Read Online Bobcat and Other Stories by Rebecca Lee - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca Lee
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can’t you talk about this?”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about.”
“You can tell me the truth. Do they hurt each other? Lots of girls’ parents hurt each other.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Is one of them having an affair, maybe?”
I didn’t say anything. “Maybe?” he repeated.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Which one, Margit? Which one of the babyfaces?”
I stared at him. Another tic passed over his face. “Pardon me, Margit. I meant which one of your parents is having the affair?”
“My dad. But I don’t think he’s actually having it. I just heard him tell my mom a few months ago that he was considering it.”
“And do you think he is?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks ago I picked up the phone and a woman was talking to my dad. She told him that she had to have her breasts removed and asked if that would make a difference.”
“How difficult for you. How sad for the girlie-whirl.” Another tic, like a fault line shifting. “Margit, may I tell you something from my own childhood?”
This worried me, but I said yes.
“When I was young, I loved my mother. She was a real lumper. Then one day, kerpow, she was dead.” He held his forefinger to his head as if it were the barrel of a gun and stared at me for a few seconds without speaking. “It wasn’t actually her, you see, but a woman of about her age who happened to be walking toward me on the sidewalk. A man came running and shot her. I was so devastated that I fell right on top of her. I didn’t care if he shot me, too. I was only ten at the time, and my mother’s death could have scarred me for life. But it didn’t. And do you know how I got from that moment to this one—how I got from there to here, to sitting behind this desk now, talking to you?”
I shook my head. “How?”
“I rose above the situation. Literally I did. I felt my mind lift out of my body, and I stared down at myself leaning over the bleeding woman. I said to myself, very calmly, there is little Roland from New Orleans, the little erky-terk, realizing that someday his mother will die.”
He was looking at me so intently, and his birds were flapping in their cage with such fervor, that I felt I had to say something. “Wow,” I said.
“I suggest you try it, Margit. For every situation there is a proper distance. Growing up is just a matter of gaining perspective. Sometimes you just need to jump up for a moment, a foot above the earth. And sometimes you need to jump very far. It is as if there are thin slats, footholds, from here to the sun, Margit, for the baby faces to step on. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Slatland, flatland, mapland.”
“Pardon me?”
“Pardon me, Margit. I know so many languages that sometimes I say words out of place.”
At the end of the session I asked him when I should return. He told me that another visit wouldn’t be necessary, that usually his therapy worked the first time.
I didn’t in fact understand what he had said to me, but his theory seemed to help anyway, as if it were a medication that worked whether you understood it or not. That very evening I was having dinner with my parents. It started as the usual dinner—me staring at my plate, my parents staring at me as if I were about to break in two. But about halfway through the meal I started feeling light-headed. Nothing frightening happened, but I did manage to lift slightly out of myself. I looked down at our tiny family. I saw my father from above, the deep map of his face. I understood in an instant that of course he was having an affair, and that he was torn between my mother and this other, distant woman. I saw my beautiful mother from above, and I could see how she must hate this other woman, yet sympathize as well, because this other woman was very ill. I understood how complicated it was to be an adult, and how haunting, and how lovely. I longed to be back in my body then, to be breathing and eating, straining toward maturity. And when
“Because there’s nothing to talk about.”
“You can tell me the truth. Do they hurt each other? Lots of girls’ parents hurt each other.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Is one of them having an affair, maybe?”
I didn’t say anything. “Maybe?” he repeated.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Which one, Margit? Which one of the babyfaces?”
I stared at him. Another tic passed over his face. “Pardon me, Margit. I meant which one of your parents is having the affair?”
“My dad. But I don’t think he’s actually having it. I just heard him tell my mom a few months ago that he was considering it.”
“And do you think he is?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks ago I picked up the phone and a woman was talking to my dad. She told him that she had to have her breasts removed and asked if that would make a difference.”
“How difficult for you. How sad for the girlie-whirl.” Another tic, like a fault line shifting. “Margit, may I tell you something from my own childhood?”
This worried me, but I said yes.
“When I was young, I loved my mother. She was a real lumper. Then one day, kerpow, she was dead.” He held his forefinger to his head as if it were the barrel of a gun and stared at me for a few seconds without speaking. “It wasn’t actually her, you see, but a woman of about her age who happened to be walking toward me on the sidewalk. A man came running and shot her. I was so devastated that I fell right on top of her. I didn’t care if he shot me, too. I was only ten at the time, and my mother’s death could have scarred me for life. But it didn’t. And do you know how I got from that moment to this one—how I got from there to here, to sitting behind this desk now, talking to you?”
I shook my head. “How?”
“I rose above the situation. Literally I did. I felt my mind lift out of my body, and I stared down at myself leaning over the bleeding woman. I said to myself, very calmly, there is little Roland from New Orleans, the little erky-terk, realizing that someday his mother will die.”
He was looking at me so intently, and his birds were flapping in their cage with such fervor, that I felt I had to say something. “Wow,” I said.
“I suggest you try it, Margit. For every situation there is a proper distance. Growing up is just a matter of gaining perspective. Sometimes you just need to jump up for a moment, a foot above the earth. And sometimes you need to jump very far. It is as if there are thin slats, footholds, from here to the sun, Margit, for the baby faces to step on. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Slatland, flatland, mapland.”
“Pardon me?”
“Pardon me, Margit. I know so many languages that sometimes I say words out of place.”
At the end of the session I asked him when I should return. He told me that another visit wouldn’t be necessary, that usually his therapy worked the first time.
I didn’t in fact understand what he had said to me, but his theory seemed to help anyway, as if it were a medication that worked whether you understood it or not. That very evening I was having dinner with my parents. It started as the usual dinner—me staring at my plate, my parents staring at me as if I were about to break in two. But about halfway through the meal I started feeling light-headed. Nothing frightening happened, but I did manage to lift slightly out of myself. I looked down at our tiny family. I saw my father from above, the deep map of his face. I understood in an instant that of course he was having an affair, and that he was torn between my mother and this other, distant woman. I saw my beautiful mother from above, and I could see how she must hate this other woman, yet sympathize as well, because this other woman was very ill. I understood how complicated it was to be an adult, and how haunting, and how lovely. I longed to be back in my body then, to be breathing and eating, straining toward maturity. And when
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