Sarcasm and Sorrow

"You signed the divorce papers last week. Tell me about that."

Anne rolled her head back to look at this ceiling, knowing this question would arise in therapy. "There's not much to tell. We went, we signed, it's finished."

"That seems very business-like,” Dr. Flynn mentioned, setting down her tea from the table between the two women.

"Well, that's me, Doc. All business, no fluff.”

"Oh, I know. My self-assured, dare I say, cocky patient. With a chip on her shoulder."

"Sounds right."

"And an empty life she fills with busy, busy work."

"You know for a shrink, empathy really isn't your strong suit,” Anne said challengingly, leaning forward with a skeptical look on her face. “Just to be clear, seven figure deals are not busy work. I bring in more revenue than anyone in my region. Believe me, no one works harder than I do."

"I'm sure. That is how you wound up here. Or don't you remember?"

The psychiatrist flipped open a folder to read down a list. "Hospitalized with exhaustion, high blood pressure, and anemia. Further diagnosis from psych consult suggests high functioning anxiety and depression."

The doctor looks up, glasses teetering on the bridge of her nose and goes on, "Always running...to the next project, to the next deal. Or just running away from facing her pain?"

"I've faced it, and everyday all over again. At home, I faced it. Every time I come here, I face it. When is not facing it going to be acceptable?"

"Speaking of home, did your husband get the house?"

"It wasn't anything to argue over. I wanted to sell it and split the cash. But he wanted it so badly. It was the least I could do.”

Anne was not interested in going over the grueling details of her marriage falling apart. It was something she and Dr. Flynn had been over several times already, and concluded it was mostly Anne’s doing. Emotionally closed off, apathetic to their future, ignoring and unwilling to work through anything regarded as an issue of importance.

"I still want to hear how that day went for you,” the psychiatrist went on. “What happened after you signed the papers?"

"I shook my attorney's hand and walked out. I had a client meeting thirty minutes following, thankfully in the same building."

"Ah, more business. Not taking the time to process the event and what it means," Dr. Flynn said with a tone of disapproval.

"It's like any other contract I deal with. Negotiate terms, agree on dates, put a stamp on it and move on."

"But I'm the one with an empathy problem."

A series of jabs and combative conversation was the typical session for Anne and Dr. Flynn. Between the banter and personality digs, there was actual therapy going on.

Anne knew this should have been more tolling on her. She had loved her husband dearly, once upon a time as they say. What now felt like so long ago, another life.

"What was I supposed to do? Cry? Have some terrible breakdown over my collapsed marriage? That's not me."

"Interesting word usage. You describe the outcome as if it happened by time or age. Not wrecked or destroyed, suggesting there were acts which dismantled or tore it apart. What do you think of it?"

"I think you must be good at crossword puzzles,” Anne said, getting up to pace near the window.

"Times Champion two years running," the psychiatrist shot back.

"You get a trophy for that?"

"A medal."

"Big?"

"Like a saucer, with lots of colorful ribbons."

"Ribbons," Anne said pensively. "That's, that's wonderful."

Dr. Flynn noticed the change in her client. This would happen occasionally. That tough, put-together rogue would flash away to reveal a contemplative and morose woman.

"Anne, you know, since your company pays for all these sessions, they like to keep me abreast of your performance. I ignore it mostly. You are still working feverishly, which I'm sure they're grateful for. This week's report was different, though."

"Hmmm."

Dr. Flynn raised her voice a little, "You didn't make it to that client meeting after you signed the divorce papers, did you?"

"No," Anne replied robotically.

"You called your assistant to confirm the appointment?"

"Mhmm."

"Where did you go?"

"I went to the restroom to...to wash my hands. The pen they gave me to sign with, it smudged my fingers."

"And that bothered you?"

"It annoyed me more than anything,” Anne said crossing back and plopping onto the couch. “I was wearing a cream-colored suit. Ink blotches would be foul. As much as we paid these guys, you think they could afford decent pens."

"You washed your hands. Then what?"

