Tonight it was “He hasn’t connected with Robby.”
A pause, and then Dr. Faheida asked, “Bret?”
This was the crux of the matter, the slashing detour from the numbing sameness that enveloped each hour. Very quickly I began formulating a defense with “That’s not true” but was interrupted by an exasperated sound from Jayne.
“Okay . . . I want to say that’s not true because it’s not totally true . . . I think we get along a little better now and . . .”
Dr. Faheida held up a hand to silence Jayne, who was writhing in her chair. “Let Bret speak, Jayne.”
“And, I mean, Jesus, it’s only been four months. It can’t happen overnight.” My voice was rigid with calm.
A pause. “Are you finished?” Dr. Faheida asked.
“I mean, I could say he hasn’t connected with me.” I turned to Dr. Faheida. “I can say that, right? Is that okay? That Robby hasn’t tried connecting with me?”
Dr. Faheida stroked her thin neck and nodded benevolently.
“He wasn’t here when Robby was growing up,” Jayne said. And I could already tell by her voice—just minutes into the session—that her rage was going to end up being defeated by sadness.
“Address Bret, Jayne.”
She turned toward me, and when our eyes met I looked away.
“That’s why he’s just this boy to you,” she said. “That’s why you have no feelings for him.”
“He’s still growing up, Jayne,” Dr. Faheida reminded her gently.
And then I had to stop my eyes from watering by saying: “But were you really there for him, Jayne? I mean, all these years, with you traveling everywhere, were you really there for him—”
“Oh God, not this shit again,” Jayne groaned, sinking into the armchair.
“No, really. How many times have you left him when you went on location? With Marta? Or your parents? Or whoever? I mean, honey, a lot of the time he was raised by a series of faceless nannies—”
“This is exactly why I don’t think counseling is helping,” Jayne said to Dr. Faheida. “This is it exactly. It’s all a joke. This is why it’s a waste of time.”
“Is this all a joke to you, Bret?” Dr. Faheida asked.
“He’s never changed a diaper,” Jayne said, going through her hysterical litany of how the damage we were trudging through was caused by my absence during Robby’s infancy. She was actually in the middle of pointing out that I’d “never been thrown up on” when I had to cut her off. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted her guilt and anger to really start kicking in.
“I have been vomited on, honey,” I protested. “Quite often I have been vomited on. In fact there was a year sometime back there when I was vomited on continuously.”
“Vomiting on yourself doesn’t count!” she shouted, and then said, less desperately, to Dr. Faheida, “See—it’s all a joke to him.”
“Bret, why do you attempt to mask real problems with irony and sarcasm?” Dr. Faheida asked.
“Because I don’t know how seriously I can take all this if we’re only blaming me,” I said.
“No one is ‘blaming’ anyone,” Dr. Faheida said. “I thought we all agreed that this is a term we don’t use here.”
“I think Jayne needs to take responsibility as well.” I shrugged. “Did we or did we not finish last week’s session talking about Jayne’s problem? The little teensy-weensy one”—I held up two fingers, pressing them together tightly, to illustrate—“about how she doesn’t think she’s worthy of respect and how that messes up everything? Did we or did we not discuss this, Dr. Fajita?”
“It’s Faheida,” she corrected me quietly.
“Dr. Fajita, doesn’t anyone see here that I didn’t want—”
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Jayne shouted. “He’s a drug addict. He’s been using again.”
“None of this has anything to do with being a drug addict,” I shouted back. “It has to do with the fact that I didn’t want a kid!”
Everything tensed up. The room went silent. Jayne stared at me.
I breathed in, then started talking slowly.
“I didn’t want a kid. It’s true. I didn’t. But . . . now . . .” I had to stop. A circle was narrowing around me, and my chest felt so tight that I was momentarily lost in blackness.
“Now . . . what, Bret?” This was Dr. Faheida.
