Getting Better

The feeling was like sinking. Gert and the counselor drifted outside her field of vision; her breath halted. Sophie knew even if she could speak, her words would go unheard.

She wanted to run out of the room, but thought better of it, so she sat, head in hand as if she were concentrating. 

“Are you ok?” The counselor’s voice was even, warm.

The clock ticking, the sound of Gert breathing next to her on the couch, the stare of the counselor, all irritated her.

She took a deep breath, looked up. 

Gert said, “We all want you to be ok.” He turned to her, put his hand on her knee. 

Sophie searched for an object in the room and settled on the bookshelf behind the counselor, who sat in front of them in her wheeled office chair. The shelf was tall, burnished in a dark stain that caught the light in places, rings of oak visible throughout. It was expensive looking and completely lined with books, no gaps. Had the counselor read all of these books, or none of them? Put together, how much did they weigh? Sophie wondered what would happen if the counselor was careless in her wheely chair, feet pushing a little too hard off the floor as she shuffled back to her desk. Sophie saw her bump into the bookcase, saw it rocking slightly at first and then in larger and larger seesaw arcs until it fell forward. Surely, the counselor would be crushed beneath its weight. Was it tall enough to reach her and Gert, where they sat on the plush, teal colored sofa? 

She wanted to talk about the pretentious bookshelf, how unnecessary it was. She’d use an open-ended question: “What do you think about that bookshelf?” but instead, she said, “I’m ok, thank you,” and put her hand on top of Gert’s. 

***

Sophie pulled her large nosed Buick over a rare curve in I-90, where Louisiana and Texas would soon meet. The car was an ‘87, with roll down windows and broad seats. The sun was hot on her left side, ears and neck burning as the sun assumed a perch high in the cloudless sky. She pictured California, anxious to feel wet sand beneath her feet and see the foamy surf. Unlike the feeble coastline of her hometown, she knew she would appreciate the endless horizon the Pacific Ocean would provide. When asked “Why California? It’s so far,” she’d replied for no other reason than she hadn’t been there before.

Sophie leaned on the doorframe and pulled her fingers through her curls, singing the words she knew to Tina Turner’s, You Better be Good to Me and humming the rest. She’d need gas in another couple hours, but nothing else until she pulled into Houston for the night. “Good job old girl,” she said, patting the molded plastic dash that was cracked at its base.

She had two rules: stop at everything interesting, and don’t depend on anyone, especially a man. Her sister’s words of years ago rang in her ears: “You don’t know what it’s like. To have to do things on your own,” and so that had become her mantra, the second rule of this trip and her life. That rule had been tested just south of Nashville with a soft tire. 

The land here was strewn about with wooden homes set haphazardly on plots of land. The gravel paths surrounding them were overgrown with weeds, signaling their lack of occupancy. Tradition was losing its grip, most likely to the promise of nearby industrial and port way stations. After having seen nothing but burnt sugar cane and dead grass for miles, Sophie’s attention was caught by a solitary turquoise house. It faced traffic without the customary long driveway signaling a private residence but in every other way was a traditional southern home, with broad porch, overhang, and single paned windows wide as an unblinking eye. A hand painted sign hung crookedly on its front.

“Coffee and Cream,” she read aloud and then pulled the wheel hard left to make a U-turn back towards the house.

The shop was bright and empty. Air cascaded from vents high on the wall behind her, delivering a pleasant shock of cool. Lit with natural light, thin white curtains billowed under the manufactured air. A couple bare bulbs hung from copper fixtures in austere style. 

The store was full of imitations of farm life: a cookie jar made to look like a cow’s head, roosters of all colors. The floor was checkered black and white. Sophie approached a wooden shelf lined with novelty salt and pepper shakers and smiled, picking up one in the shape of a seashell. 

There was nothing here reminiscent of the barren, incessant fields she’d just passed or the dangerous swamps of east Louisiana. 

There were signs, to be sure, things she should have cautioned her, but Gert was as unexpected as his name.

