What Looks Like Crazy (18 page)

“Did you say yogurt?”

“It's an old home remedy. Have you ever tried to scoop a whole container of yogurt into your vagina?”

“No, Aunt Lou, I haven't.”

“Well, it's a bitch keeping the stuff in, let me tell you.”

It was not an image I wanted to wrap my mind around. “So, how can I help you? I mean, I'm more than happy to listen, but—”

“I'd like for you to write me a prescription for something to stop this damn infernal itching.”

“I can't write prescriptions.”

“You're a
doctor
, for God's sake. People call you Dr. Holly. I've heard them.”

“We've had this talk before, Aunt Lou,” I said calmly, “when you had hemorrhoids.”

“Yes, but that was before you got this fancy office and started seeing patients.”

“You need an MD to prescribe medication.”

“What the hell are you?”

“I'm a Ph.D. I have a doctorate in clinical psychology. I'm not licensed to practice medicine or write prescriptions.”

“I know what this is about. You're thinking I don't plan to pay you. You think I'm looking for a handout.”

“That thought never crossed my mind, Aunt Lou, but it doesn't change anything. You need a medical doctor. I'll be glad to give you the name of mine, but that's the best I can do.”

She didn't look happy. “I'm the one who talked Lucien into giving your mother a discount on her big party,” she said, “and this is the thanks I get?”

She fumbled with the latch on her purse, and I feared she was reaching for her ice pick. Instead she pulled out her car keys. “I could maybe get you a free manicure while you're here,” I said.

She stood. “I don't
need
a manicure. Sorry I
bothered
you,” she said with a huff.

I walked her out. “How's Uncle Bump?”

She gave a grunt. “Don't get me started. You're lucky Jay left you when he did, because the older men get, the needier they get. Remember that the next time you start feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I will.”

She looked at Mona. “I hope your neck gets better, young lady. Don't forget what I told you about using kerosene.”

Mona smiled and tapped the side of her head. “I've got it stored right up here.”

Aunt Lou gave me a hard look. “Just so you know, I'm going to try not to hold this against you, but I'm not making any promises.” She opened the door and walked out.

“Uh-oh,” Mona said. “What's with her?”

“You don't want to know.” I started for my office and turned. “What's with the kerosene?”

“You don't want to know.”

I figured we were both right.

Cynthia Reed and
her father arrived at four thirty, wearing tense looks. As I greeted them, Mona handed me several phone messages.

“Harold Fry called?” I asked before joining Cynthia and her father inside my office. “What did he say? Did he tell you where he was? Did he leave a number?”

“No, but he promised to call back.”

“If he does, put him through to me, even if I'm in a session.”

Cynthia and her father took seats at opposite ends of the sofa. Mr. Reed was immaculately dressed in a formfitting suit, a white dress shirt, and a gray tie. “Thank you for joining us today, Mr. Reed,” I said, sitting in my usual chair. “Did Cynthia mention why she wanted you to be here?”

He looked at his daughter. “Only that she needed to talk to me with her therapist present. I didn't know she was seeing a therapist. Just plastic surgeons,” he added with a sigh.

“Dad, don't start giving me a hard time, okay? It's my money.” She crossed her arms. “That's not why I asked you to come.”

“I'm concerned that you're getting obsessed, Doodlebug.”

Cynthia threw up her arms in disgust and looked at me. “Did you hear what he just called me?”

Mr. Reed smacked his forehead. “I'm sorry, Cynthia.” He looked at me. “I've been calling her that since, well, since she was an infant.”

“Why did you choose that particular nickname for your daughter?” I asked.

He paused in thought. “Let me think.” He suddenly smiled. “Now I remember. When Cynthia was a newborn, she used to draw her legs to her chest and curl into a tight ball.” He chuckled. “We later learned it was gas, but she reminded me of a little doodlebug.”

I saw that he had Cindy's undivided attention.

“Why did you wait until
now
to tell me that?” she demanded.

He looked confused. “You never asked.”

“Dammit, Dad!” she said.

“What? It was a silly nickname. It made you giggle when you were a little girl. Then you turned twelve years old and hated it.”

“When I was twelve, I was fat and wearing braces!” she said, picking up a throw pillow and hitting him with it.

Startled, he jumped. “You weren't fat! What has gotten into you?”

“I think we need to call a time-out,” I said.

