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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Reasons Not to Forgive : Page 1, 2, 3, 4 "The headmaster of Corey’s school called me today," the therapist says to no one in particular. "She told me about an exercise that was done on the day that Corey started at Wellspring, when kids were asked to draw family portraits. Do you remember, Corey?" Your daughter’s face reddens and you feel a deep pang of sympathy, because you remember how awful it is to be embarrassed as a child, how defenseless you feel, how little you understand the manipulations of adults. You wish you could make this therapist disappear, or better yet, you wish you could make yourself disappear. You wish you could rise to your feet and walk out of the room, reenact the whole leaving process right here, right now. But guilt quells the urge. Haven’t you done enough leaving? "You drew yourself, and your parents, right? And then you drew a baby and when the teacher asked you —" "I didn’t say my Mom is having a baby. I said I wished." Corey’s voice is high and scored with pain. "God, this is so retarded!" Your daughter takes your hand and turns to you pleadingly. "Dad, let’s just go, okay?" she says. It's like she has read your mind and shares your impulse. "I’ll start back to school tomorrow if we can just go home right now." This all sounds so plausible, so much the right thing to do, except you don’t have a home to go to anymore with your daughter. You try to get a read on your ex-wife, and when you look over you see that Corey is holding Liz’s hand too, offering herself as a human bridge. Liz pulls her hand away, though. She uses her hand to block your view of her eyes. "This is not solving our problem," you tell the therapist. "We need to work out a plan so that Corey will start school again and not fall into the same pattern of saying she is sick and refusing to get out of bed —" "Oh Corey," your ex-wife interrupts. "Oh Corey, did you honestly think that your father and I might have another baby? Did you really think that, honey?" "I want a baby brother." There is no end to the loss in her voice, no end to the need. "I know you do, Corey," Liz says, and her solemnness silences you, the way it always has. Soon everyone in the room is crying, including the therapist, including you. It seems almost fitting that a cacophony of dogs begins to howl outside, the howls coming from all directions surrounding the old Victorian. "Time is up," says the therapist, as if the dogs were the session timekeepers. "The dogs do this every night at 7:00," she adds, handing you a tissue as she gets one for herself. "Kind of like a neighborhood roll call." You are astonished that she is talking about the dogs in the midst of your family tragedy. Astonished, and then relieved. By the time you get home you have cried so much you have empty sockets for eyes. You go to the kitchen sink and splash your face with water and then you climb onto the couch next to your new wife, Susan, who is pregnant. You feel like you are climbing into a cocoon, pressing your head to the pillow, curling your legs under the blanket at her side - one of Liz’s gifts from when you were dating, made of two shades of blue flannel with yellow squiggles embroidered throughout. It is an object that you love and will never give up, no matter how much anger and sadness passes between you. How much of your life can you share with someone before you are inextricably connected, woven into the cloth of each other’s experience? You will keep certain pieces of past, even if it means carrying a burden that will not lessen, will not ease. |
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