Sophie surveyed tubs of ice cream behind the display. There were the classic flavors of rocky road, rum raisin, pralines and cream and flavors that screamed, “Last stop Louisiana!” like cayenne chocolate, king cake swirl–colored sugar in cake dough. Above was a chalkboard menu boasting coffee orders any suburbanite might require. She peeked around the butcher’s block to the swinging door for signs of movement.  

Suddenly, he was there behind her in line as if there were a line at all, leaning as if straining to read the menu. He was close enough to grab her around the hips, for them to be mistaken as a couple. 

A short lady burst through the swinging door, coaxing a metal keg in front of her, using a left-right motion. Sophie couldn’t tell how old she was. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail that swung with her motions. When she stood to greet Sophie with a smile, small lines appeared at the corners of her eyes.  

“Oh!” she said, “Sorry, honey, to keep you waiting.”

“It’s ok,” Sophie said, finger to her lips. She was thinking about the rum raisin.  

“You should try that one,” he’d said over her shoulder, touching the glass.

“Excuse me?” Sophie said and leaned away from him. She crossed her arms close to her chest.

 “I can tell you’re not from around here, so you’d better get the king cake swir–”

“Pot and kettle,” Sophie wanted to say. He didn’t look like he belonged here, wearing a T-shirt underneath an open, plaid button down and full-length jeans, despite the heat. There were filthy stains near the front pockets where his hands might grab if he had to quickly rub them clean. She imagined his life was small and interrupted only by the predictable demands of the seasons.

Her look must have said as much because he backed up, hands held in mock surrender, but still smiling. He kept on, “King cake is…”

Sophie laughed. “I know what king cake is.” She wanted to ask what business it was of his but didn’t want to invite anymore conversation. Instead, she asked over the counter, “Can the rum raisin be made into a shake?”

The lady gave a nod, “Sure can!” and set to work.

He chuckled. “King cake for rum raisin?” meaning she was trading king cake for rum raisin, and it was a bad deal.  “If you know what king cake is, you’ll know you can’t get it anywhere else. Last chance,” and he held his arms at his sides in a gesture of openness. Sophie noticed his jet black hair and dimpled cheeks for the first time despite the shadow created by his beard and a cap pulled low. It wasn’t hard to imagine a muscled arm beneath the long sleeves judging by his calloused hands. He was good looking.  

“One rum raisin!” the lady said, sliding the drink onto the counter. 

“Ok, thanks.” Sophie turned towards the stranger and measured her response. “Everyone’s entitled,” she’d wanted to say, taking a sip of her rum raisin shake, knowing he was watching her. To heck with his opinions, what he knew about Louisiana. She’d leave the thought unfinished and twirl out the door.  

Except that’s not what happened. 

***

Gert walked by her in the dark, his socked feet padding the wooden floor. She was awake, staring. She was tired, but past sleepiness. One knee was pulled up against the armchair supporting the baby’s weight, its head thrown back and mouth open in the abandonment of sleep. Even in the dark, she felt it, the walls moving in on her, the same way they silently smothered her in her dreams. They were the same in her dreams, the color of eggshells and empty.

Noticing her, Gert inched back toward her and stood there a moment before asking, “What does the doctor say?

“It’s been twelve weeks. I’m not postpartum anymore,” and then when he didn’t understand, “I have to find a counselor or psychiatrist or psychologist.” She looked in his direction, just seeing the shape of him. “He gave me some numbers,” and then she looked back towards the baby’s face, though she couldn’t see the baby either, at least nothing but a general shape where its head lay. 

“You know my mom can come,” Gert said. His voice was low. Sophie wondered whether he was scared of waking the baby or frightened of her. She sighed. “I was supposed to go to Europe: Italy and France and then Greece. Maybe even Malta,” as though she were naming the planets. And then, “Do you think we will one day?” 

The sun was coming up, Sophie knew, by how the light pushed against the curtains. She leaned over the bassinet and stared into the face of her baby girl, a face as round as the moon, whose cheeks dimpled the same way Gert’s did when he smiled. Her breathing steadied as she stroked the baby’s cheek, the softest thing she’d ever felt. She could hear Rose in the kitchen already, a space in the house where her presence expanded as she walked back and forth, slamming doors and pulling pots up to the stovetop. The moment ended, and Sophie got up. 

