Get Me Out of Here (24 page)

I felt like Judas at the Last Supper, righteously and vehemently denying Jesus's prediction of the imminent betrayal.

“No, I don't think so. No way,” I stammered.

“I'm not going to abandon you, Rachel. I'm not going to leave you. No, exactly the opposite. You are going to leave me someday, when you're ready.”

I could not even imagine the prospect of leaving him. A jolt of anxiety shot through my stomach.

“I don't want to think about that, Dr. Padgett,” I said. “And I don't see how it's relevant here at all. Why are you bringing this up now? Do you want to push me out the door? Is this some kind of a message or something?”

“I'm not pushing you out the door.”

“Then why are you bringing this up?”

“Because, deep down, you fear it. It's a catch-22. If you don't make progress, you feel there is no hope. But if you do make progress, you fear growing up—you fear leaving this.”

“The fact is, Dr. Padgett, I know I can leave anytime I want,” I replied, holding in the rage that was starting to build.

“You can leave out of anger; you can leave this process before it's finished. We both know you can run. We both know it wouldn't be in your best interest to leave abruptly, before you get what you need.”

“Maybe I'm not getting what I need here,” I pouted, knowing it was a lie but saying it nonetheless. “Maybe this is all a hoax, maybe it's hurting me more than helping me, maybe you're a fraud!”

“You just can't see the gray right now,” he sighed. “Black and white. You can only see two outcomes. You leave here angry, or I leave you against your wishes. But you can leave here someday, very satisfied, wanting to move on. It will be your decision.”

“You know, your timing is absolute shit! There's no reason to even discuss this until the time comes.”

“The purpose of therapy is not to keep you here forever. It's not to make you dependent on me. That would be exploitation. In many ways from the very first session we've been working toward the day when therapy would no longer be necessary for you. If I didn't believe that, I'd only be hurting you, not helping you.”

“So,” I asked incredulously, “what it boils down to is that the purpose of therapy is to end it?”

“Yes.”

“And I'm supposed to totally trust you, get closer to you than I have to anyone else in my life, tell you everything, share all my feelings, take down my walls, so that one day I have to say good-bye? I can't think of anything more cruel, more painful.”

“It's the furthest possible thing from cruel. Of course there's some pain to it. There's a lot of pain right now in thinking about it, actually, because you're far from being ready to leave, far from getting what you need.”

“I hate good-byes,” I vowed. “I don't want to say goodbye. I don't even want to think about it.”

“Good-byes are painful, I'll grant you that. But it's a bittersweet pain. Sure, it hurts. But there are positive feelings in terminating too, if you do it when you're really ready and not before. New hope. New freedom.”

“It hurts too much!” I was beginning to cry, the fear of leaving Dr. Padgett sweeping over me. “I don't see how you can bring this all up so casually. I can barely make it over a weekend without you. When you go on vacation, I can barely survive until you get back, and here you are, talking about saying good-bye for good. Maybe the thought doesn't hurt you; you've got dozens of patients besides me; you'll just fill in the slot with another one, but it almost kills me.”

“Who's to say it won't be difficult for me too?” he asked gently, his deep brown eyes looking into mine. “Of course it will be a sad day for both of us, but a positive and hopeful one too.”

“You mean it's hard for you to say good-bye too?”

“Just like a parent,” he nodded, “watching his daughter drive off all packed up for college. So proud of her to have made it to this point of independence and yet at the same time sad with the pain of missing her and having to come to grips with the reality that his little girl has grown up.”

I pondered the thought for a while, recalling Jeffrey's first day of kindergarten, Melissa's first day of preschool. The two of them had been scrubbed and combed, Jeffrey in his tiny, blue uniform shorts and shirt, Melissa in a little dress with an apple on the pocket. After helping them strap brand-new book bags on their little shoulders, I'd snapped a dozen Kodak shots of their shining faces. But under those beaming smiles was a reluctant look of fear that silently begged for reassurance as they'd waved good-bye, ready to file into the school behind their teachers. To enter a new world where I would not be privy to their every interaction. Waving back to them with a confident smile that said “Everything will be okay!” I could see contented relief on their faces as they turned to walk through the doors of the school.