* * *

There was a sound from one of the stalls. Sniffling.

"Oh no," a small and frightened voice whispered.

I normally wouldn't have cared, but...I don't know. They sounded scared. I peeked at the shoes under the door. I could tell it was a girl, young. She continued to whimper.

"Hello," I called softly and gave the door a light tap. "Are you okay in there?"

At first there was nothing, just quiet. For a moment, it all felt like a dream. I turned away and was going to leave. Then there was the scrape of a lock and the stall door opened slowly.

There she was, a waif of a girl, maybe seven or eight years old. She was wearing the cutest little day dress. Orange and yellow butterflies above the hem, and pale blue all over. It was that blue, that uhm...oh, robin's egg! Robin’s egg blue. That was Lena's favorite color. The girl kind of looked like Lena too. Tall, long hair flowing around her. But this girl had lighter hair, like caramel. Lena had dark hair, black, like her father.

"Can you help me, please?" the girl asked softly, and lifted a white ribbon I had not noticed before. "I pulled it out of the loops by accident. I can't get it back through."

"Sure," I said, and stepped aside to guide her to the mirror.

I took the ribbon from her hand and slid it through my fingers. It was silk like the collar and sleeves of her dress. I noticed there were small threads around the girl's waist. Just like Lena's old dresses, like all little girl's dresses, I suppose. I got one side through and searched for the other.

"Nanny's going to be so mad."

"Surely not," I said, meeting the little girl's eyes in the mirror. "It must happen all the time."

"All the time," she said wide-eyed. "That's why I'm always getting in trouble."

"And my hair's a mess," she said taking a small circle hair tie from her pocket. "Jack pulled it out while we were waiting on Daddy and Nanny to come out of his office. We were told to sit still, and I kept pulling on Jack to keep him from jumping around. We were not supposed to disturb them. Grown up talk, of course."

I rolled my eyes as I finished looping the ribbon through and tied it in a neat bow in the back.

"All done," I said, and bent down to look at her reflection in the mirror. "If you think you'll get in trouble for messy hair, I have a brush you can borrow."

"Nanny says never to share brushes with friends. You'll get bugs."

"Oh, I see," I smiled. "Well, what if I promise I don't have bugs in my hair. You can even check my head if you want. Besides, it's an extra brush that hasn't been near anyone's head in months, it can't have bugs on it."

The girl thought for a moment and fidgeted with my hair, flipping it around, probably not sure what to look for.

"Well, that sounds okay then. Yes, please," she said and with a small bounce turned to admire the now fixed bow at her back.

There is a pocket on the outside of my bag, with a zipper that's easy for little fingers to access. I opened it and found a small travel brush; light purple with silver glitter shining through. I turned it over to see the abundance of butterfly stickers, many-sized and overlapping. I remembered how Lena would ask for butterfly stickers; in the grocery checkout, at the bookstore, the quarter dispenser at school. There could never be enough.

"Wow, that's so pretty," the girl's voice brought me back. "Is that your little girl's brush?"

No words would come. I could not look up. I just focused on the top of her head and started brushing.

The girl chatted on, "I like butterflies too. When we do art, I always make butterflies. Colors, paints, once I even made one out of Play-Doh."

She was so animated. Going on about crafts and other things she had created. Colllages of hearts, flowers, and teddy bears. I was glad she was feeling better. How could someone terrorize this child to tears for a ribbon or her hair? She's a kid.

Lena was always out of sorts. I would tie up her hair, sometimes in a braid, and by the end of the day strays would be coming out around her face and the crisscross pattern would be undone in some places. Her knees would be scratched up. Dresses covered with sticky fingerprints, marker swipes, frayed strings from ribbons too delicate for the joy and life of a child.

"That sounds amazing," I squeaked out, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I pulled her hair back, put the tie in it and said, "You're all put together again."

"I look tidy," she gleamed and tilted her head to inspect my work.

"Very," I said. "But it's okay to be untidy sometimes. Children are supposed to worry more about having enough ways to make a butterfly and not if hair or ribbons are out of sorts."

