“What did you say to your father when he left?” She delves deeper into my psyche…
“What was there really to say? I said goodbye.” Anger and animosity are present in my voice as I speak.
“Have you spoken to him since?” Begrudgingly, I shake my head from side to side.
“No, he moved to California.” The words come out pained. “Well, in the beginning yes, we were supposed to keep in touch, and at first we did. But soon the phone calls were fewer and fewer. Truth is he always was an absent prick. Now he just wasn’t in the house.”
“That must have been hard for you?”
“You would think so, but his absence never bothered me.” I concentrate on my fingers, my nails sinking into my soft skin, the tenser I get.
“And your mom?” She tries to sound comforting as she speaks, but it doesn’t help. Talking about my mom causes lacerations in my heavily guarded façade.
“I can’t.” My eyes well with unshed tears.
“Ava, you’re okay; it’s okay to cry, but if you hold it in, it will only fester.”
“She has early onset Alzheimer's.” The anguish is evident in my voice.
“I’m sorry, that must be hard for you. Let’s change direction. Can you tell me about growing up with a single mom?” She is offering me a reprieve and as much as I appreciate that, I know I can’t hide from this anymore.
“No I’m fine. You can go on.”
“Are you sure?” She is giving me one last out. I bow my head yes to her.
“Okay, why don’t you tell me about growing up with a single mom?”
“Well, she wasn’t really around much, she worked a lot. My mom is a genius. She loved working. She was loved by everyone. She was, actually she is, a remarkable woman.”
“Did you resent your mother for working all the time?” she asks.
The unshed tears that have pooled in my blue eyes have started to fall.
“It’s okay to feel resentment, Ava.” Wiping at my face, frantically, my vision begins to clear. Dr. Singer gives me a knowing look. Her head nods to encourage me.
“Isn’t this supposed to be easy the first time? Aren’t you supposed to just ask me what’s wrong?”
“What good would that do?” She smiles. “If you knew what was wrong with you, you wouldn’t be here.” She winks as she speaks.
I can’t help but laugh, and my mood lightens considerably.
“Yes, I resented her.” I nervously bite my lip.
She nods her head slightly with understanding. Just releasing that one statement feels as though a weight has been lifted off my chest. I never realized that I was holding on to that. Seeing me relax, she starts to talk.
“Okay, this is very good. We can get back to your parents in a minute.” Her smile is warm and welcoming. “Why don’t we talk about why you are here?” She laughs, trying to keep my walls from coming back up.
“I just got out of the hospital.”
“Yes, Ava, I read over the hospital’s notes. But why don’t you tell me in your own words why you’re here?”
“I…God I don’t even know anymore. I’m married. I met someone else, and I was so blind.” I took a deep breath. “When I first was with Alexandre I was happy, I was content. But even then I still felt a part of me was missing, a void I could not fill. “There isn’t one defining moment when the loneliness started seeping into my veins. But once it began, it was all consuming.”
“That’s how loneliness is Ava, loneliness grows. It festers within and feeds on your insecurities.”
I suck in a deep breath. “By the end, Dr. Singer, mine had become so thick I could no longer see the forest through the trees.” I can feel the familiar tickle in my nose as the tears continue to fall. Sensing my collapse looming, Dr. Singer interrupts me.
“We’re moving too fast, Ava. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, start from the beginning.”
For the next thirty minutes I tell her everything about Ryder. About what brought me here. I give her the cliff note version of my relationship with Alexandre, of the indifference I felt. It makes me remember the first night I met him.
My buzzer went off indicating the doorman is calling. I walked over and pressed the button.
“Yes,” I said through the intercom housed on the pink walls in Jules and my one bedroom converted apartment.
“There is an Alexandre here to see you, shall I send him up?”
I could recognize the British accent through the intercom. I smiled to myself. John is my favorite of the doormen; he loved to give me shit.
“Hi, John…send him up,”