Favourite Daughter

She pops a few overly orange crackers in her mouth and talks while chewing. “Grief is stressful, so it’s common to alternate between acknowledging the emotional pain of your loss, and setting it aside. Grief comes in waves, like the ocean.”

The cold, dark ocean. I look at my freshly painted nails. The color is called deep ocean dreams. Yes. Makes sense for grief and death to come in waves. It may take up to four minutes to die from drowning, but drowning people can only struggle on the surface for sixty seconds before submersion occurs: a truly horrible way to die. Poor Mary. I blink and look up at Dr. Rosenthal.

“Jane, do you have any unusual fixations these days?” She stares at me, her dark eyes trying to pierce through me, see inside my mind, see the truth.

“No, not really.” I wonder if she knows more than three thousand people die in the US because they choked on their food?

Death by Cheez-Its? Possible but unlikely.

It’s time for her to think I’m getting better. After today’s memorial service, of course. Next week, she should tell anyone who asks that I am suffering from complicated grief but I am improving. So, no, I won’t share my tragedy obsession, or my fear of the ocean. Or the nightmares. Or the bubbling rage I feel toward my husband at this moment.

She’s still waiting for me to speak, to elaborate. Her eyebrows smash together on her forehead, she twirls her pen in her right hand.

“No fixations, not really, unless you count getting Betsy through high school graduation. I mean, that’s typical mom stuff, right? It takes all of my attention. I’m volunteering in her school, shopping for the perfect graduation dress. We’ve been looking at colleges online, swapping stories about all of her friends’ futures. It’s wonderful. I’m just a typical mom in most respects. Preparing family dinners, making sure Betsy does her homework. Baking cookies. Wow, I must be getting better if I’m complaining about typical housework.” I smile. I am so normal it hurts.

I’m the perfect vision of a happy homemaker. I always set the perfect table, remember?

“Well, that all sounds good. How is Betsy?” Dr. Rosenthal notes. “She could benefit from counseling. I know she feels extremely guilty about her sister’s death.”

This I know is true. Betsy was there, fighting with Mary at the park. She feels responsible deep down. I’ve been mining her guilt, too, feeding it, fueling it like a fast-moving wildfire. I say, “I hope she hasn’t convinced herself it was her fault. I hope she didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course she didn’t. It’s just that the mind is powerful. She should come to me so we can be sure she’s processing all of this correctly. Grief is confusing, as you know. At the beginning, it’s really intense, all consuming. It cancels out everything else, all the people and activities that are important to us. But over time, it settles down, makes a space in our hearts, our lives. It’s not healthy for Betsy to believe any of this is her fault. I know you’re reinforcing that.”

I shift in my La-Z-Boy, wiggle my toes. She is correct. I am reinforcing things. “Don’t worry. Betsy’s fine. She is my daughter, strong like I am. I’m so proud of her. I’m getting better and so is she. I’m her role model. We all turn into our mothers eventually, right?” I smile. Betsy is my legacy.

“Are you like your mother, Jane?” Dr. Rosenthal’s face is frozen, a poignant look, as if this is an important question. She still doesn’t realize I don’t discuss my mother. Ever. She doesn’t realize I’m in control of these sessions, not her. Sorry, Doc. For the record, I’m not like my mother. Gayle Lambert was a monster.

Dr. Rosenthal is so easy to manipulate, as you can tell. I pivot: “You’ve said all along that grief is the most painful form of love. Betsy loved Mary very much, even though they were opposites and they fought a lot, too much. Betsy has that bad temper, you know. Must be from David’s side. Poor Betsy, I don’t want to imagine her hurting anyone.” I shake my head. I’m a gentle, simple housewife worried about her daughter’s explosive anger. Meanwhile, I’m the one seething, but we won’t discuss that right now.

“Rage can be a sign of underlying issues. Tell her to come in. It’s important.” Dr. Rosenthal is leaning forward on the desk.

Really? “It will have to be after she graduates on Thursday. She’s too busy right now.” I smile. I have no idea what she does, but she is busy. I’m the best mother.

“Mmm. Let’s get back to you.” Dr. Rosenthal takes another handful of crackers, pops them in her mouth and slides the box out of sight. Orange crumbs dust her black sweater.

I am my favorite topic. “Yes?”

“Are you still isolating yourself in your home?”