“Doodlebugs are fat,” Cynthia said. “You made me feel fat. Why else would you have put everybody on a strict diet and exercise regimen if you didn't think I was fat?” She hit him with the pillow again. “You became a fanatic, insisting we watch everything we put in our mouths. Then every Monday we had to weigh in so you could record it.”

“Cynthia, please don't hit your father with the pillow. Otherwise we're going to have to stop the session.”

She ignored me and hit him again. “You were like a drill instructor!” she said. “I became so self-conscious, I started skipping lunch at school. I was starving myself! Starving!” she shouted. She hit him in the head, and his glasses flew off.

“Stop it, Cynthia!” I said loudly. “Hitting is not permitted.”

I heard a knock at my door. Mona looked in. “Is everything okay?”

Cynthia burst into tears.

Her father reached for her. “Honey, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't touch me!”

“Should I call security?” Mona asked me.

I shook my head, but I was perched on the edge of my seat, not knowing what to expect next. I knew I was close to losing control of the session. In her pain, Cynthia seemed to be regressing, as though she were twelve years old again. I could tell Mona was concerned.

Cynthia glared at her father, even though the tears flowed freely. “How can you be sorry when you're still doing it? You're driving Mom crazy, and for what? She's going through menopause, and her body is going wacko on her. She gained thirty pounds. The woman is having mood swings and hot flashes, but instead of supporting her, you hound her night and day about her weight. That sucks! She's starving herself, just like I did when I was twelve years old!”

Mr. Reed reached for her again. She pushed him away again. “Besides, who are you to judge Mother, when you used to have a weight problem yourself?”

“That's precisely why I did it,” he said. “Because I started putting on weight,” he added. “Both of my parents had weight problems. My father died of a heart attack when he was only forty-two. My mother became diabetic.” He paused and clasped his hands together and stared at them while his daughter cried.

“I was two years younger than my father when I had my heart attack,” he said.

Cynthia snapped her head up. “What?”

Sudden tears filled his eyes. “That's right, Cynthia. You were ten years old at the time, and I was forty years old, forty pounds overweight, and smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. I was on the golf course when it happened.”

“You never told me that!”

“I didn't tell anyone. Not even your mother.”

Cynthia just looked at him, her mouth agape.

“It's true, honey. I didn't want to worry her. But it was a wake-up call for me.” He wiped his eyes. “I was very scared for a long time. I guess I became irrational. A fanatic, like you said.” He looked away, as if embarrassed.

Cynthia scooted closer and took his hand. “Oh, Daddy, I wish you had told us. All this time I thought you were ashamed of us. Of me,” she added. “Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw a fat girl. A fat girl who never measured up. Why do you think I've had all these damned surgeries? I mean, just look at me!”

“Look at her lips,” Mona mumbled. I shot her a glare. Fortunately Cynthia was trying to comfort her father and didn't seem to hear.

Cynthia's father looked at her. “Can you ever forgive me?”

They embraced. Cynthia looked up suddenly. “Are you okay now? I mean, is your heart okay?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Mona sniffed and reached for a tissue and sat on the arm of the sofa. “This is so beautiful. I feel so lucky to have been a part of this.”

I was touched as well.

“Please don't have any more surgery,” Mr. Reed said to Cynthia.

“I promise,” she said. “But we have to tell Mom the truth. We have to get things out in the open, Daddy.”

“We'll tell her together, Cynthia.”

“Doodlebug,” she corrected with a tearful smile. “From now on, I want you to call me Doodlebug.”

Mona and I slipped from the room, as though we both understood the two needed a moment alone.

“Boy, did I ever learn something today,” Mona said.

“Yeah?” I looked at her.

“It's so easy to misunderstand other people's intentions, even those we're close to. We can't see inside their hearts, you know?”

I nodded and thought of my mother. If I had a dollar for each misunderstanding we'd ever had, I would be rich. I wouldn't be forced to take on patients like George Moss. But I'd never been able to get past the fake eyelashes and the heavy eye shadow and the mound of junk that surrounded her.

“I'm a terrible daughter,” I said.

“Your mom isn't easy,” Mona told me.

“I'm supposed to be this expert in relationships, but I've never been able to enjoy a close one with my own mother, and my marriage lasted all of three years. What does that tell you?”

“It isn't too late to fix things,” Mona said.