Then I'd been alone with all the other mothers who had waved those same confident reassuring good-byes. Amid the burden of endless diaper changes and late-night feedings, we had all wished for this day. And yet, now that it had come, we had the same bittersweet feeling Dr. Padgett had mentioned. We'd felt proud that our little ones had reached this state of growth and yet a bit empty, lonely at the prospect that their lives and ours would never be quite the same again.

“It must be hard on you sometimes,” I said, “having to get so close to patients and having to say so many good-byes.”

He nodded in agreement, then added, “But it's the most satisfying work I could ever imagine doing.”

I had often wondered why Dr. Padgett chose to subject himself to such abuse, to witness such agony, day in and day out. But it was clear that it was a decision he never regretted. He was one of those fortunate people who had found a way to make a living in a way that truly fulfilled him, a way that made the world a better place.

Whatever his reasons for choosing psychiatry instead of cardiology, whatever his reasons for having chosen me as a patient, I knew that his choices were my good fortune.

Christmas of 1992 meant another two-week break from sessions as Dr. Padgett took a vacation. I struggled along in his absence, pouring my thoughts every night onto a dozen yellow legal pads, attempting to fill that hollow spot that yearned to see his face and hear his calming voice.

In the meantime I tried to immerse myself in the hectic rush and ritual of the Christmas season. Last-minute shopping. Baking cookies for family and friends. The Christmas Eve choir concert. Attaching the final bows on the presents at two in the morning. Being roused Christmas morning by an exuberant Jeffrey and Melissa before the sun even rose.

And extended family get-togethers.

It was the last of these rituals that I feared the most—a heavy dose of family dysfunction heightened by the stress of the season. The flowing wine and whiskey eggnog loosened my family's lips to speak harsh words that stung like hornets. Except for the previous Christmas, a point in between hospitalizations when all agreed I wasn't up to the task, Tim and I had been the official extended-family Christmas hosts. This year, as I busied myself preparing the turkey, fresh rolls, and casseroles with the help of Tim's mother who'd come into town for the occasion, I vowed I would not let my family get to me.

Despite our location in a declining urban neighborhood and perpetual drafts through ancient windows that could never be completely sealed, ours was an ideal house for Christmas. With its oak staircase, high ceilings, pine woodwork, and original hearth, it exuded Norman Rockwell and old-fashioned Christmas traditions.

I had timed the meal to perfection, inviting everyone to come at 5:30
P.M.
with the intention of having dinner on the table at six. My father was always a stickler for promptness, and my parents rang at precisely 5:30.

At quarter past six, however, they and Tim's parents were still the only guests. No one else had bothered to call.

It was a Marsten family Christmas all right—people showing up when they got around to it, without a hint of consideration or mention of apology. The meal grew cold, my father drinking wine and talking politics with Tim and his dad, my mother and Tim's mom in the kitchen. My mother droned on in an endless litany of name-dropping and wealth references for the benefit of Tim's mom, interspersing the occasional caustic comments about sons- and daughters-in-law who, of course, were entirely to blame for her children's inexcusable tardiness.

“I remember when we sent Rachel to Europe,” my mother was saying. “You remember that, don't you, Rachel? Rachel had just graduated valedictorian and went with a group of her high school friends. Who was that one girl, Rachel? I just can't remember the name—her father was chief of surgery at St. Anselm's—what was her name?”

“Jenny,” I answered flatly.
What's your point, Mom?

“That's right, Jenny,” she said, then turned aside to Tim's mom. “Jenny graduated second in the class. Her parents were kind of snobs and a little bit bitter about it, but Jenny and Rachel got along pretty well actually.”

Tim's mom politely nodded. Like her son, she was a terrific listener with infinite patience.

My mother knew as well as I did that Tim's parents didn't have much money. His dad was a mechanic who worked long hours in his own shop in a rural part of the state, making enough to get by but certainly not enough to even dream about trips to Europe and expensive prep schools. Tim's mom was a part-time teacher in a rural school district. This recital of wealth and stature was another of my mom's backhanded attempts to underscore the fact that she had not approved of her youngest daughter's marriage to a small-town man who did not possess a college degree.

What she didn't realize was that money and status did not impress me or Tim's mom. What Tim's parents lacked in financial resources, they made up in the obvious love and closeness that had filled their home. Tim's mom had also graduated valedictorian of her high school class, but she was too polite to mention it. Instead, with a patience that astounded me, she simply listened with what appeared to be genuine interest.