She was doing better now. At least Gert said so. 

Rose had come into their lives loudly. Walking across the threshold of their apartment, she immediately dropped her suitcase. She surveyed the kitchen and said, “A man needs food,” as if that were an explanation. She took a long arm and swept a large part of the counter clear of its contents in one motion. Wrappers, paper plates, mugs, and half-empty microwave cartons went into the sink to be sorted later, even the baby’s bottles. “There,” she said, satisfied. She then picked up her suitcase, marched to an empty bedroom, and started unpacking her clothes. Rose kept clearing things. She’d moved Sophie’s expensive stand mixer from its spot next to the stove to the lowest cupboard, for safety reasons. Sophie had to heave it up to a workable position each time she wanted to use it. 

The first feeling was relief. Sophie slept. She woke up one day not knowing whether it was evening of the same day or morning of the next. Hearing the soft mumbling of talk and clinking of dinnerware, she found Gert bent over a dinner plate, eating something red and soupy over rice that slipped through his fork in drips. He ate with a slurping sound. Rose stood near the sink, dishes lined high in the drain and bounced the baby. She smiled and said, “Hi sleepyhead!” to Sophie a little too loudly.

“Dinner’s great, thanks, ma,” Gert said as he got up. He went to kiss his mother on the cheek and then bumped the table slightly as he walked around it to where Sophie was standing in the doorway, wiping sleep out of her eyes. 

“Oh, that ain’t nothing,” Rose said, waving a hand. “I’ve been fixing this since I was twelve. Anyone can do it, easy peasy.”

Gert led Sophie to her place, where there was a plate full of the same red gravy and rice he’d been eating. The yellow Formica table looked different. She fingered the edges of a place mat she’d never seen before, small pinwheeling flowers tracing arcs on it, and noticed her fork placed on a small paper towel folded neatly in half. Gert squeezed her shoulder. “See,” he said into her ear, “Everything’s going to be ok,” though Sophie was sure Rose heard him, too. Sophie stirred the food around on her plate. 

“Is it good?” Rose asked while the baby suckled a bottle in her arms. Sophie nodded. 

***

The counselor said, “I’d like to try a gratitude exercise.”

The counselor’s office was an off-white color, as in her dreams and their apartment, but the counselor chose large prints to cover the walls. They were of nature, colorful and benign: a seedling in a heap of dirt, a fox peeking out from behind a forest of slim, white barked trees, a sunset. Still, the walls tilted, the four corners above her falling into each other, the breathable space getting smaller and smaller until she was encased in a coffin. She rubbed her forehead to chase the image away.

The clock ticked in the brief silences, a reminder that their time would end. The counselor eyed them through tortoise shell glasses whose rims made a severe downward angle. “Turn towards each other, please.” They held hands, knees almost touching. Gert’s eyes moved back and forth over hers. 

“You’ll repeat after me,” the counselor said, “and add your own words, of course, whatever you are most thankful for in your partner.” She admonished, “Really look at each other.” And, after a pause, “I’m thankful for…”

Gert inhaled, smiled. “I’m grateful for you” and squeezed Sophie’s hands just so. 

“What else?” the counselor asked. “Keep going.”

“I’m thankful for our baby. Our baby, and my mom, who’s helping us,” he added, looking back toward the counselor.

Sophie nodded, a tear trailing down her cheek. “I’m thankful for you, and our baby,” she repeated. And then after a pause, “for your mom.”

As she said the words, Sophie felt herself drifting and was grateful for Gert’s hands that held her. The exercise continued, but afterwards, she couldn’t recall what else had been said. 

On their way out, the counselor said, “Good progress today. Sophie, especially you.” 

“Thanks,” she replied, and looking at Gert, she smiled and said, “I think I’ll take a walk today. I haven't been out in a while.”

“Great!” the counselor said, overhearing her, “Doing everyday things helps” and closed the door gently behind them.