No Relation (6 page)

I’ve been seeing Dr. Madelaine Scott for ten years now. Apparently, I have some issues. I like her. She’s thoughtful but blunt, and doesn’t speak much, even for a psychiatrist. She seems to keep a certain distance from me that I’m always trying to close. I know. She’s not supposed to open up. That’s my job. I’m the one on the couch. Her office is in a nice brownstone on a leafy crescent on the Upper West Side. She was in her early sixties, but didn’t look it. Her short auburn hair made her seem younger. She always dressed casually. I’d never ever seen her in a dress or skirt. Her office was formal but comfortable. Plush beige broadloom cushioned the feet. Lamp light replaced the traditional overhead fluorescent tubes. The art on the walls was nice but not interesting enough to distract you from the task at hand. You know, exposing your innermost thoughts and sifting through your memories, usually just for clues, but sometimes for real answers.

I used to lie on the couch in the sitting area while we spoke. But after I fell asleep for the third time in our first five appointments, we decided I should sit across from her in the same kind of leather armchair that she uses. I don’t think she ever fell asleep during our appointments.

“Dr. Scott.”

“Hello, Hem. Come in.”

“Thanks for squeezing me in.”

“No problem. That’s what I do,” she replied. “The next thirty minutes are yours. How have you been?”

“Well, funny you should ask. But a lot seems to have happened in the last day.”

“Yes, I know. Wallet, job, and Jennifer, all gone in twenty-four hours. I’m sorry.”

“Wait. I’ve never mentioned that in my voice mail. How did you know?”

I saw her eyes move to the laptop on her desk.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” I said.

She just nodded.

“You just happened to be trolling through YouTube and stumbled across it?”

“Hem, I, like most psychiatrists, have Google Alerts set up for the names of all my patients. I viewed it shortly after it was posted.”

“Were you going to say anything about it to me?”

“I assumed we would come to it, and it seems I was right,” she replied.

Mindful of the time, I spent the next ten minutes giving her an abridged version of my big adventure the day before. Throughout, she said nothing, but nodded a few times, brushed some fluff from her pants, and took a couple of notes.

“That must not have been easy for you. Let’s start with your job. How are you feeling about being let go?”

“Oh, it’s been fantastic! A validation of my contribution to the firm. Recognition of my abilities and achievements as a leading copywriter. And the culmination of a successful and fulfilling career.”

“So we’re back to your standard ‘sarcasm as shield’ avoidance stratagem,” she observed. “Were you good at your job?”

Easy question. I know this one.

“Yes, Dr. Scott. I truly believe I was good at that job. I helped win new business. I wrote some award-winning campaigns. And at least for those early years, I was busy all the time. I was in demand. But the landscape has changed. Long-form isn’t hot now.”

“Okay. You were good at your job,” she summarized. “Now, tell me honestly, Hem, did you love your job?”

My tender tailbone was throbbing. I shifted very gingerly in my chair. I looked at the ceiling. I gazed out the window. I examined my fingernails. I cleared my throat. And when I could avoid it no longer, I actually thought about her very simple question.

I liked some of my colleagues. I liked some of my clients. I even liked wrestling with some of the creative challenges that were dumped on me over fifteen years. I turned it all over in my mind and really thought about it, perhaps for the first time. In my head and in polite conversation, I’ve always made a point of ducking that question. I guess I’ve gotten close to the answer before. But I’ve always managed to shut down before drawing the harsh conclusion.

“No. I’ve never really loved my job,” I replied. “I’ve never leapt out of bed on Monday morning so I could get to the office sooner to immerse myself in what I was truly meant to do on this Earth … write long-form ad copy. No, I guess I didn’t love my job. I’m not even sure I liked it much. The fact of the matter is, I think I can only go as far as ‘I didn’t mind my job.’ ”

“Were you aware of this before just now?”

I fidgeted. And look around the office a bit more.

“Maybe. Probably.” Silence. More silence. “Okay, yes.”

“Hem, just because we’re good at something doesn’t mean we’re meant to spend our lives doing it.”

I thought about that for a bit and nodded, not looking at her.

“You told me in our very first session a decade ago that your dream was to become a writer,” she continued. “Is that still true? Is that still your dream?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to work right now to earn money to live?”

“No. As my former employer told me, ‘I have a huge package.’ ”

Dr. Scott smiled. I smiled.

“Hem, let’s shift to Jennifer,” she continued. “Did you love living with her?”

I looked at the clock. We were running out of time so I shed the pretense of deep inner angst and turmoil. I think I knew the answer to this one, finally.

“I loved living with her for the first eight months or so but then I started missing the freedom of my old life. But doing
something about it would have been a huge deal. So I did nothing about it. I was paralyzed. Or more accurately, I guess I chose to be paralyzed.”

That earned a nod from Dr. Scott.

