Lunar Park

house that used to exist on Valley Vista in a suburb of the San Fernando Valley called Sherman Oaks, or that a vast wind had kept me from looking for a car I’d driven as a teenager, or that a murderer was roaming Midland County because of a book I’d written or—most urgently—that a girl I desired had disappeared into the Orsic Motel in Stoneboat sometime late last night. And I suddenly thought to myself: If you wrote something and it happened, could you also write something and make it disappear?

I concentrated on the flat asphalt ribbon of the interstate so I wouldn’t have to see the wind-bent palm and citrus trees that suddenly lined the roads (I imagined their trunks pushing out of the dark, hard ground for my benefit only), and the windows were rolled up so the scent of the Pacific didn’t seep into the car, and the radio was off so “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” or “Rocket Man” wasn’t pouring from an oldies station in another state. Jayne was leaning away from me in the passenger seat, arms crossed, tugging her seat belt every so often as a reminder for me to strap myself in. She made a clicking noise with her mouth when she noticed my conscientiousness. It was taking every cell I possessed to destroy (for just this evening) all the things that had been whirling through my mind, but in the end, I was just too tired and distracted to freak out. It was time to concentrate on tonight. And because I started paying attention something eased as we walked through the parking lot. I made a joke that caused her to smile and then we shared another joke. She took my hand as we moved toward the building, and I felt hopeful as the two of us entered Dr. Faheida’s office, where Jayne and I sat in black leather armchairs facing each other while Dr. Faheida (who seemed at once stirred and humbled by Jayne’s stardom) perched on a wooden stool off to the side, a referee with a yellow legal pad that she would mark up and casually refer back to throughout the session. We were supposed to talk to each other, but often forgot and during the first ten minutes we usually aimed our complaints at the shrink, forgetting to not use specific pronouns, and I always zoned out while Jayne always started (because she had so much more to contend with) and then I would hear something that would snap me out of my lassitude.

Tonight it was “He hasn’t connected with Robby.”

A pause, and then Dr. Faheida asked, “Bret?”

This was the crux of the matter, the slashing detour from the numbing sameness that enveloped each hour. Very quickly I began formulating a defense with “That’s not true” but was interrupted by an exasperated sound from Jayne.

“Okay . . . I want to say that’s not true because it’s not totally true . . . I think we get along a little better now and . . .”

Dr. Faheida held up a hand to silence Jayne, who was writhing in her chair. “Let Bret speak, Jayne.”

“And, I mean, Jesus, it’s only been four months. It can’t happen overnight.” My voice was rigid with calm.

A pause. “Are you finished?” Dr. Faheida asked.

“I mean, I could say he hasn’t connected with me.” I turned to Dr. Faheida. “I can say that, right? Is that okay? That Robby hasn’t tried connecting with me?”

Dr. Faheida stroked her thin neck and nodded benevolently.

“He wasn’t here when Robby was growing up,” Jayne said. And I could already tell by her voice—just minutes into the session—that her rage was going to end up being defeated by sadness.

“Address Bret, Jayne.”

She turned toward me, and when our eyes met I looked away.

“That’s why he’s just this boy to you,” she said. “That’s why you have no feelings for him.”

“He’s still growing up, Jayne,” Dr. Faheida reminded her gently.

And then I had to stop my eyes from watering by saying: “But were you really there for him, Jayne? I mean, all these years, with you traveling everywhere, were you really there for him—”

“Oh God, not this shit again,” Jayne groaned, sinking into the armchair.

“No, really. How many times have you left him when you went on location? With Marta? Or your parents? Or whoever? I mean, honey, a lot of the time he was raised by a series of faceless nannies—”

“This is exactly why I don’t think counseling is helping,” Jayne said to Dr. Faheida. “This is it exactly. It’s all a joke. This is why it’s a waste of time.”

“Is this all a joke to you, Bret?” Dr. Faheida asked.

“He’s never changed a diaper,” Jayne said, going through her hysterical litany of how the damage we were trudging through was caused by my absence during Robby’s infancy. She was actually in the middle of pointing out that I’d “never been thrown up on” when I had to cut her off. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted her guilt and anger to really start kicking in.

“I have been vomited on, honey,” I protested. “Quite often I have been vomited on. In fact there was a year sometime back there when I was vomited on continuously.”

“Vomiting on yourself doesn’t count!” she shouted, and then said, less desperately, to Dr. Faheida, “See—it’s all a joke to him.”

“Bret, why do you attempt to mask real problems with irony and sarcasm?” Dr. Faheida asked.

“Because I don’t know how seriously I can take all this if we’re only blaming me,” I said.

“No one is ‘blaming’ anyone,” Dr. Faheida said. “I thought we all agreed that this is a term we don’t use here.”

“I think Jayne needs to take responsibility as well.” I shrugged. “Did we or did we not finish last week’s session talking about Jayne’s problem? The little teensy-weensy one”—I held up two fingers, pressing them together tightly, to illustrate—“about how she doesn’t think she’s worthy of respect and how that messes up everything? Did we or did we not discuss this, Dr. Fajita?”

“It’s Faheida,” she corrected me quietly.

“Dr. Fajita, doesn’t anyone see here that I didn’t want—”

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Jayne shouted. “He’s a drug addict. He’s been using again.”

“None of this has anything to do with being a drug addict,” I shouted back. “It has to do with the fact that I didn’t want a kid!”

Everything tensed up. The room went silent. Jayne stared at me.

I breathed in, then started talking slowly.

“I didn’t want a kid. It’s true. I didn’t. But . . . now . . .” I had to stop. A circle was narrowing around me, and my chest felt so tight that I was momentarily lost in blackness.

“Now . . . what, Bret?” This was Dr. Faheida.

“But now I do . . .” I was so tired, I couldn’t help myself and started crying.

Jayne stared at me with disgust.

“Is there anything more pathetic than a monster who keeps asking please? please? please?— ”

“I mean . . . what more do you want from me?” I asked, recovering slightly.

“Are you kidding? You’re actually asking that?”

“I’m going to try, Jayne. I’m going to really try. I’m . . .” I wiped my face. “I’m gonna look after the kids while you go off tomorrow and—”

Jayne started talking over me in a tired voice. “We have a maid, we have Marta, the kids are gone all day —”

“But I can look after them too, when, I mean, when they’re at the house and—”

Jayne suddenly stood up.

“But I don’t want you to look after them because you’re an addict and an alcoholic, and that’s why we need people at the house, and that’s why I don’t like you driving the kids anywhere, and that’s why you should probably just—”

“Jayne, I think you should sit down.” Dr. Faheida gestured at the armchair.

Jayne breathed in.

Realizing I had no other options (and that I didn’t want any other options), I said, “I know I haven’t exactly proven myself, but I am going to try . . . I am really gonna try and make this work.” I hoped the more I said this, the more it would register with her.

I reached for her hand. She knocked it away.

“Jayne,” Dr. Faheida warned.