CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Friday, November 30
Dr. Lydia Shields’s silvery voice is a perfect match for her sleek exterior.
I perch on the love seat in her office during my second in-person session. Like the first one a few days ago, all I’ve done is talk about myself.
As I lean against the armrest, I continue peeling back the layers of lies I’ve told my parents: “If they knew I gave up on my dream of working in theater, it would be like they’d have to give up on theirs.”
I’ve never been to see a psychiatrist before, but this seems like a traditional therapy session. A part of me can’t help but wonder: Why is she the one who is paying me?
But after a few minutes, I’m not aware of anything other than the woman across from me and the secrets I’m sharing with her.
Dr. Shields looks at me so carefully when I speak. She waits a few moments before responding, as if she is rolling my words over in her mind, absorbing them thoroughly before choosing how to reply. Beside her, on a small end table, is the legal pad she occasionally reaches for to jot down notes. She uses her left hand to write, and she isn’t wearing a wedding ring.
I wonder if she is divorced or maybe a widow.
I try to imagine what she is jotting down. On her desk rests a single manila folder with typed letters on the tab. I’m too far away to read the words. It could be my name, though.
Sometimes after I answer one of her questions, she pushes me to tell more; other times she offers insights so kind I’m almost brought to tears.
In such a short period, I already feel understood by her in a way I never have by anyone before.
“Do you think I’m wrong to deceive my parents?” I ask now.
Dr. Shields uncrosses her legs and rises from her cream-colored chair. She takes two steps toward me and I feel my body tense.
For a brief moment, I wonder if she plans to sit beside me, but she merely walks past. I twist my head and watch her lean down and grasp a handle at the bottom of one of her white wood bookshelves.
She pulls it open and reaches into a built-in mini refrigerator. She takes out two small bottles of Perrier and offers me one.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
I didn’t think I was thirsty, but when I watch Dr. Shields tilt back her head and take a sip, I find my arm rising and I do the same. The glass bottle is comfortably substantial, and I’m surprised by how good the crisp, bubbly liquid tastes.
She crosses one leg over the other and I straighten up a bit, realizing I’m slumping.
“Your parents want you to be happy,” Dr. Shields says. “All loving parents do.”
I nod, and suddenly wonder if she has a child of her own. Unlike a wedding ring, there’s no physical symbol you can wear to show the world that you’re a mother.
“I know they love me,” I say. “It’s just . . .”
“They are accomplices in your fabrications,” Dr. Shields says.
As soon as Dr. Shields speaks those words, I recognize the truth. Dr. Shields is right: My parents have practically encouraged me to lie.
She seems to realize I need a beat to take in the revelation. She keeps her eyes on me, and it feels almost protective, like she’s trying to assess how her proclamation has landed. The silence between us doesn’t feel awkward or heavy.
“I never thought of it that way,” I finally say. “But you’re right.”
I take my last sip of Perrier, then carefully set the bottle down on the coffee table.
“I think I have all I need for today,” Dr. Shields says.
She stands and I do the same. She walks over to her glass-topped desk, which holds a small clock, a slim laptop, and the manila folder.
As Dr. Shields slides open her desk’s single drawer, she asks, “Any special plans for the weekend?”
“Not much. I’m taking my friend Lizzie out for her birthday tonight,” I say.
Dr. Shields removes her checkbook and a pen. We’ve had two ninety-minute sessions this week, but I don’t know how much I’ll be getting.
“Oh, is she the one whose parents still give her an allowance?” Dr. Shields asks.
The term “allowance” takes me by surprise. I can’t see Dr. Shields’s expression, since her head is bent as she fills out the check, but her tone is mild; it doesn’t seem like a criticism. Besides, it’s the truth.
“I guess that’s one way to describe her,” I say as Dr. Shields tears off the check and hands it to me.
At the exact same moment, we both say, “Thank you.” Then we laugh in unison, too.
“Are you available Tuesday, same time?” Dr. Shields asks.
I nod.
I’m dying to look at the amount on the check, but I feel like that would be tacky. I fold it and slip it into my bag.
“And I have a little something extra for you,” Dr. Shields says. She reaches for her leather Prada purse and extracts a tiny package wrapped in silver paper.
“Why don’t you open it?”