“There was Jenny,” my mother continued, “and there was that little blonde girl, you know, the one from the basketball team—Rachel was captain of the basketball team. Oh, who was she? Her dad was CEO of the utility company, pretty down-to-earth for having that much money—although his wife was pretty much of a bitchy snob, kind of thought she was better than anyone else. Come on, Rachel, help me out on this one.”

“Lisa, Mom,” I said, barely able to contain my impatience. “It was Lisa.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. My second-oldest sister, Sally, and one of my brothers, Bruce, had arrived at the same time, families in tow. Truly I'd been saved by the bell. With four more adults and their three small children now in the house, her story would have been lost in the din anyway.

Everyone exchanged hellos and handshakes but no hugs. Our family wasn't much for hugs.

Having turned off the oven, uncertain when I could serve the dinner and not wanting to choke down dry turkey, I turned it on again. Soon my oldest sister, Nancy, and my brother Joe showed up with their families. The house was now crowded, humming with the low roar of simultaneous chatter and the squeals of young cousins running about the house.

“So you don't even have dinner on the table yet?” asked Nancy, who had arrived last. “It's 6:30. I thought you told us we'd be eating at six. I figured dinner would be on the table. Frank got called in to the hospital this morning. He hasn't had a thing to eat all day.”

Damned right, I told you dinner at six. And you were supposed to be here at 5:30. Nope, she's not gonna wreck this Christmas; she's not gonna do it
.

Both moms were helping as I rushed to speed up the meal I had been forced to slow down. There were ten other adults in the house. But besides Tim, who was making sure that everyone was comfortably seated and had a drink in their hands, no one else lifted a finger to help. Nancy, Joe, and Bruce had parked themselves at the kitchen table, making sarcastic remarks about my cooking skills—a running family joke that was getting rather stale to me.

“Rachel,” my other sister, Sally, was standing in the doorway. “Is
soda
all you have for these kids? You know we don't let
our
kids drink it; it's pure sugar. Don't you have anything else here?”

Yep, Sally, my kids drink soda with every meal. It's just right to wash down the cake and candy dinners they have every night
.

“I dunno,” I said, exasperated. “Maybe I have some juice in the refrigerator.”

Sally just stood there in the doorway, her hands now on her hips, impatiently waiting for something.

“What do you need, Sally?”

She rolled her eyes, “I thought you might get my kids some juice. It's your house.”

I retrieved the juice and continued to prepare the meal, the turkey almost ready. As I fumbled with the roaster, Nancy was mocking Sally's fastidious supermom attitude about her kids. All of us were used to this exchange. Nancy and Sally had been cold to each other for years, both unceasing in their attempts to sway the rest of us to one side or another of a feud that had lasted for so long no one could remember its origin.

Finally all of the food was ready to be served. The third generation took their places in the kitchen, Sally's kids swiping sips from their cousins' sodas when their mom wasn't watching, all of them giggling at the bodily function noises that so obsess kids of that age. Unaware of the feuds and envy that so bitterly separated their aunts and uncles, the kids were just having a good time.
At least someone is
, I thought.

The rest of us crowded around the dining room table, supplemented by a foldout card table disguised with a tablecloth and centerpiece. It was a tense scene indeed. The wrong seating arrangements had been known to provoke a holiday civil war. Sally and Nancy, of course, had to be at separate ends of the table. I hadn't assigned specific places, and yet all of us scrambled to accommodate the two of them, adhering to the unspoken rule that had been a part of family gatherings for as long as I could remember.

Joe's wife, Jackie, had, like Tim, failed to meet my mother's standards of wealth and education, and the hostility wasn't helped by the fact that their marriage was on the rocks. In addition, Jackie, in the throes of clinical depression, had chosen to leave Joe for a while and had just moved back in. If it was difficult for my mother to accept Tim, who was beneath her unspoken standards of marriage material for her daughter, Jackie was in a worse position. She was a woman, vying for the affection of one of my mother's precious sons.

Ever since Joe and Jackie began to date seriously, my mother, along with my sister Nancy, had spared no effort in trying to break their relationship apart. Joe was bitter about it and, regardless of the problems that the two may have had, was defensive about jabs taken at his wife.

