohen.’ Marilyn ran some gloss over her lips, moving into the pigeon pose on herArabian Nightsinspired floor. ‘And let’s make it beautiful.’
Even now, he wasn’t sure how it happened.
An hour into his therapy session with Esther and he was side-lined, pushed away while the two women exchanged longing looks and subtle laughs. Marilyn ran a hand through her auburn locks, while Esther reached out to stroke her hand. At some point Cohen left to get coffee, leaving his mother and therapist on the floor in matching child pose while they discussed their mutual disappointment with the men in their lives.
Six months later, Cohen was asked to be ring-bearer at their wedding.
‘But I didn’t even know you were—’
‘—what?’ His mother’s voice was sharp, and Cohen saw in the dark depths of her eyes a whole argument ready about women’s rights, love being love and relationships taking all shapes and forms.
‘—looking for remarriage,’ he finished, somewhat lamely, and he saw her shoulders relax.
‘It’s been a long time since your father died, and even longer since the day he left,’ Esther replied with a shrug. ‘I don’t want to be a lonely old woman. And since there’s no chance of any grandchildren—’
Cohen groaned. ‘Please, don’t start that again.’
But his mother, on that point, was always like a dog with a bone. ‘Since there’s no chance of any grandchildren,’ she said again, emphasising her words. ‘I might as well look for a different sort of love.’
On reflection, even his mother admitted that she and Marilyn could have chosen a better day to get married. But there were issues with the venue, and then the caterers could only make a certain day, and Esther’s work schedule was still crazy – ‘because you know third world countries won’t fix themselves, Cohen’– and in the end, the wedding happened the same day that Cohen’s divorce from Christine finalised.