"Oh, I'm not a child. I'm a young lady and supposed to act better," the girl stated with a firm nod.

I frowned. It broke my heart to heart that she felt such responsibility.

"Does your little girl behave all the time?" she asked meekly.

I gave the girl a smile and said, "Well she behaves like a child. She draws butterflies like you do and plays in pretty dresses with ribbons undone or mud around her skirt. Her hair is usually everywhere because she bounces around and shakes so hard when she laughs."

The girl looked away, like she was imagining a childhood without so many rules, requirements, and nannies.

I put my hand on her shoulder, "Sometimes adults think too much about being tidy, responsibilities, and having grown up talk. We miss out on wonderment with our kids, and don't realize how much we lost until those times are gone."

My memories of Lena are blurry. I know she was cheerful and loving, but I don't always remember the details around those moments, relying on holidays and birthdays to give me a sense of the occasion. Was I not paying enough attention the whole time? If I just paid more attention, would it all be different…better?

Suddenly the bathroom door popped opened and a little boy yelled, "Caroline, Dad's waiting!" before swinging closed again.

The girl turned and ran to the door. She turned back and in a sing-song voice so unlike the devastated child I found, she simply said, "Thank you!"

Then with a sweet smile and a waive she was gone.

When Lena left that day she had done the same thing. She finished breakfast and was heading out the door as the bus was honking from across the street, waiting on her. My phone rang and it was my assistant, giving me some last-minute details. Lena was calling me over to do up the ribbon at her waist.

I wasn't paying attention. She must have struggled for a bit but managed to get it done on her own because she called out that she would be okay and was heading out on her own. I saw the ribbon whipping in the wind and her little hand giving a waive. I hung up the phone, so I could walk her to the bus stop. I always walked her to the bus. If I had not picked up that phone, I would have been with her. Maybe she wouldn't have felt rushed and ran without looking. I would have been there to pull her back.

* * *

Anne blinked and felt hot tears running down her face. Looking down she saw her skirt was a darkened puddle from her weeping. She took a deep breath, in and out.

"Anne, it is okay to be sad. It is okay to think about her and feel sad," Dr. Flynn said reaching out to cover Anne’s hand.

"No, it's not!" Anne urged, pulling her hands back. "I shouldn't get to think of her. I don't deserve to."

"It's not fair to avoid her memory. You were a good mom. It was an accident. The bus had its sign out and flashers on. That driver should have stopped.”

"No!" Anne closed her eyes and kept breathing deeply, trying to become calm again, to feel peace again.

"Don't run away, Anne,” the doctor said moving to sit on the couch. “Closing yourself off tore you and your husband apart. Stay here, you have to feel this."

Anne merely struggled to take longer and deeper breaths, her whole body shaking.

"Anne, what happened after the girl left?" the doctor urged. "Why didn't you make it to your appointment?"

Anne opened her eyes, looking down at her hands. "The phone in my bag rang and I was digging around for it. I couldn't find it. It was frustrating and I threw the bag down.”

The doctor nodded, encouraging Anne to continue.

“Suddenly I felt...well everything. I was sad, angry, and it all hurt!”

Anne could only remember the pain, like her body was shattering into the universe trying to thread itself back into space. She was almost thrashing in the doctor’s arms.

Anne was gulping for air and half-screaming. “There was just so much pain!” she cried, crumpling into the lap of her psychiatrist.

They rocked and trembled together for a while. A simmering sorrow rolling over both women.

After a while, Anne seemed to come back. "I don't really know what happened, but suddenly security was there and my things were everywhere."

"You trashed the place," Dr. Flynn said with a smile.

"I guess," Anne chuckled.

"Believe it or not, this is progress."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"Sometimes progress isn't forward,” the doctor said, helping Anne sit up. “We'll wander back into grief and hurt, but a few steps or tumbles later and there will be hope again."

"You write sympathy cards in your spare time, too?" Anne teased.

"Hallmark, weekly contributor."