“Sheila, how much therapy have we had? Between the two of us?”
“Fuck therapy.”
I start to tell her she had to learn some basics, but this is about to go off the rails.
“You don’t have to worry, anyway,” she says. “Butch is gone. For good.”
“Yvonne here?” I ask.
“She got pissed an’ left.”
“She gone for good, too?”
“No! For now. What the hell, she has her own place. That’s none of your goddamn business anyway.”
“I was just asking if you were alone.”
“Damn right I’m alone. Kid like Frankie, how am I gonna be any other way?”
I shrug. “You told me Yvonne stays here as much as her place.”
“Yvonne thinks I can’t keep a man ’cause down deep I’m a dyke, like her. That’s why she’s here so much—thinks she can rescue me.” She snorts.
I’m thinking, That would be good all the way around, but I don’t say it. “Let’s get a pizza.”
“Where am I gonna get money for a pizza? Butch took . . .”
“I’ve got money.”
“Why you bein’ nice? You come over here to jump my shit about Frankie, and don’t say you didn’t.”
I raise my hands. “No reason I can’t jump your shit over a pizza.”
She looks back into the dark house. “Well, the TV’s busted. . . .”
“Okay then.”
We’re sitting on the floor next to a coffee table crafted from two cardboard boxes holding up an old door, killing off four meats with extra cheese.
“So go ahead,” Sheila says. “Jump my shit.”
I scan the dingy room. “How is anything ever going to be different, Sheila? I mean, you keep Frankie out of foster care by leaving him with us, but it’s drugs and people like this Butch guy and pulling it together long enough to take him back, and then . . . well, all over again.”
She takes a bite of pizza, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, looks at me hard. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“I’ll try. I will.”
She stares at me a bit longer. “Naw, fuck it. Doesn’t matter whether you’d understand or not. You’re right; nothin’s changin’. You wanna know what it’s like to be Sheila Boots? I got two gears, Annie. Either I’m either up in somebody’s face gettin’ ready to beat the shit out of them or getting them to beat the shit out of me, or I’m lookin’ for a way out.”
“A way out?”
“You remember that chick that loaded the kids in the car and took ’em into the lake? Susan somebody?”
“Smith,” I say. “Susan Smith.”
“Yeah, her. I’m not sayin’ I’d ever do that, but I sure as hell know why she did.”
My heart pounds. “You’re not . . .”
“No, I’m not gonna off the little shit an’ I’m not gonna off myself. I got too many people I want to piss off. And don’t you go runnin’ to your fancy foster folks, or your fuckin’ caseworker, sayin’ I’m over the edge, because I’m not.”
I can feel her retreating into her armor. “You remember that time when I was in, maybe, third grade, and Nancy took me ‘shopping’?”
“I remember a lot of times like that.”
“Well,” I say, “this time, the store guy caught us and was going to call the cops?”
“Yup.”
“Nancy talked him out of it?”
She nods.
“You remember what you said to me when we got back and Nancy was bragging about how she made the ‘old fool’ feel sorry for us, and I was laughing?”
“What’d I say?” Sheila looks bored.
“You took me out back and threatened me—said no matter what happened, no matter how many fosters we got stuck in or whatever, if I turned out like Nancy you would kick my ass.”
“And I would’ve, too.”
“Sheila,” I say, “you’re turning out like Nancy.”
She swipes her hand across the coffee table, sending meat and cheese and crust flying. “I can still kick your ass,” she says, and our sisterly connection vanishes.
I jump up; you do not want to be caught already down when Sheila comes after you. “It’s been a while since you’ve tried,” I say, and she takes it exactly how I meant it, rises slowly, fists doubled.
“It wouldn’t piss you off so much if it wasn’t true,” I say, backing toward the door. I don’t know if she can take me or not. I’m in a lot better shape, and pretty tough as midsized chicks my age go, but I’ve seen my sister in fights before and she never stops getting up.
She says, “Looks like this party is over.”
And that ends that.
July 20—Session #Who’s Counting?
ANNIE BOOTS
Came in with purpose today; not always the case. Intensity apparent in body language; marched in, sat, leaned forward, foot tapping, fingers drumming.
Me: What’s up?
Annie: Tell me again about Sheila. Me and Sheila.
Me: What can I tell you that you don’t already know? Did something happen?
Annie: Kind of the same thing that always happens. I get with my sister and things are going relatively well—we’re kind of understanding each other and then BLAM! It always ends in BLAM!
Me: That’s been going on as long as you’ve been seeing me. Why was this time different?
Annie: It’s not different, that’s the problem. When Sheila gets mad it’s just . . . exactly what I expect. No big deal there. What I hate is, that later it makes me crazy when I want her to . . . want me; you know, listen to me.
Me: Remember, we’ve been here before, Annie. It’s always going to be a struggle for you when what makes sense won’t settle in your stomach . . . or your heart.
Annie: So what do I do?
Me: What can you do?
Note: The rest of the session was spent on the struggle Annie will face all her life—the struggle between her brain and the hard wiring of her heart. If there is a takeaway, it’s this:
Annie: You told me once you went through some of the things I’m going through.
Me: I did tell you that.
Annie: How did you, like, survive?
Me: Truth? I got older. I got older and I got smarter. The feeling doesn’t go away, but it gets more recognizable, and I’ve learned to see it coming. It
