Exiles in America(14)

ing dodgeball on the playground. And Melissa suddenly collapsed. The ball

hadn’t hit her; she just fell, unconscious. And she stayed unconscious and was

rushed to the hospital. The doctors thought it was a cranial blood clot and

were certain she’d die.

Zack set down his pencil, listened, and said nothing.

“And I was ready to accept it. I was ready to say goodbye and let her go,”

said Fay. “With an ease that amazed me.”

He thought he knew where this was going: She was angry with God—

that’s why she had lost her temper. She was angry with God and her church,

and her anger frightened her.

But then Fay said, “And I realized I could let go of all of them. Every last

one. My daughter, my son, my husband. They could all die tomorrow and it

wouldn’t mean a thing.” She stared at Zack. “Isn’t that awful? They could all

drop dead and it wouldn’t hurt me a bit. They’d be out of my hair and I’d be

sad, but I could go on with my life. Because I don’t love them. Not really.”

“You mean to say that you felt—”

Fay rushed back into her story. “She was unconscious for thirty-six hours.

That’s all. A day and a half. I came back to her room from the cafeteria and—

there she was! Wide awake! Sitting up in bed! My darling little angelcake.

And I was so glad. I was!” she insisted, as if anyone could doubt her. “She was

fine, like it was nothing but a long nap. I was so happy to have her back.” She

paused again and bit her lower lip. “Not until weeks later did I remember my

real feelings. When the doctors told me she might die.” She drew her mouth

down in a rubbery frown. “That’s the kind of mother I really am. A cold

mother. A selfish mother.” Her face folded up between her frown and her

eyes, and she broke into loud sobs.

Daniel called this “the room where women come to cry,” but men cried

here, too. Zack could feel his own eyes prickling. He stood up and crossed to

the box of Kleenexes on the table beside her. He knelt down on one knee and

held out the tissues. “Fay, you don’t sound like a selfish woman. You don’t talk

like a cold mother.”

She took a tissue and covered her eyes.

“You sound like someone who was only protecting herself from a possible

loss.”

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

3 3

“But I don’t care about any of them!” she cried behind the crumpled mask

of paper. “I don’t love them.”

“But you must,” said Zack. “Or you wouldn’t be so afraid that something

else might happen to them.”

She clutched her nose in Kleenex. “What do you mean?”

Zack knew he’d jumped the gun. This was a premature interpretation and

he was saying too much too soon, but she was upset and he wanted to offer

some kind of solace. “You do care or you wouldn’t be afraid other terrible

things could happen to them.”

“You mean my panic attacks are about them and not me?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Zack, backtracking. “We’ll have to talk about it

later. In our next session.” He smiled apologetically as he got up off the floor.

“We’re almost out of time today.”

This was a cruel place to leave things but a useful place, a productive

place. Zack hoped to make up for having said too much.

He wrote out two prescriptions, explaining how the Paxil would re-up her

serotonin and the Xanax would stop the panic attacks until the Paxil became

effective. “Once the Paxil kicks in, we’ll take you off the Xanax, but save it for

emergencies.”

Zack escorted her out to the bathroom in the front hall so she could wash

her face.

A man sat in the living room, an eighteenth-century figure dressed in green

knee britches and a brown waistcoat, like a hallucination from the Age of Rea-

son.

“Hello, Carter. Go on in. I’ll be with you shortly.”

Carter Mosby worked for Colonial Williamsburg, a silversmith in one of

the craft shops. He came to sessions straight from work.

Fay stepped out of the bathroom, fully reassembled, her face almost sunny.

“Thank you,” she said. “This has been very interesting. Could you walk with

me to the car? I’d like my son to meet you. So he’ll know you’re not the

boogeyman.”

Zack escorted Fay outside to a Jeep Cherokee parked at the curb. Her

son sat at the wheel, one of those teenage boys who already worked out at

the gym, a baby-faced child with a boxy build, like an SUV. Sullen and

3 4

C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

mumbly, he did not look terribly lovable; Zack wondered if he were part of