Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis

take a message, but he says he’s returning your call,” Mom says, smiling some more.
    I transfer the Popsicle to the other hand and take the phone.
    â€œShould I close the door?” Mom asks.
    â€œPlease,” I say.
    She closes the door reluctantly and not all the way. She’s visibly excited at the prospect that this might be “the one from the office.” I’m sure she’d be much less excited to know that I called my shrink for an emergency session. So panicked was I by the prospect of another parent leaving me that I called him and left a rather hysterical message.
    â€œHi,” I say. “Thanks for calling back.”
    â€œFinally got to speak to the famous Joanie,” Paul says.
    â€œVery exciting stuff,” I say.
    â€œDo you want to talk now, or would you like to come in tomorrow?” Paul says.
    â€œTomorrow,” I say. Hearing his voice is a relief. The Popsicle is running down my hand. “Because I’m pretty sure my mom is listening at the door.”
    â€œOkay,” Paul says. “I have an opening at ten.”
    â€œGreat. Thanks,” I say. I hang up the phone.
    I hear movement on the other side of the door.
    â€œI just wondered if you needed a towel,” Mom says.
    â€œThere’s one on the towel bar,” I say. “If you have a question, just ask.”
    â€œOkay. Who’s Paul?” Mom asks. Smiling some more.
    â€œMy shrink,” I say.
    â€œOh. Well, that’s none of my business,” Mom says. “Is he any good? A lot of them have no idea what they’re doing.”

Paul
    I DON’T SIT DOWN in the black pleather club chair; I fall down. I’m going to have to say this aloud, aren’t I? It will be real and true. And then I start crying. Sobbing actually. I’ve never done this here. It takes me a while to get the courage to look at him.
    â€œMy mother is dying,” I say. “She has breast cancer.” I start crying at this part again, and the room’s all blurry from my tears.
    â€œGoodness. What have the doctors said about it?” Paul asks. “Is that what she said? She said she’s dying?”
    â€œYes,” I say.
    â€œIn those words?” Paul asks.
    â€œYes,” I say. It’s quintessential Mom.
    â€œI hope that’s not the case. But I think you should speak with her doctor, don’t you? I think you should speak with her doctor and find out what her diagnosis is, and what her treatment will be like,” Paul says. “You can’t be in control of her health, but knowing what comes next would be helpful. Cancer generally happens in stages. If it’s caught early, she’s very likely to live a long life.”
    â€œYou’re right. I’ll call her doctor. This only happened yesterday,” I say. “My sister is not helpful at all. She’s pregnant and can’t be bothered to get involved. She says my mother is strong and she’ll get through it.”
    â€œOkay, so your sister is either in denial or dislikes yourmother. We can focus only on you. How have you been coping?” Paul asks.
    â€œNot well,” I say.
    â€œNot well, how?” Paul says.
    â€œI quit my job, walked out on Sam, and slept at my mom’s house last night,” I say.
    Long pause. I’m actually waiting for him to shake his head in disgust, or laugh hysterically. He does neither.
    â€œAll or nothing,” Paul says. “All or nothing. Finding that middle ground would…”
    â€œBe impossible, but feel like a vacation?” I say.
    â€œIt would be very valuable,” Paul says. “You have an immediate situation that needs attention, and I really think you’d benefit from coming here more often. Less hiding.”
    â€œExactly!” I say.
    Hiding is what I’m all about. He wants to strip that away. I hate it that I can’t have a crisis that isn’t accompanied by a sales pitch for