Blinda chuckled at that point, although I didn’t think I’d said anything particularly funny. She caught my inquisitive look. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just ironic that your father considered himself such a man’s man, enough to give you girls male names, and then your mother marries someone named Jan—a rather womanly sounding name—and he makes her happy again.”
I laughed then, too. I think that’s when I knew for certain that Blinda was going to be different from the therapists I’d heard about.
This was our sixth visit, although I felt in some ways as if I’d been seeing Blinda forever. I knew to hang my sweater on the antique brass rack inside the door. I knew to pour myself a cup of the jasmine-scented tea from the cracked Asian pot on her sideboard. I knew that I could just start talking whenever I wanted, that Blinda was always there with a nod of her blond head or an empathetic cluck of her tongue. I knew the routine, but I didn’t necessarily feel any better for it.
“It’s not that much to ask for,” I said now.
“You want your husband to pay attention to you, is that right?” Blinda asked. I had moved from the topic of my father to my other issues—failing marriage, heartbroken mother with no life of her own, inappropriate crush on Evan, inability to get promoted.
“Well, yeah,” I said. I shifted around on her woolly red and orange love seat that looked like it was purchased in a Marrakech marketplace. On either end sat bamboo tables with lit yellow candles and boxes of recycled tissue. Those boxes were always different, replaced, each time I came. It seemed I was Blinda’s only client who didn’t cry constantly. I was the only angry, irritated one. “Yeah, I want Chris to look at me like he used to when we were dating, but I want more than just that,” I said.
“What else?” She leaned forward, her straight, blond hair swinging. I could not figure out Blinda. She looked like an aging beach bum, someone who would smoke a lot of pot and live in her parents’ basement, and yet hanging on her wall were a plethora of framed diplomas, photos of Hindu Temples and two pictures of her with a robed, bespectacled man who looked very much like the Dalai Lama.
I sighed. I’d told her all this already. “I want to get the vice presidency. I want my mom to get her own life. I want to get over my dad. And I want Evan to want me.”
She raised her eyebrows at that last one.
“Not that I’d do anything with Evan,” I said. “It would just be nice if he had a thing for me.”
“I see,” Blinda said. “Billy, what have you actually done to get these things you desire for yourself?”
“Everything!”
She raised her eyebrows again.
“It’s true! I’ve been campaigning for the VP job forever. I’ve asked Chris to go to therapy with me, but he won’t. I’m talking to you about my mom and dad. I mean, I feel like I’ve been trying.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll tell you to look inside for your happiness.” She put her hands together in a prayer position and put them against her T-shirt clad chest. On it was written something in French.
I stopped short of rolling my eyes. “I have.”
Blinda studied me. “If you get those things you want, would you be happy then?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. As I said, I don’t think I’m asking for that much.”
She crossed her legs and rearranged her colorful, flowy skirt. “Billy, I’m going out of town for a while.”
I opened and closed my mouth, surprised at the shift in topic and the concept of Blinda leaving. “Where are you going?”
“Africa. I’m going to visit the village where I lived when I was in the Peace Corps.” She smiled beatifically, and I got an image of blond Blinda surrounded by native villagers doing tribal dances, praying for water. Immediately, I felt chagrined at my list of “needs.”
“I’d like to give you something,” Blinda continued. She stood up and crossed the room to an old wood hutch with glass doors. Opening one of them, she reached inside. When she turned around, she held a small green object in her hand. “Here you go.”
The object was made of a glittery, jadelike material, and it was shaped like a frog on a lily pad. The frog’s hind legs were rounded little haunches, his eyes tiny jade spheres. His mouth was a long slash that ran under the eyes.
“Well, uh…thank you.” What was I supposed to do with it?
“In ancient Chinese culture, this icon was thought to bring good fortune to the owner.”
“Right. Great.” But what I was thinking was, Of all the New Age crap….
“I’ll let you know when I’m back in the city, but in the meantime, keep this. I hope it brings what you wish for.”
“Thanks, Blinda.” I glanced at the ivory clock on the coffee table. My hour was up. I’d now have to cut her a check for a hundred dollars, and all I had to show for it was a crappy piece of green rock.
“What’s that?” Chris said. He was in bed already with a little light reading—a book called The Second Carthaginian War.
“A frog.” I put in on my nightstand next to my clock and set the clock for seven-fifteen. “Blinda gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
Chris laughed. “Sounds like a top-of-the-line therapist.”
I put a hand on my hip and gave him a look.
“Sorry,” he said, still laughing.
I looked at the frog again. It seemed so little and Asian and out of place on my contemporary maple nightstand, next to my sleek black clock that played ocean and rainforest sounds in addition to the radio. And then I couldn’t help but laugh, too.
“Come to bed,” Chris said with a smile, and I wondered if tonight was going to be one of those few nights we spent in each other’s arms. There used to be many of them.
I remembered the evening I’d met him at a northside pizza place. We’d been set up by Tess, my high school girlfriend, and her husband, Tim, who worked with Chris. Chris was adorable that night in his navy suit and tie, his brown leather loafers shiny and uncreased as if he’d just bought them. He was eager to meet me, unlike Evan, who never seemed to notice me, and unlike the other guys I met, who had to be oh-so-cool all the damn time. We bonded at first over two small, strange things—our birthdays were only one day apart and our parents had given us weird names.
“Billy’s not so bad,” Chris had said. “Think about my middle name. I mean Marlowe, for Christ’s sake. It’s so pompous, but it really means something to them. If you meet my parents, don’t ask them about it. They will never shut up.”
I smiled, wondering if he really thought I’d meet his parents one day. “Well, if you ever meet my sisters, don’t challenge them to anything. They’re fiercely competitive, and they play to win.” I told him about my previous boyfriend, a guy named Walter with the ghastly nickname of Wat, who made the mistake of telling Dustin that he was an ace chess player. The two times they met each other, Dustin and Wat huddled over the chessboard. And both times she won.
Chris and I talked all about our families, barely noticing Tess and Tim, who sat across the table with pleased smiles. When we left the restaurant, he walked me the eight blocks home, even though it was the opposite direction of his place.
It was seamless. It was as if we were dating right from that night. I loved his big hands, his tall lanky body. I loved how he tilted