Usually I tear into gifts. But today I pull an edge of the little ribbon to unravel the bow, then slip my index finger under the tape, trying to be as neat as possible.
The Chanel box looks sleek and glossy.
Inside is a bottle of burgundy nail polish.
My head jerks up and I look into Dr. Shields’s eyes. Then I glance at her fingertips.
“Try it, Jessica,” she says. “I think it will look nice on you.”
The second I’m in the elevator, I reach for the check. Six dollars, she has written in graceful cursive.
She’s paying me two hundred dollars an hour, even more than she did for the computer surveys.
I wonder if Dr. Shields will need me enough in the next month that I’ll be able to surprise my family with a trip to Florida. Or maybe it’ll be better to save the money in case my father can’t land a decent job before they use up the buyout fund.
I tuck the check into my wallet and see the Chanel box in my bag. I know from my stint at the Bloomingdale’s makeup counter that the nail polish costs close to thirty bucks.
I was planning to just take Lizzie out for drinks for her birthday, but she’d probably love this polish.
Try it, Dr. Shields had said.
I run my fingers over the elegant letters on the ebony box.
My best friend’s parents are well-off enough to send her a monthly stipend. Lizzie is so unassuming I didn’t realize until I went home with her for a weekend that her family’s little farm” is composed of a couple hundred acres. She can afford her own nail polish, even the fancy brands, I think to myself. I deserve this.
I walk into the Lounge a few hours later to meet Lizzie. Sanjay looks up from slicing lemons and beckons me over.
“That guy you left with the other night came in looking for you,” he says. “Well, he actually was looking for a girl named Taylor, but I knew he meant you.”
He rummages through a big beer mug next to the cash register that’s stuffed with pens and business cards and a pack of Camel Lights. He pulls out a business card.
BREAKFAST ALL DAY it says across the top. Underneath is an illustration of a smiley face: Two sunny-side-up eggs serve as the eyes and a strip of bacon as the mouth. At the bottom is Noah’s name and number.
I frown. “Is he a cook?”
Sanjay gives me a mock-stern look. “Did you talk at all?”
“Not about his profession,” I shoot back.
“He seemed cool,” Sanjay says. “He’s opening a little restaurant a few blocks away.”
I flip over the card and see the message: Taylor, Good For One Free French Toast. Call To Redeem.
Lizzie comes through the door just then. I jump off my stool and give her a hug.
“Happy Birthday,” I say, palming the card so she doesn’t see it.
She pulls off her jacket and I catch a whiff of the new leather smell. It looks a lot like the one I wear, which Lizzie has always admired, but I got mine at a thrift store. When I go to touch the fur collar, I see the label: BARNEYS NEW YORK.
“It’s faux fur,” Lizzie assures me, and I wonder what she read in my expression. “My parents gave it to me for my birthday.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say.
Lizzie lays it across her lap as she settles onto the stool next to me. I order us vodka-cran-sodas and she asks, “How was your Thanksgiving?”
The holiday seems like a lifetime ago.
“Oh, the usual. Too much pie and football. Tell me about yours.”
“It was awesome,” she says. “Everyone flew in and we played a giant game of charades. The little kids were hilarious. Can you believe I’ve got five nieces and nephews now? My dad—”
Lizzie cuts herself off as Sanjay slides the drinks over and I reach for mine.
“You never wear nail polish!” Lizzie exclaims. “Pretty color!”
I look down at my fingers. My skin is darker than Dr. Shields’s, and my fingers are shorter. Instead of elegant, the color looks edgy on me. But she is right; it is flattering.
“Thanks. I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off”
We chat through another two drinks, then Lizzie touches my arm. “Hey, can I borrow you Tuesday afternoon to do my makeup? I need an updated headshot.”
“Ooh, I’ve got a sess—” I cut myself off. “A job way uptown.”
During our first in-person meeting, Dr. Shields had me sign another, more detailed confidentiality agreement. I can’t even mention her name to Lizzie.
“No prob, I’ll figure it out,” Lizzie says cheerfully. “Hey, should we get nachos?”
I nod and give the order to Sanjay. I feel bad that I can’t help Lizzie.
And it feels strange to hide things from her, because she’s the person who knows me best.
But maybe she doesn’t any longer.