Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis Page A

more sessions. But I’m simultaneously flattered that my situation is so dire that he wants to see me more often.
    But I loathe the idea that he’ll soon see through my treading-water tactics with him. It’s taken two years to learn to trust Paul, alone in this room. Now he wants me to show up more often? Make a bigger commitment?
    â€œThanks for the invite. It’s always nice to be asked,” I say.
    â€œWhy not try one extra session?” Paul says. “It’s not like you can hide behind work anymore.”
    When I don’t say anything, he adds: “With issues come solutions. You’d welcome them more if you saw it that way.”
    â€œOh, please, no one ever resolves anything,” I say.
    â€œIf you believed that you wouldn’t be here,” Paul says.

The Crazy Filter
    AT MY MOTHER’S INSISTENCE, I sleep in my childhood room. There’s no nostalgia here. It looks nothing like the room I had as a child because within twelve hours of my leaving for college, Mom gave the thumbs-up to the wrecking ball and had the room redecorated. The theme of the room is now “Island.” The bed is made of bamboo. The wallpaper is green with a paler shade of green creating a grid. There are pastel-colored silhouettes of palm trees. The rug is sand-colored. Above the bamboo dresser is a mirror decorated with seashells. Evidence of the first eighteen years of my life fit neatly into two brown boxes in the closet.
    I lie here trying to fall asleep and miss my own apartment. I didn’t go through co-op board approval and get myself into serious debt to sleep here . I miss my very soft, plain white sheets, my own pajamas, and the possibility of being home to answer the phone in the unlikely event that Sam calls.
    I finally fall asleep around three A.M . It’s still dark outside when I hear a frightening sound. The curtains andblackout shades are squeakily opened. I feel like I’ve been blindfolded and held in solitary confinement. My eyes actually hurt from the light and lack of sleep.
    â€œWhat time is it?” I ask.
    â€œFive-thirty,” Mom says. “It’s just so good to have you here. Back in your own room. I can’t wait!” Mom says. She’s moved down to the carpeting. She’s in spandex, seated in a child’s pose. She has a pencil in hand, and has folded the Times so she can work on a crossword puzzle while we pretend to talk.
    â€œCan’t wait for what?” I ask.
    There is a tray by her feet, on it is a glass of orange juice and a fleshy mosaic of too many vitamins. Her eyes dart around the crossword puzzle.
    â€œHere are your vitamins and some juice,” Mom says. “No pulp, the way you like it!”
    I like pulp but don’t mention this. I’m not sure why. I don’t want to disappoint her. Don’t want her to think less of herself for not knowing that I enjoy pulp. Part juice. Part fruit. Win. Win.
    â€œI take one multivitamin with extra calcium. I don’t take a dozen vitamins,” I say.
    â€œCan’t have too many antioxidants,” Mom says. It sounds like a threat.
    I stare at the tray. I can’t possibly choke down all of those pills. I’d just feel bad for my liver, expecting it to process all of them at once. If I’m going to ask great things of my organs, I like to butter them up for a few days withgreens and lots of water. I save the overtime requests for the very memorable—such as great wine. Not a fistful of fortified chalk and oil.
    â€œI’ll take them after I eat,” I say.
    â€œWe’re doing a juice fast today,” Mom says.
    â€œAfter we eat?” I ask.
    She’s opening dresser drawers and unfolding pressed pillowcases. Then she refolds them—perfectly. She does it again. I worry this might be what she does all day when I’m not around.
    Last week, she was practicing her deathbed scene on the davenport. This week she is an