Читать книгу Hey Dorothy You're Not in Kansas Anymore - Karen Mueller Bryson - Страница 4

On the fourth day of my sleepfest, my mom decided to call a psychologist, Dr. Lyman Frankenbaum. She told me he was a well-known authority on death and dying and grief and other morbid stuff like that. I wasn’t very enthusiastic about seeing him but my mother insisted that we all go, as a family, to help each other through “such a difficult time.” I didn’t think sleeping my life away was really all that difficult.

Mom told Jude and I to meet her downtown at Dr. Frankenbaum's office that afternoon. I was the first one there. When I entered Dr. Frankenbaum's waiting room, I noticed a weird smell, like someone was sautéing garlic and onions. It was a few weeks into our sessions before I realized that Dr. Frankenbaum must have had some kind of a shared air handling system with the other businesses that occupied the small strip mall. There was a take-out Mediterranean restaurant two doors down. Whenever I think about my therapy sessions with Dr. Frankenbaum, I still crave falafel and hummus.

The weirdest thing about Dr. Frankenbaum’s office, though, was that he didn’t have a receptionist. The only things he had in his waiting room were a fake plant, three yellow plastic waiting-room chairs and a sign that said: Please have a seat. I will be with you shortly.

When I finally met Dr. Frankenbaum, I realized that "shortly" was actually a statement about his height and not the length of time you could expect to wait for your appointment.

It seemed like I sat in that waiting room for a week before my mom and brother showed up. The chairs were just that uncomfortable, and Dr. Frankenbaum was so cheap, he didn’t even have the customary year-old doctor's office copies of Time and People for his patients to read. I knew my life had deteriorated to an all-time low when I wasn’t even in the mood to daydream about hunky Luke from acting class. I just sat there staring at the fake plant.

That's when my mother came rushing in. "I’m so glad you’re here, Dorothy," she said. "I was worried sick about you."

"Why, Mom? I was just sleeping."

"Nobody sleeps for three days straight; it’s just not natural."

"I guess I was tired."

Jude then decided to grace us with his presence. Zip-a-dee-do-dah! Lucky us!

"Well, would you look at that," he said. "Sleeping Beauty has finally arisen."

"You know, you’re a real jerk," I snapped back.

"So I’ve been told."

"And that doesn’t bother you?"

"I plan on acquiring great wealth and success as a lawyer by being a ruthless bastard. It doesn’t bother me a bit."

"All right you two, enough," my mom said finally.

That’s when Dr. Frankenbaum came out of his office and invited us in for our session. It was the strangest thing, and you probably won’t believe it, but Dr. Frankenbaum looked exactly like Mickey Rooney! I’m not kidding. The likeness was uncanny. It made me wonder if Mickey Rooney decided to quit show business and disguise himself as Dr. Frankenbaum to start a new life. Or maybe Mickey Rooney was actually one of a set of identical twins that were separated at birth and Dr. Frankenbaum was his long-lost identical twin brother. Or maybe Mickey Rooney and Dr. Frankenbaum were really evil clones created to destroy the world. But I digress. I was saying that Dr. Frankenbaum invited us into his office for our first family grief work therapy session. This is how it went:

"I’m very glad all three of you could make it today," he said. "When your mother called to make the appointment, she told me a little bit about what happened to Mr. Robinson, but I’d like to hear each of you tell me in your own words about his death. Who would like to start?"

I didn't think any of the Robinsons would volunteer for that one, but Jude jumped right in. "I’d like to start," he said.

"That’s wonderful, Jude," said Dr. Frankenbaum.

Jude was already starting with his kiss-ass, suck-up method of operation. It made me so mad that he was so good at it.

Jude continued, "Last week, I was at my office. I just started with Rubin and Bagdonovitz. That's a law firm downtown; one of the best in the state."

"I'm familiar with them," said Dr. Frankenbaum.

"I was packing up some paperwork, getting ready to go home, when my cell phone rang. It was my mom. She told me to come home right away. When I got there, my grandmother, Frannie, told me there had been a terrible accident and that my dad was gone."

"Do you remember how you felt at that moment, Jude, when you first found out about your father’s death?"

"I was shocked; it was shocking news."

"And how do you feel now?"

"Angry."

"That’s good, Jude. Those are perfectly natural and normal reactions to death. Now, Dorothy, why don’t you tell us, in your own words, what happened the night your father died?"

