“Why are you acting so weird?” I asked Dr. Rosen. He was definitely not beaming with pride. He sighed, started to speak, and then shifted in his seat again. I imagined him opening his mouth and hissing: You’re in trouble, trouble, trouble.
“You destroyed something that belongs to me. What does that mean to you?”
“It means I’m an isolated loser next to my entire family tree! Every last one of them is on the way to joint tenancy—”
“And the bear?” I searched my body for the feeling Dr. Rosen insisted should be there. I knew I was in trouble. Shame churned in my belly.
“I grabbed the first thing I saw.”
Dr. Rosen didn’t blink or soften. “The bear represents me and the group.” He gestured around the circle. “Are you willing to look at what it means to take scissors to that?”
“But I hammered all those dishes on my balcony—” My hands began to shake.
“Those didn’t belong to me.”
Why wasn’t he smiling? Why were my eyes filling with tears? I picked up the bear and placed it in my lap. I ran my finger along the hole where the arm had been attached, trying to feel something. What I found under the shame of being in trouble was a cold lump of fear. It scared me that I didn’t understand my subconscious mind. Why, since starting group, did my response to jealousy and disappointment involve sharp objects?
“How can I fix this?”
Dr. Rosen’s jaw softened slightly. “Ask the group for help.”
Marty met my gaze. “Come to my office this afternoon. I’ll suture the arm.” Before settling on psychiatry, Marty had dreamed of being a surgeon. He looked excited about the prospect of getting out his needle and thread.
In Marty’s tiny Uptown office, I stuffed as much of the polyester filling back into the bear as possible, and then gathered the edges of the wound for Marty to stitch. “Like this,” he said, pulling the thick thread through the bear’s fur. I sewed the last few stiches, and then held it up for him to inspect. With the arm sewn up, the white stuffing had no way to escape.
When I’d hacked up his teddy bear, Dr. Rosen seemed angry. Now, in the wake of my e-mail from Germany, he seemed afraid and sad. I knew better than to ask for a quick fix. Those didn’t exist in Rosen-world. It was nine o’clock. Group was over. We all stood up, and I offered my open hands to Lorne and Patrice, but it was only muscle memory, not a genuine gesture of connection. Their warm palms against mine did nothing to thaw the chill. When each of them hugged me, I went through the motions of hugging them back. More muscle memory. None of it reached the frozen center of my being. And I didn’t join Brad, Max, and Lorne for breakfast. I didn’t let Brad walk me to my office. I rejected their concerned joviality and refused to watch them take turns keeping me afloat with jokes and affirmations. I wanted to be alone. I wanted them to let me sink all the way down. I walked back to my office, shut the door, turned on Riverdance, and drafted memos all day until the sky darkened at eight fifteen, and I went home.
28
I had to get off the German case.
I’d returned for my second stint in Augsburg and found myself in a room overlooking the naked schnitzel nibblers. Again I’d fantasized, briefly, about swallowing a bottle of Aleve. When I got back to Chicago that second time, Dr. Rosen suggested that I tell Jack that personal matters would prevent me from traveling to Germany for the near future. I e-mailed Jack saying I needed to discuss a personal matter. He responded right away. Let’s have lunch!
He was an important partner and a decent person. He’d invited me to lunch; he’d used exclamation points. Maybe I could do a few more weeks in Germany? I thought of the hotel, the naked happy hour, and those long lonely nights. My whole body howled No. If I was ruining my legal career by turning down this plum assignment, so be it.
Jack and I walked to One North and sat at a table on the terrace, surrounded mostly by other people in power suits eating power lunches. I took a few deep breaths while Jack ordered a chopped salad, feeling the seconds drag me closer to my confession.
“So what’s up?” Jack’s face was so open that I almost lost my nerve. I flexed my fingers under the table and leaned forward.
“I can’t travel to Germany—there’s a personal matter—”
Jack held up his hand. “Say no more. There’s plenty for you to do here. I’ll let the partners know.” He picked up his BlackBerry and typed a new message. I stared out at Wacker Drive, praying I had not completely derailed my career.
Twice, I ran into Alex in the elevator, and both times he was with a blond woman wearing Duke University spirit-wear and running shoes. Both times we ignored each other. Both times I held my breath and stared straight ahead, but as soon as they disappeared down the street, I dialed Rory to cry about Alex’s new no-fat girlfriend.
“You should buy a place in another building,” Max said.
“With your income, you could afford a three-bedroom,” Brad said.
“A woman in your position should definitely own property,” Grandma Maggie said.
When Dr. Rosen asked about my resistance to buying a condo, I told the truth: “I don’t want to do it by myself.” Buying a condo alone would cement my status as a successful but single, alone-in-the-world woman. How depressing to visit empty homes and dream of the future with only a real estate agent at my side. How lonely to embark on a massive financial transaction by myself. Buying the condo might be a win for feminism, but it felt like
