Authors: Jelena Lengold
Baltimore (5 page)
She gets up, takes a pillow from one of the chairs, and throws it on the floor in front of me. Then she says:
“Imagine that this is the baby. It’s lying there in its membrane. Now, try to imagine that you are the membrane. What is its role, what do you think the membrane would say?”
“But the membrane is not alive,” I say. “It’s made of some kind of matter that’s similar to parchment, it’s taut and brittle. If someone were to pierce it, just once, it would crumble and disappear.”
“Nevertheless,” she insists, “if that parchment-like membrane could say something, what would it be? Anything, just say the first thing that comes to your mind….”
I’ve never done anything so silly in my life, there’s no doubt about it. I’m a parchment-like membrane, which is preventing a baby from taking a breath of fresh air. What do I want to say? What?
“I’m the membrane and I have power. My power is short-lived, but while it lasts, it’s enormous.”
She asks me again:
“What is the basis of your power?”
“This baby is mine and mine only. No one else can see it clearly.”
“Perhaps there’s also something good in this membrane, something useful?”
“Yes, I protect this baby from the outside world. I provide a kind of transitional period between the time spent in the mother’s womb, and complete exposure to the world.”
She’s on her feet now, walking around the room. She throws a glance at me and then at the pillow-baby on the floor – like someone who is trying to come up with a plan. She thinks she’s close to discovering something, but I already know that she won’t succeed. I don’t know how, I just know.
“Look at this baby. Go back inside yourself and look at it. Try to picture its future, its character, its destiny. What will it be like, what kind of person will it turn out to be?”
Until a moment ago, I was protecting it, because it’s fragile and tiny and pure. But suddenly, I know; I know exactly what it’ll be like, and I know it doesn’t really need my protection. I say:
“In time, the baby will become a rather haughty girl, pretty, self-confident, narcissistic; she’ll be tall and she’ll have long, black hair. In fact, I’m afraid she’s even going to be a little shallow. She won’t be described as being overly sophisticated. People will like her and she will consider this to be completely normal. She will think she is entitled to all these things.”
She is still looking down at the pillow and then, in a voice that clearly indicates that, for her, this is a major moment in our session today, she says:
“Can you still set her free? Can you make the decision to pierce the membrane even though the baby will become all those things: shallow, haughty, narcissistic…? Will you let her live or will you leave her to die in this parchment-like bubble?”
All of a sudden, all this seems silly to me. I start thinking about how things aren’t quite as simple as she would like them to be. I hesitate and she’s aware of that. Finally, I say:
“From a rational point of view, there’s no way in the world I’d leave any baby to die, if I had any say in it. But, if you regard this baby as a part of me, the part I’m not setting free, and I believe this is your theory, right? Then I’m afraid things aren’t quite that simple. If it were that simple, people wouldn’t be spending years going to therapy. Besides, I strongly feel that it’s not my job at all to free this baby from its membrane. Someone else is supposed to do it, and don’t ask me who because I don’t know. All I know is that it can’t be me! And I know it’s not that simple!”
“I think it is all up to you,” she said, going back to sit in her chair. “It’s your decision and yours only.”
I didn’t say anything. I felt like I might have gone a bit too far. As if I had said something against her therapeutic magic. As if I had displayed unseemly doubt. But, damn it, I can’t feign a breakthrough just to make her feel better! It would be asking too much, right?
I looked at the clock. I had another ten minutes left. A whole eternity! She seemed tired all of a sudden, sitting there in her sofa chair. It was late and I was probably her last patient for the day. I said:
“I believe you’re tired.”
Even if she were, she would never admit to it. And she didn’t. She said:
“No, I’m not at all tired, I’m completely focused and you have my full attention.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’d rather be someplace else, perhaps with your children. Do you have any children?”
She nodded quickly, too quickly, as if to say that who she is outside this room should under no circumstances be the subject of our conversation.
“Where did that come from, that concern for the way I feel? The other day you asked me if I wanted to take a break between sessions. Why are you being so considerate?”
“I don’t know. I think you find me tiresome. You’re probably listening to me only because it’s your job, because I’m paying you to listen, while you’d much rather be someplace else and with other people.”
I was on the verge of tears. I knew exactly what was happening to me, but I wasn’t able to stop it. What did I really want from her? To tell me that she was listening to me because she liked me and not because she was being paid? There was no end to the self-pity. It was obvious I was going to use every last minute of my session. I leaned a little towards her. I think she likes it when I pose a question as if I believe she possesses all the wisdom of the world. Hell, who doesn’t?
