Chapter Two
Molly
The man sitting in front of me is at least six foot five, and close to three hundred pounds. He’s a former professional basketball player, now forty-five, with bad knees that put him out of the game. The fortune he made was squandered in his youth. His daughter was born with a disability. He turned to crime to make ends meet, robbing liquor and convenience stores. He’s spent the last ten years in and out of jail. Now, he’s homeless. His daughter is under the guardianship of his ex-wife’s parents.
There are tears in his eyes, but there’s also hope. It’s faint, but it’s there. This is our seventh session.
“I want to be there for my daughter,” Mike says, grabbing a tissue. His broad shoulders round forward as he wipes his nose.
I reach out and gently touch his knee. “You have to be there for yourself first.”
“I’ve fucked up one too many times. They don’t want me around her. I don’t blame them.”
“That’s good,” I say. It is very good. During our first session, Mike had placed one hundred percent of the blame squarely on his ex in-laws. They’re the reason he can’t see his daughter. They’re also the reason for his financial problems and drug use. “You’re taking stock,” I continue. “That’s the first step. The choices you’ve made are yours, and you have to own that.”
Mike crumples the tissue in his hand while staring contemplatively at the floor. I can tell he’s at an important stage, where he can accept his own misgivings without emotion and projection getting in the way.
I tap my pen against my clipboard, bringing us back to the current moment. “The past is the past. You can’t change it. The questions is, where do you go from here? How do you become the man you want to be, the father you want to be?”
Mike sniffs. “Get a job. A place to live.”
“Do you want those things?”
He looks up solemnly and nods.
“We can help,” I affirm. “Together, we’ll get there.”
Mike presses the tissue against his eyes as he begins to cry again. I can see, in his relaxed and open posture, that he’s found the will to improve himself. It’s a shift in mindset that’s crucial to healing. Some people never get there.
After our session, I walk Mike out, pleased by the progress we’ve made. But I’m quick to remember the email I’d gotten this morning, a thorn that’s stuck in my side all day. After wishing Mike goodbye, I survey the open floor plan of the center. There are long tables equipped with computers and other office accessories, where I work among the counselors I hired, and Greg, my second in command. This was my dream, my vision for honoring my grandfather’s legacy with the inheritance he’d left me. The idea was simple- a nonprofit that provided counseling and mental health services to anyone, of any income level, free of charge. It’s a lofty goal, I know, but I had no idea how complicated the reality would be.
I sit at a desk beside Greg. I haven’t told him about the email yet. I haven’t told anyone. Greg is a middle aged gay man who could pass for thirty with well coifed jet black hair and a trim physique. Next to him, with my shoulder length curly auburn hair, I feel like the Grace to his Will. If only our troubles could be solved with comedic high jinks in thirty minutes like our television doppelgängers. He’s typing session notes. I side-eye him awkwardly, trying to think of a way to begin.
“What is it?” he says, finally.
“Bad news.”
Greg shrugs. “Is there any other kind?”
His flippancy is a slight comfort. I need his calm rationality when I feel like the world is burning down.
“The state is cutting our funding by thirty percent,” I say, keeping my voice low so the other counselors don’t overhear. “That throws my plans for expansion straight out of the window.”
Greg takes my hand, and we commiserate silently together for a few moments.
“We’ll make it work. I’ve been in the nonprofit industry for two decades,” he says. “Get used to stuff like this. It happens all the time. Take my advice, find something to distract yourself, like a smoking hot man.”
I cringe, rubbing my forehead. “If only hot men were that easy to find. They’re not exactly lining up at my door.”
Greg looks at me like I’ve gone mad. “Go on the internet. There’s something there for every taste.”
I laugh him off, but a part of me knows there’s something to what he’s saying. I opened the center three years ago, and since then, my life has revolved around it. There have been exhilarating highs and devastating lows, though more of the latter. Maybe I should focus on my personal life. I haven’t even explored the dating scene in LA. I’m not much of a bar goer, but I’ve heard of websites like Tinder that could make it easy. Even if I never meet anyone, and I probably won’t, an evening of scrolling through pictures of eligible singles beats fretting over the nonprofit emotional rollercoaster.
I log into my email account and disappointment pangs in my stomach. UPDATE ON BUDGET CUTS. That’s the subject line that jolted me this morning. It’s still there, taunting me. It’s time for distraction. But that brings up another problem.
“Shit,” I say, reflexively. Greg gives me a questioning look. “I don’t have my wifi set up yet,” I explain.
He looks down his nose haughtily. “So you’re considering my suggestion?”
I roll my eyes, despite the color rising in my face.
“You don’t have wifi yet?” Greg says. “Where are you living, a barn?”
“They forgot to include the password in the packet they gave me. I tried to call the leasing agent, but her voicemail says she’s in Aruba. I’ll have to ask the landlord for it.”
“So ask him.” Greg sighs with boredom. “What’s taking you so long?”
A chill moves up my spine. Our conversation drops off, and Greg turns back to his screen. I quickly pull on my cardigan, then open a file on my computer and act like I’m working. Greg can sense a change in my mood from a mile away, and I don’t need him questioning my thoughts. I don’t want to tell Greg about my landlord. When I applied for the apartment and signed the lease three weeks ago, I dealt with an agency. I’ve never spoken to the landlord, but I’ve seen him. He’s a handsome, always well-dressed man, with piercing dark eyes that irrationally spark fear inside of me. I have no reason to be intimidated by him. There’s just something about him, the way he carries himself with unshakable confidence, and his cool, icy stares. I imagine he’s a big city business man. Coming from a small town in Northern California, I’m not used to people like him.
Even though I haven’t spoken a word of this to Greg, I can guess what he’d say. I’m paying rent to this man. I need the internet for work and recreation. And why am I so scared of him anyway?
I know the answer to that question. My confidence is seriously lacking. It’s something I’ve struggled with my entire life. I’ve never felt good enough. Even as the founder of this center, I feel like an incompetent imposter who was lucky enough to stumble into a bit of money. It doesn’t take much introspection on my part to know that my desire for the center to be successful is directly tied to my self-esteem. If it’s a success, maybe I’ll consider myself a success too.
Of course, it goes even deeper than that. I’ve lain awake many nights in the dark, pondering the deepest recesses of my mind. The question I always arrive at is who do I think I am? I think I can help other people, but I couldn’t help my brother.
Then I tell myself, like I tell my clients, that self-doubt should be acknowledged, but not always believed.
I leave work that evening with the intention of marching straight to Mr. Salvatore Mariano’s apartment, knocking on his door, and politely requesting the wifi password that I’m entitled to. It’s a short walk to my apartment building, just a few blocks away from the center, past a bodega, a few apartment buildings, and a group of homeless people who are always searching this block for recyclables when I’m on my way home. I shake my head at the nervous tingles in my fingertips. I’m being ridiculous. Salvatore’s just a man. A man I’m paying rent to.
Once in the building, I walk confidently down the hall. I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers, then knock on Mr. Mariano’s door. My heart beats rapidly as I wait. But to my relief, there’s no answer.
This doesn’t solve my problem. I’ll just have to work myself up to knocking on his door again. I resolve to wait in my apartment until I hear him coming down the hall. Then, I won’t hesitate. I just want to get this over with, and hopefully I’ll never have to talk to the big scary landlord down the hall again.