I realize this might sound like a totally inappropriate way for even a pretend-therapist to talk to their pretend-patient, but we’ve been meeting long enough by now that it just makes me laugh. I throw up my hands. “Yep. I’m all cured. Have a good life.”
“Honey, just you wait. There’s a whole bucket of therapy waiting for youafteryou have sex the first time. It’s not a magic cure-all, I’m afraid.” She’s smiling, but her eyes are shrewd, studying me carefully, as we settle ourselves under an afghan—one of hers, not mine. I’m still working on my first hat; a blanket would be like my Everest. “What’s going on? You seem…unsettled.”
If Dr. Sandra hadn’t become a counselor, she could have had a career as a psychic, she’s so attuned to reading people’s moods. I sigh. “I spoke to my parents last night.”
“I see.”
That’s therapist-speak for “continue,” so I do. “My mother just made one of her comments, and it kind of sent me into a spiral.”
“What kind of comment?”
“About my life choices. How much of a disappointment I am, etcetera.”
Dr. Sandra studies me. “Did she actually say that, or is that what you inferred?”
“Inferred,” I admit, a little sulkily. “But in my defense, my mother is not one to speak her mind. Not if she can speak in circles around it, anyway. Which really isn’t fair, since I’m thegoodone.”
“The good one?” Dr. Sandra echoes.
I take in a bracing breath. I’ve mentioned Dean to her before, but never gone into depth on it. “You know my brother, Dean? Well, we’re the classic sibling opposites. I’m the good, rule-following oldest child, he’s the wild, rule-breaking baby of the family.”
That’s maybe underselling it a bit. Dean has been in and out of jail, in and out of rehab. All things considered, leaving my order pales in comparison.
“It’s interesting that you call yourself thegoodone. That’s kind of a loaded word, isn’t it? And it comes with a lot of pressure, too.”
I shrug, though her words land hard. “I guess I always felt like I had to be good. That expectation was made very clear for me, but Dean’s never been held up to the same standard.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I’m not really sure.” Actually, I have a bit of an idea, but it’s something I’m too scared to say out loud, even to Dr. Sandra. Instead, I deflect. “Maybe because boys will be boys, and girls will be nuns?”
Dr. Sandra obviously isn’t buying it, but she doesn’t push either. “You know, the word ‘good’ can have a lot of meanings. It can be a reflection on people’s morality, or their worth. But like any value judgment, it doesn’t have one fixed meaning. It’s subjective. Maybe instead of feeling trapped by your parents’ expectations of what ‘good’ means, you should ask yourself what it would mean toyou—to be a ‘good’ person.”
I blink at her as I take in the words, really process them. What would it mean to me, really, to decide for myself what “good” means? How freeing might that be, to separate that from what anyone else expects from me? Groaning at the weight of it, I put my face into my gloved hands. “Why do you have to be so wise and insightful?”
The corner of Dr. Sandra’s mouth twitches, just a little. She winks at me. “So that you’ll keep bringing me scones.”
I take a deep breath, considering Dr. Sandra’s point more seriously. “You’re saying there isn’t just one way to be good? And I get to decide for myself what being a good person means?”
Dr. Sandra grins, popping a bite of blueberry scone into her mouth. “Wow, it sounds even better coming from you. Iamgood at this.”
I take a bite of my own chocolate chip confection, pondering. “It’s not like I’m even doing anythingbad. I’m boring, by most people’s standards. I go to work, I come home. I knit.” It was Dr. Sandra, actually, who’d gotten me into knitting. I’m nowhere near as good as her, but I’m improving, I think. Not enough for my creations to be seen in public, but improving nonetheless. “When I really want to let my hair down, I have a glass of wine. It’s like my mom thinks I’m out carousing with random dudes all the time.” Realizing how judgmental that sounds, I correct, “Whichshewould disapprove of. Not me.”
“Are you ever out ‘carousing with random dudes’?”
A sigh. “No.”
“What about nonrandom dudes?”
I level her with a glare. “Do you think I’d be here talking about my parents if I’d finally gotten some action?”
“What’s the problem? Do you believe your mother’s version of you—is that what’s preventing you from making a connection?”
“Maybe.” I shake my head, realizing it’s not right, not fully. “No, that’s not it. It’s more like—there’s this disconnect. Like, I look in the mirror and I see someone who looks fine. I mean, not to be rude, but I know much uglier people than me who’ve had sex, so that can’t be the only issue, right?”
“Of course not. You’re a snack.” Another ghost of a smile from Dr. Sandra. “What’s the issue, then?” More gently she asks, “Are you afraid of sex?”
“I don’t think so.” Realizing how tentative this sounds, I laugh nervously. “I like the idea of it. I like imagining it. I can write fiction about other people doing it.”