“Living together just kind of became more of a routine, a habit, and less a real relationship,” I admitted.

“Good. It feels like you’ve thought this through. Okay, Hem, here’s a big one. Did you love Jennifer? Did you really love her?”

“No.”

“Okay, we’re nearly out of time. So let me skip to the end. Hem, on the YouTube video, you seemed like you were very upset and acting out in ways that are not consistent with your personality and beliefs.”

I just nodded.

“In light of your candid responses in the last half-hour, is it possible that your little episode at the
DMV
yesterday was not because you couldn’t cope with losing your job and your girlfriend, but rather because you just don’t know how to handle the unexpected freedom you suddenly now have?”

Five minutes later we both rose from our chairs and I headed for the door.

“Did you notice the comments on the video?” I asked her.

“Well, I scanned a few but didn’t really like what I was reading so I stopped. Why?”

“I know there were tons of vitriolic comments, but sprinkled in among them were a handful of supportive ones, most from other people with famous or nearly famous names.”

“And …?” she prompted.

“Well, I’ve never really considered that there are other people out there living with what I’m living with. But of course there would be. I’ve never in my life encountered anyone who might really understand what it’s like. It would be interesting to meet a few, have a beer, and compare notes.”

She paused for a moment in thought before responding.

“Well, you never know, New York is a big city. By the way, are you still working on your little famous names classification system? What do you call it again?” she asked.

“I think of it as a taxonomy. Yep, I’m still fiddling with it.”

“Good for you. Sounds like an interesting project.”

“Thanks for the time, Dr. Scott. Good session.”

I always said “Good session” when we finished. It was my standard parting line. But it really had been a good session. A very good session.

I was up from the subway on the final stretch along Bank Street to my apartment when my cellphone chirped.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mr. Hemmingway, it’s Susan from the
U OF C
library and archives.”

“Hi, Susan. You can call me Hem. Everybody else does. The ‘Mr.’ always makes me feel a little nervous.”

“Sure, Hem. Thank you. I just wanted to follow up on my letter asking about any papers or personal effects you’d like to add to the Hemmingway Archive. It’s been a while since we’ve received any new material from the family. Don’t forget, it’s a tax-deductible donation.”

“Right. I’m sorry, I meant to call you back,” I skated. “I’ve been, um, very busy the last few days. I’ve got nothing to contribute right now but I’ll certainly keep you posted. My sister is really into the family history. I’d give her a call.”

“Yes, Sarah is in here quite often looking through the archive. I’ll ask her when she’s in next,” she said. “Oh, and I’m sorry about what you’re going through right now. Bye.”

Great.

When I got back home, I felt good. I wasn’t trying to, I just did. It was strange having your live-in girlfriend bolt and not be broken up about it. But I wasn’t. I ordered Chinese and tried for a while to work on the novel. Chapter 12. Nothing. No words. White screen, blinking cursor mocking me, Hemingway’s ghost somewhere nearby. Yes, I was quite sure.

On the bright side, the apartment still looked great. Clean apartment = clean slate. In my mind’s ear, I could almost hear the cast of
Annie
belting out “Tomorrow.” While I brushed my teeth, I had a moment to wonder what it would be like to have pain-free hindquarters again, to be able to sit in a hard chair
again, to sidestep a Broadway matinee lineup, accidentally bump my ass on a parking meter, and not yelp and tear up and bite a hole through my tongue. More Advil, then I went to bed, still on my stomach.

It happened about six and a half hours later. I don’t know
how
it arrived. I just know
that
it arrived.

It was still dark when I awoke. I wasn’t tired in the least, though I should have been. The garish orange digits next to me blared 4:32 a.m. In hindsight, there was no earth-shattering epiphany, no profound revelation. I’m not prone to such dramatic breakthroughs. It was really just a simple, solid, sound idea that seemed to arrive fully formed, along with a sentence I’d heard earlier.

Yes, it is. Yes, it is.

I turned it over in my mind for about an hour before getting up and wakening my laptop. I mapped out the idea. Fiddled with it. Made it bigger, made it smaller, then made it just right, I hoped. I took about half an hour finding the words for the ad, then copied and pasted them into the little box on the
New York Times
classified ads website. I chose the “New York Region
only” option. I could always spread my net wider if this initial approach failed. Now I just needed a date, time, and location to complete the ad.

Where to do it. A local church? No, not the vibe I was going for. A hotel? Kind of expensive, and it may not set the right tone. A bar? Tempting, but too many distractions, like beer, and karaoke … and beer. The boardroom at Macdonald-Clark? I could probably arrange it, but unless he was busy, it would probably mean seeing Bob again, and I just wasn’t up for that. (Bob busy? Good one.) So no go on the
MC
boardroom. Public library? Now we’re getting warmer, but still a tad restrictive, I thought. Where, where, where …