Page 31 of The Girl He Loves
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Addiction,simply explained, is a complete loss of control, of free will. Obsession, compulsion, fixation are all synonyms of addiction.
I know exactly what I should do. I should block him on all social media. I should never go to his salon again, never set foot in his sister’s studio.
Unfortunately, logic is no match for addiction. And the sad truth is that I’m already fixated on Joel. I’ve just had a quick taste, and I want more. Like crack-cocaine, he’s highly addictive.
I have a mental disorder. I can’t help it. Perhaps I need a stronger dose of my medications, perhaps I need to confide in Dr. Russell. Thankfully, my next appointment is tomorrow afternoon. The question is… can I make it until then.
As soon as I complete the day’s work, I slap my laptop shut, and hide it under a pile of old client files, along with my phone. I pace around my office as I make a plan. I scurry to my desk and pull out a notepad, and feverishly scribble. It’s time to organize, to distract myself. I make an organization list. I’ll start with Tristan’s room — the biggest challenge. Then I’ll move on to Trevor’s room, the master, the kitchen, and so forth.
When the boys get home, I’m arms deep in Tristan’s closet, organizing all his old Lego kits. He hasn’t played with them in ages, but I don’t have the heart to throw them away. That would be like throwing away his childhood, admitting that he’s not a kid anymore.
Tristan calls out my name, and a minute later, he’s standing next to me. “Organizing again?” He shoots me a smile, but it’s forced and kind of sad. He knows me well enough to know something’s wrong, but he doesn’t ask. “How was your day, Mom?” he asks instead, hoping I’ll give him a clue.
“I… I felt like organizing. The place is a mess.”
At that, he laughs and turns his attention to his phone. We both know that our home is never a mess.
About an hour later, just as I’m about done with Tristan’s room, Brian pops his head in the doorway. “Everything all right, sweetie?”
I don’t turn to him, I don’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, I was just bored.”
“Okay, well, I’m grading papers if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I say, my eyes and hands focused at the task at hand. “I’m making beef stroganoff tonight. I know it’s your favorite.”
“Fantastic,” he says, and then he’s gone.
I’ve been thinking about another man all day, and now I’m feverishly tidying our youngest son’s room in a desperate attempt not to reach out to him. The least I could do is make a nice meal for my husband.
* * *
Dr. Russell is all smiles,as she typically is when she greets me. A small woman in her sixties, she wears her dark hair in a bob like I do. She usually wears leggings and cozy sweaters in the winter and linen pants and long tunics in the summer days. I always look forward to seeing which earrings she’ll be wearing because it changes every time. Today she’s sporting beaded hoops and a flower-print tunic.
“Come in,” she urges, and I follow her into her office and make myself comfortable on the large black leather sofa. She sits across from me in a sixties-style egg shaped chair. A rustic wooden coffee table separates us. A box of tissue sits at its center, and I wonder how many of her clients cry. I’m not a crier myself. I prefer to hold in my emotions until I go crazy and finally explode.
She brings her cup of tea to her lips. “So how have you been, Mischa?” she asks, like she always does at the start of our sessions.
“I’m okay,” I reply, like I always do. She expects this answer — a non answer of sorts. She knows she will dig and discover the true answer in the next hour.
We start off the session with small talk, mostly about my daily life, my kids and my husband. We chat about my friends too.
I know I must open up to her. I learned a long time ago that therapy is useless without complete transparency. You need to confide everything, no matter how incriminating or embarrassing.
“I think Brian has a secret daughter,” I blurt out without any preamble of any kind.
Dr. Russell chokes on her tea. Wide-eyed, she’s completely speechless.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure,” I go on, “but I discovered a hidden photo of a young woman in our condo, and she is the spitting image of Brian. I also spied on his search history, and he regularly stalks her on Facebook.”
“Did you and Brian talk about this?”
I shake my head. “No… we haven’t. I haven’t broached the subject.”
“When did you discover this photo?” she asks, her eyes curious.
“About two weeks ago or so. At first, I thought he was having a torrid affair with her, but just a few days ago, I realized that she must be his daughter because they look so much alike.”