Thus began the awkward game of musical chairs. Everyone in my immediate family knew the rules by heart, but Tim's parents and the spouses were confused, sensing the tension and following our lead. Jackie's presence added a further complication. Neither Nancy nor my mother could be seated too close to Jackie and Joe if there were to be any peaceful enjoyment of the meal whatsoever.

While my sisters headed for the polar ends of the dining room table, husbands in tow, Joe decided to be seated with his wife right in the middle, refusing to be banished to the card table. Whereupon my mother, sulking, took her place apart from my father and sat alone at the card table. Nancy soon got up and joined her, dragging Frank along. Finally we were all seated, and dinner was served.

Thanks to Tim's mom, who had provided recipes and cooking tips for me, the food was excellent. The turkey was still hot and cooked to perfection, the baked-from-scratch yeast rolls were golden brown, and their aroma filled the room. The casseroles were mouthwatering, the fresh vegetables and salad just right. Tim smiled at me as both of us attempted to relax for a moment and simply enjoy the feast.

“Did you use saturated fat for this casserole?” Sally asked, inspecting it as if it were toxic.

“I don't know,” I sighed. “I think I used butter. Plain old butter.”

Sally spooned her helping back into the serving dish as Nancy flashed Bruce a knowing look as if to say, “Here she goes again.” Sally simply scowled at Nancy, rolled her eyes, and reached for the turkey platter.

My father, as usual, dominated the dinner conversation, a blessing thus far as he could be very witty when he was in the mood. It didn't seem to matter to him that his wife was sitting, veritably pouting, apart from him at the card table. He was used to such displays. They never made him angry; he either patronized or ignored them. Women, after all, were that way.

Meanwhile my mother picked at the food on her plate, refusing to join in the general conversation. She sat quietly, resentment clouding her face as she occasionally stared at Jackie.

Jackie was, simply put, a wreck.

Trembling, fully aware of the unspoken dynamics that filled the room, she sat, head down, focusing on her plate, picking at the food, and consuming as much wine as she could without drawing attention to herself.

It was a minefield just waiting to explode, the tension palpable. Tim and I tried to steer the conversation to polite small talk, any innocuous topic, anything safe that would not trigger the imminent powder keg.

Dad, however, bolstered by a few glasses of wine, was not much for small talk. In fact I often wondered if his tendency to be tactless was intentional. No matter how many times my mother had told me how terribly Dad felt after one of his tactless tirades, it had never seemed to bother him. Yet another case of family revisionism, delicately shaded by Mom.

“So did you pass the real estate exam?” he asked Jackie as he reached for another roll.

Damnit, Dad. You already know she didn't. Why are you asking?

“No,” she answered, embarrassed. “Just missed it by a few points.”

Let it drop, Dad!

“How many times is that for you now, Jackie? How many times did you try?”

“It was her third try, Dad,” Joe retorted angrily, answering for her. “Okay?”

It was hard to judge whether he was defending his wife or himself.

Dad ignored his son's attitude and continued his questions as if they were innocuous small talk.

“So,” he continued, “are you two back together now or what?”

Nancy and Mom were beaming, Joe seething, Jackie staring at her plate, the tears welling in her eyes while the rest of us squirmed uncomfortably. None of us had the guts to tell the man it was none of his business and not the sort of thing you discuss at Christmas dinner. Silence hung over the table as I fervently wished the conversation would drift elsewhere.

Dad, however, was not one to pick up on such nonverbal cues, nor was he one to let a question go unanswered.

“Are you married,” he went on, “or just playing house? It's hard to keep up with you two.”

Finally Tim got up the gumption to intervene, albeit as diplomatically as possible.

“Did you hear we're supposed to get a foot of snow tomorrow?” he asked.

Dad ignored Tim as his tone became even more forceful. “I just don't see how anyone can call themselves married and live in two separate places. She isn't working? She can't even pass a real estate exam for chrissakes. She calls herself his wife and lives off his money, but she doesn't even see fit to stay under the same roof with him. And I just have to wonder what kind of a son I raised that would let her take off, keep paying all the bills, and not set his foot down.”

Jackie, unable to stand any more, left the room.

Joe, after flashing an angry look at my father, followed her.

Nancy was smiling, eating all of this up. Sally continued to eat her turkey, as if nothing had been said. Mom was still pouting in the corner as if all of this stress somehow hurt her more than it did anyone else, not minding the jabs at Jackie but miffed that Dad had brought
her
son into it.