“What do you think, do I really need therapy? Could it be that I’m just indulging a whim, some sort of eccentricity, snobbery, the same as if I had, let’s say, enrolled myself in a horseback riding school….”
“Something that narcissistic baby would do?” she asked with a smile.
“Seriously, do you think I need this?”
I knew the answer in advance. She, of course, thinks all people need therapy, that it’s something that would benefit everyone.
“…but, if you’re asking me whether you’re a serious case….”
I interrupted her in the middle of this sentence. And I should have let her continue. I’ll never find out if I’m a serious case. Or at least not until next week, which is when I’ll see her again.
“No, that’s not what I was asking you. I was referring to whether or not I was entitled to this. And why I feel guilty now for taking up your time, and why I feel guilty for doing something I enjoy.”
“This baby,” she looked at the pillow on the floor again, “she wouldn’t feel guilty for receiving something?”
“Not a bit. This baby has no problems with taking.”
It was time for me to get up and leave. I knew that and so did she.
As we take out our notepads to write down the date and time of our next session, I tell her that now I make notes of everything that happens during our talks.
“You may find yourself in a novel.”
But, we are no longer in that room and she is no longer my therapist. Or at least that’s what I think. She is showing me out and at the door she says:
“I hope I’m going to be a positive figure.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, “all the characters are positive, except me. That’s something that never changes.”
Dare you to guess: Who, out of all the people riding in this streetcar this morning, is going to die of lung cancer?
I know two will die. It’s not for certain when, but two definitely. That’s what the statistics say.
Three will die of a heart attack. At least.
This is an interesting game you can play while using public transportation. Study their faces, fingers. Are their fingers yellow from nicotine, or are their noses abnormally red, or are they gasping for air as they climb into the bus, or do they have that empty suicidal stare?
I sometimes close my eyes when I drive my car and count. My record is nine. And I do this at night, crossing a bridge, when I know the road is empty and straight. Which really isn’t much of an achievement.
Did you know that people sometimes wake up in the middle of an operation? The most terrifying part of all is that you have no way of letting anyone know you’re awake. They’re cutting you and digging around your insides and you can feel everything, but you can’t let out a scream. This has happened to people, only no one talks about it. This is the dark secret of operating rooms.
Let’s say you’re lying on a beach somewhere. Everything around you is idyllic. You even look rather good in your bathing suit. And you also managed to find some shade. You’re reading a newspaper while resting comfortably on your beach mattress. You feel like nothing bad could happen to you here. And then, a tiny, little, black ant just happens to walk into your ear. It wanders around and you try to get it out with you finger, but you’re only pushing it farther and deeper into your head. The ant is moving straight to your brain. This has happened to people. After a while, you think you imagined it all and that there was no ant after all. You continue to calmly read your newspaper and lie in the sun. But, the ant begins to make a nest in your head, to lay eggs, and multiply. By the time you eat two ice-cream cones, there will be an ant colony inside your head, which is going to kill you slowly and painfully. There’s no cure. Now try enjoying yourself on the beach. Or anywhere for that matter.
I know a man who cut his eye on a newspaper, while he was reading the latest news and resting comfortably on his couch one afternoon.
I leave my house in the morning and I think: if the first car I run into is white, that means I’ll die within five years at the most. If the car isn’t white but some other color, then I get another chance, which, however, also comes with a catch. I have to add all the numbers on the license plate and if the sum is an odd number, then I’m saved. At least for the day. At least for the morning.
If a new move opens up in a game of solitaire, I won’t get a brain tumor.
If it doesn’t, then I’ll tell myself this is just a sick game I play on my own to make myself feel bad. Why would anyone intentionally do something that makes him or her (or them) feel bad, is that what you’re asking? What an absurd question. And you, I suppose, don’t do such things? Haven’t you ever imagined your own miserable end in some old-age home? When I really think about it, an old age home is the deluxe version. It would be more correct to say: your own miserable end in some dreadfully dirty apartment, which hasn’t been aired for months and which no one comes to visit anymore. Don’t tell me you’ve never read an article like: Elderly man found dead in his apartment. Estimated time of death: approximately six months prior to discovery. Neighbors have been complaining about an unpleasant odor in the hallway for some time. And you never think this could one day be you? I always do.
