Finnish Variation of Louisa: Loviisa

➸ Clove ☆

I’m useless with a cast on my leg. Showering is a pain. Getting up and down the stairs is such a pain in the ass. In fact, Glitch carries me both ways once a day. If I need anything before the end of the day, I’m plumb the fuck out of luck unless someone is willing to act as my servant.

I wish Glitch could remain with me at the townhome all day, but he has work to do at the rental houses. The club plans to finish up everything before the new guy arrives and their focus turns to him.

Bored during the day, I crash at different townhomes. Today, Cayenne provides my entertainment.

Cayenne’s townhome is Duffy-proof. Alarms and special locks on each outside door keep the seven-year-old from escaping. Unlike the rest of our townhomes with hardwood floors, this one is carpeted to lessen injuries to a tantruming Duffy. The furniture is extra plush for the same reason. Upstairs, Duffy’s closet is a padded quiet room for when the kid goes ballistic and needs to lash out.

As much as I love the dark browns and exotic décor of my townhome, I can’t deny Cayenne’s pale pastels are relaxing. I settle onto the couch and smile at her.

“The kids sure decorated your cast,” Cayenne says, tapping my leg before sitting down and studying me a little too much.

“What’s up?”

“I heard you’re thinking about therapy.”

Exhaling, I shrug. “Ginger told you that, huh?”

“She overreacts, but the Cinnamon episode left her reeling.”

“I’m not Cinnamon.”

“I know.”

“I just want to get some things off my chest.”

“And you need to. That’s why I’m offering my services.”

“Are you coming on to me again, Cayenne?” I tease, giving her a wink. “I know you’re hard up for dick, but, honey, I’m not into girls. Though Anise’s moving down here in a few weeks, and she’ll hit anything.”

Cayenne crosses her arms and gives me her best irritated-mom look. “Are you done being a pain in the ass?”

“For now.”

“Did you know that Pepper occasionally freaks out about having a kid? She doesn’t want to dump her feelings on Bay, so she comes here and talks to me. I’m her therapist. I even give her homework.”

“What kind of homework?” I ask, curious now.

“I had her watch videos of babies crying so she can get over her terror at having one of those screaming things in her life.”

“Will I get homework too?”

“Depends on what bothers you. During Bay’s sessions, she mostly bitches about the rest of you and how you’re all idiots. She doesn’t really need homework. She only needs to vent.”

“How am I an idiot?” I grumble.

Cayenne winks. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“I wanted to be a therapist when I was a kid,” Cayenne says, looking awkward now. “That clearly isn’t happening, but I still have an urge to listen to people’s problems and try to help them.”

“Why can’t you train to be a therapist for real?”

“I have a criminal record, and they check at most places where I could work.”

Hating how sad she sounds to have her dream shit on, I say, “You could still go to school and open your own practice.”

“Maybe when Duffy is older. For now, I want to be home as much as possible for her. School would put too much pressure on me.”

“And how do you feel about that?” I ask, fighting a grin.

“I feel like you’re deflecting.”

Nodding, I lean back on the couch and rest my head on a pillow. “I think about my mom a lot lately. I also keep thinking I should get in touch with my roots, but I don’t particularly want to travel anywhere. Also are they really my roots if I don’t know anything about them?”

“Define roots?”

“My mom was from the Philippines. My dad’s parents were from Mexico. I guess I feel like I should know more about those places.”

“And decorating your place didn’t help with those feelings.”

“They’re just things. I think I’d be as happy with a completely different townhome.”

Cayenne nods. “Because the décor is superficial. What you crave can’t be fixed with what’s on your walls.”

“What do I crave?”

“Were you close to your mother before she died?”

“No.”

“What about when you were little?”

“I’m not sure,” I mumble, only remembering how she held me after beatings. “I clung to her when my father was in a rage, but I don’t know if she really wanted me to.”

“Do you think your mother resented you?”

“Why would she?” I ask, frowning.

“When a woman is trapped in a relationship like your mother was with your father, fleeing is easier if there are no children. Do you think your mother felt you kept her trapped with him?”

“No, because she had nowhere to go. Her family was in the Philippines, and she didn’t have the money to get back to them.”

“So it wasn’t about her resenting you,” Cayenne says, and I see her jotting something down on a pad of paper. “Do you resent her?”

“For dying?”

“For being weak.”

“She had reasons for why she stayed. I don’t think she knew to leave. Or maybe she tried and failed. I don’t know.”

Cayenne nods and stands up. “I’m going to give you some homework,” she says and walks out of the room.

“If it’s a video of a baby screaming, no, thanks.”

“I want you to buy a journal,” she says, returning with a notebook, “and write down everything you remember about your mother. Her name, age, birthday, what she liked to eat, did she have a favorite song. Anything you can remember.”

“What’s the point?”

“You’ll see.”

Studying the notebook, I frown. “Do I get in trouble if I don’t do my homework?”

“Are you trying to make me your mom by putting me in the position of punishing you?” Cayenne asks and rests her hands on her hips in a very mom move.

“I don’t know.”

“The answer is no.”

“Wait, then why ask?”

“I wanted to see what you’d say,” Cayenne says, grinning at my irritation.

“You’re really into this shrink thing.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Do you help Yarrow and Ginger?”

“Yep. They’re trickier than Pepper and Bay.”

“Do you resent everyone falling in love?” I ask, imagining how lonely life must be sometimes for Cayenne.

“No. Do you?”

“I’m in love too.”

“With Glitch?”

“Who else?” I cry, wondering if my love hasn’t been obvious enough.

“Last I heard you viewed him as a sex toy.”

“I guess you missed a meeting.”

“I like Glitch. He fixes shit without asking why I need it fixed. Camo turns everything into a conversation.”

“I think Camo might be a mama’s boy. Perhaps, you remind him of his mother, and he wants your approval or attention.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I wasn’t. I was shrinking the idiot,” I say and set down the notebook.

“Do your homework, Clove. I think you’ll be surprised by what happens.”

“And if I’m not surprised.”

“We’ll talk about it during our next session on Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday?”

“I’m booked every other day.”

“Damn, bitch, you’re actually putting me on a schedule? What if I have a mental emergency?”

“Call my office and see if I can squeeze you in,” she says, fighting laughter. “I must warn you that Yarrow is my receptionist and she tells everyone no.”

“The trick is to offer her candy,” I say, laughing too.

As if beckoned by our discussion—or possibly lonely while Blackjack is working—Yarrow shows up at the back door. The conversation quickly turns to her favorite topics—cats and babies. I’m relieved to have the focus off me now that I have homework to do.