Page 16 of Five Things I See in You

Chapter 11

Jordan

The sign on the door of the office in Capitol Hill only has my name on it on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The other days it has the name of the therapist I share the office with. A woman I haven’t even met in person, even though I’ve been here three weeks.

On the windowsill I’ve placed the two pots I rescued from my office at the Seattle Emeralds. I guess it’s a small gesture that should help me feel at home, but it doesn’t do that at all. I haven’t hung up any diplomas, even though I should. Somehow, unconsciously, I think I’m just passing through.

On Tuesday mornings I supervise a psychology resident who takes far more notes than necessary and asks all the time if he’s doing it right. On Thursdays I run a stress management workshop for the employees of a bank. Management makes them attend, and last time several of them fell asleep during the second breathing exercise. I chose to let it go and not take it personally. It’s not like working for the Seattle Emeralds, but between my practice and the workshop, I make enough to cover my expenses. That said, I have a lot more free time. That should be the positive part, and it’s the worst thing of all, because my mind won’t stop going over the situation.

I spent six seasons building a program from scratch for the best team in the league, and now I’m starting another one, smaller, without the budget of a big club behind it. I keep telling myself this is something temporary. It’s the same word I’ve been using since I wrote my resignation letter, and I still don’t believe it.

The email from the club’s HR department comes in at five, when I’ve already closed the door behind the day’s last patient.

Subject: Internal review, case closed. I read it standing in front of the computer, my coat already in my hand. Everything well documented; you can tell Drummond has put the lawyers to work in case things go sideways. They attach a two-paragraph summary: there was no one-on-one clinical relationship with the player, and the protocol was followed at every step. It’s signed by someone in the legal department I’ve never met.

***

When I get to the restaurant, my sister Beth is already sitting at the table, her coat hung over the back of the chair just like she used to do when we were teenagers, as if she always needed to have it close by in case she had to make a run for it. She turned thirty in March. She’s a few inches shorter than me and has always had a gift for telling you exactly what she thinks, no sugarcoating.

“Did you cut your hair?”

“Jesus, Jordan, that was two months ago. Some powers of observation you’ve got,” she jokes.

“Have you talked to Mom?” I ask at some point between the bread and the menu.

“On Sunday. No more than ten minutes.”

“How was she?”

“Fine. Well, you know what our relationship is like, we don’t talk about anything personal. It all revolved around the plants in the garden, or the new neighbor who moved into the house on the right. Our weekly conversations more or less come down to that, although I guess that’s a lot more than yours with her, which don’t exist.”

I just nod and take the criticism. Nobody could say our mother was a candidate for any mother-of-the-year award. I still don’t understand how my sister and I turned out normal.

We order and Beth tells me about a case she’s handling, pausing constantly and blinking so she won’t start crying. A seven-year-old kid in a new foster home and a judge who didn’t pay attention to the reports she prepared. She tells me she stood outside his chambers and shouted at him that if anything happened to that kid, she’d make sure it was on every TV station in the country. The judge didn’t take it very well.

“How many plants do you have now, counting the ones at the office?” she asks to change the subject while she takes a sip of water.

“Twelve.”

“Wow. Twelve plants to take care of, and still not one person to take care of you.”

“Plants don’t argue back,” I grunt, though she just shakes her head.

We’ve been over this topic many times. According to her theory, I feel the need to take care of everyone, but I don’t let anyone take care of me. Also according to her theory, that comes from the way our mother raised us, basically by ignoring us.

I ask her about the new apartment and whether she’s still seeing the same partner. I try to play the big sister, even though it doesn’t work anymore.

“And how are things at the club?” she asks when our entrées arrive. “Does Iris still drive you crazy on Thursdays?”

“Not anymore.”

“She doesn’t drive you crazy anymore, or she doesn’t come on Thursdays anymore?”

“I don’t work there anymore,” I blurt out, letting out a sigh.

Her mouth falls open and she sets her fork down on her plate very slowly.

“Since when? Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, looking me in the eyes.