I don’t know exactly when I made the decision not to have children. Or if it even was a decision or just one of those things you keep putting off indefinitely, knowing full well the time that you have is limited. Maybe only fifteen, twenty years at the most. And then, you suddenly realize that the decision is no longer up to you. You definitely can’t have them, even if you wanted to. Stories like: A woman in India gave birth at the age of sixty! Both mother and infant are healthy and doing fine…. You somehow know this doesn’t apply to you and that this is just a newspaper article.
Was this another one of those decisions I tend to make for the sole purpose of making myself feel bad?
Either way, that’s how it turned out.
It’s not that bad for now. We have our time. And time is one of the rare things a person can actually have. We have our afternoons and our weekends. We have order in our kitchen and neatly stacked shelves. We never had to use the washing machine twice a day because of dirty diapers. Nor did we have to get out of bed ten times during the night. You don’t think that’s really a plus? Okay. Maybe you’re right. I’m just presenting my arguments.
Your family and friends resign themselves to the idea when you reach your late thirties. This is when they definitely lose all hope.
But, there are always those times when you need to get your hair done.
In hair salons, most of the talk is about children. Photographs are taken out. Pregnant women get their hair done out of turn. There’s mention of C-sections, pelvic births, measles, baby-teeth are shown around, and sometimes even the children are brought in to get their hair cut with their mothers, at which time we all have to sigh and cry oh, he’s so cute and swear the child is the spitting image of its mother.
I’ve yet to see a woman who comes into a salon and talks about her ill mannered, full-grown child. I’ve never heard a woman talk about how her son had to repeat a grade, as she was getting a perm. Or how he robbed a corner store. Or how he started taking drugs. Or how he beat up a neighbor. Or how he can’t get into college. Or how he moved to another continent and calls only once a year, just to ask for money.
In a hair salon, children exist solely in their angelic form. A form that only gives rise to plain, unadulterated envy. A form which makes you want to get out of there, with the curlers still in your hair, but not before you apologize to everyone for being there, even though you’re not worthy of their company. Because they, these women, know something that you don’t. And they have felt something you never will.
They are a family. You are a couple, at the most.
A girl, roughly seventeen years old, is combing my hair. She’s looking at me in the mirror; I’m looking at her in the mirror. The women around us are showing photographs. I’m silent. I’m always silent in these situations, hoping no one will ask me anything. Hoping I’ll be able to misrepresent myself for an hour to an hour and a half, until my hair is done, and then run out of there. But no! At some point, the girl can no longer stand the silence and she starts up a conversation with a question that, to her, seemed the least unpleasant. She also undoubtedly saw the wedding band on my finger.
“Are you married?” she asks.
What I would really like to say is be quiet and keep combing because I know what will follow, but I’ve never said that before, and I probably never will. Do you also sometimes find yourself in a situation when you have a thousand prepared answers, but you never say them out loud because you’re deterred by sheer cowardice? Of course, you’re deluding yourself with the idea that your good manners are preventing you from doing this, but, if you really think about it, you’ll realize this has nothing to do with manners. It’s simply cowardice. Fear of confrontation. And so you agree to their unmasking game instead of protecting your territory.
“Yes,” I say with a casual smile.
And before I even finish uttering the word, here she goes again:
“And do you have any children?”
“No,” I say.
And I sit silently. For a moment, she feels uneasy. Only for a moment. And this is my only, small satisfaction.
When I was younger, I used to get the following variety of replies:
“There’s still time, there’ll be children, God willing!”
“Oh, you’re still young, all you need to do is drink catkins tea. I have a girlfriend who couldn’t have children for ten years and she drank catkins tea, and after only a month she was pregnant. Her son is already in school now!”
“You know, it’s better not to have children right away. A person should experience other things first. Mature parents are the best parents.”
Now it’s different. I say no, and they only make that compassionate face. Like: I’m so sorry. What can you do? It’s not your fault. Not everyone can show pictures and baby teeth. Someone has to stay outside this circle.
The girl combing my hair is convinced that she will be in this circle. She hasn’t the slightest inkling that there may not be a place reserved for her fairy-tale story over there. At seventeen, she thinks that by the time she reaches forty she will have had plenty of time to do all the things she ever wanted. She doesn’t even want to consider the possibility of waking up one day as a middle-aged woman, alone and with varicose veins.