I hesitated for a moment. I wasn't sure what to say. Finally, I said, "Well, I, um, I was in my acting class and my mom called me and told me to come home right away. So I did. When I got there my grandmother told me all about Buckstar's and that fatal non-fat decaf mocha latte. I told my dad not to go there. Everyone knows that Buckstar's is evil. The founder, Harold Schwartz, is the anti-Christ. He’s planning on taking over the world with his addictive but flavorful coffees."

When I saw Dr. Frankenbaum grab a pad from his desk and begin furiously taking notes, I realized that my creative insanity might not be the best thing to openly express to a psychologist. When he finally stopped writing, he said, "I see. You believe that Buckstar's is evil and Harold Schwartz is the anti-Christ. That’s a very interesting theory. We’ll come back to that another time. But let me ask you this, Dorothy, how did you feel when you learned about your father’s death?"

"How did I feel?" I said. I had no idea how I felt.

"Yes, how did you feel? Your brother, Jude, said he was shocked by the news. How did you feel?"

"I don’t know. I guess I felt tired."

"Tired?" he said. He sounded puzzled by my response but that's really how I felt. If he didn't want to hear my honest answer, he shouldn't have asked the question.

"Yeah," I said. "I felt tired."

"Interesting."

Dr. Frankenbaum started writing again. I later came to find out that it isn't such a good thing when a psychologist remarks, "That’s interesting." Or furiously takes notes immediately after you speak.

"And how do you feel about your father’s death right now?" he asked.

"I’m not sure," I said.

"You’re not sure how you feel?"

"No, not really. I still feel tired."

"I see."

There was one of those brief eternal moments while Dr. Frankenbaum made some more notes. I wondered why he hadn't written anything down when Jude was talking. Finally, Dr. Frankenbaum said, "Mrs. Robinson. If I can have a word with you, please—privately.”

He and my mom left the room for what seemed like twenty years and I was alone with Jude. Not one of my favorite states of being.

"You are such a flake," Jude said. "I feel tired. That’s all. You’re not even smart enough to know what to say to a shrink."

"What do you mean? He asked me how I felt and I told him."

"You don’t tell him how you really feel, Idiot. You tell him what he wants to hear. Don’t you even know the stages of grief?"

"No."

"Well, I suggest you find out and fast. You might want to go to the library and look up Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. You do know where the library is?"

"Yes, I know where the library is, Smarty-pants."

"Oh, and you might want to drop the whole “Buckstar's is evil” crap, or Dr. Doom is going to lock you up and throw away the key."

My mom came back into the room with Mickey Rooney, I mean, Dr. Frankenbaum.

"Your mother and I have been having a little chat, Dorothy," he said. "And we feel that it is in your best interest, at this point, to attend individual therapy sessions twice a week. That is in addition to your already scheduled family sessions. You are an adult, so your mother can’t legally make that decision for you, but since she is willing to pay for your therapy, I think you should give my recommendation some serious consideration."

Twice a week! Like I didn’t have anything better to do? Well, I guess I really didn’t have anything better to do but that was beside the point. Therapy twice a week was just out of control. Way out of control.

"Now, Dorothy," my mom said. "I know this has been a very difficult week for you. It’s been a very difficult week for all of us. But you can’t just sleep your life away!"

"That’s not an appropriate coping mechanism, Dorothy," said Dr. Frankenbaum.

I said, "I don’t know." What I did know was that I did not want to be in therapy. I especially didn't want to be in therapy with Mickey Rooney.

"This is an investment in your future, Dorothy," said Dr. Frankenbaum.

"You want to be mentally healthy, don’t you?"

Now, if that wasn’t a loaded question. Who doesn’t want to be mentally healthy? "Of course, I want to be mentally healthy, but—"

"Then it’s settled," my mom said. "When can she start with her individual sessions, Doctor?"

"How about next Wednesday?" said Dr. Frankenbaum, scrutinizing his calendar.

I tried everything I could think of to weasel my way out of treatment but to no avail.

"What time should she be here?" my mother asked.

"How does two-thirty sound?" he said.

"Perfect," said my mom, and it was settled.

And that’s how I got talked into a year of therapy.

When Dr. Frankenbaum escorted us back out into the waiting room, his next patients were already waiting for their appointment. The two men were sitting together, in the yellow plastic chairs, reading a book of poetry aloud and holding hands. I could barely contain the overwhelming excitement that was building in anticipation of my next session.