 

After I closed
the office and once I attended to Mike and her puppies, I drove to Little Five Points and parked behind my mother and aunt's new store. I found my mother at the stove in the kitchen. My mouth watered at the smells of her cooking. She wore a denim jumpsuit with matching eye shadow, and sported several oversized rings that she'd obviously purchased at the local flea market. She looked surprised to see me.

“What's wrong?” she said.

“Nothing,” I told her. “I just thought I'd drop by.”

“Well, if you're here to see your Aunt Trixie, she's straightening up the studio.”

“I'm here to see
you
, Mom.”

She looked doubtful. “I hope you're here to tell me those mongrels are gone.”

“Nope. They're still with me.”

“Then it must be about your aunt Lou. She told me how you turned your back on her when she came to you pleading for help with her vaginal problems. I just want you to know I'm not getting in the middle of it.”

“Mom?”

“I only have one piece of advice where your aunt Lou is concerned: try to steer clear of her for the next couple of weeks. At least until her itching eases up.”

It suddenly occurred to me that, no matter how hard we tried, my mother and I would continue to rub each other wrong most of the time.

“I hope you're staying for dinner,” she said after a moment. “I'm making my specialty, chicken-fried steak smothered with onions and gravy.”

“That's my favorite!” I said. I saw her pleased smile. She had always been a great cook. That went a long way toward making up for the touchy-feely relationship we lacked.

 

I arrived home
feeling like a stuffed goose, after all I'd eaten. An anxious-looking Mike met me at the front door, but when I tried to let her outside, she wasn't interested. Instead, she went into the laundry room. I followed. I noted Runt lying by himself in the corner of the box. He was so tiny. I picked him up carefully, and my heart turned over in my chest at the cool, lifeless body.

Tears filled my eyes as I wrapped him in a towel. I wondered what to do with him. I put him on my washing machine and went to the phone. I called Jeff Henry's office and left a message. He returned my call immediately.

“One of the puppies is dead,” I said, trying to swallow back my tears.

“The runt?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, Kate.”

More tears. “I don't know what to do with him. If he were a goldfish, I'd know what to do, but he's not a goldfish. I don't know what to do.”

“How far are you from my office?”

“Um.” I tried to think. “Five or ten minutes,” I finally said.

“Give me your address. I'll drive over and pick him up.”

I didn't try to talk him out of it, even though I suspected it was an inconvenience and I would probably be charged for it. I gave him my address and returned to the laundry room, where I found Mike with her front paws pressed against the front of the washer, her nails clicking against the metal as she tried to reach her puppy.

“No, girl,” I said and slipped my fingers inside her collar. I led her toward the box and convinced her to lie down, but I could tell she was anxious, even as her healthy puppies began to nurse. I sat on the floor and petted her. “I'm sorry,” I said as fresh tears hit me. I kept petting her and telling her how sorry I was.

The doorbell rang, and I went to answer it. Jeff Henry stood on the other side, holding a small cardboard box. “Where's the pup?” he asked. I led him into the laundry room and pointed. I was so distraught, I didn't care that my kitchen looked like a demolition site. Jeff very gently put the little bundle in his box. Once again I had to coax Mike to her bed.

“I'll be right back,” he said.

When he returned, I was sitting next to Mike's box, petting her and trying to soothe her. “I guess she knows what's going on,” I told him. He sat on the floor as well.

“She'll be a little anxious for a while. How are you doing?”

I brushed tears from my cheeks. “I feel terrible about this. I shouldn't have gone out tonight. I should have stayed and made sure he ate. I should have asked you to teach me how to feed Runt with that tube you mentioned.”

“I don't think it would have made a difference, Kate. Some puppies are born too small and too weak. You did what you could.”

I nodded, but I couldn't stop crying. It was just one more loss I had to deal with. “You don't have to stay,” I said. “Besides, I know the floor is uncomfortable. I just don't want to leave Mike.”

“The floor doesn't bother me,” he said. “I once had to crawl beneath an old car to help a Bluetick hound give birth. She bit me twice,” he added with a chuckle. “I was nine years old at the time.”

“You were obviously born to do this kind of work.”

“I grew up on a farm. I discovered at an early age that I got along better with animals than people.”

That surprised me, because he seemed so personable, and he was stylishly dressed, his beige linen slacks and powder blue oxford shirt neatly pressed. His brown hair was neat, his face made more handsome by his tendency to smile easily.