consciously or not, stealing my speech patterns. Did I pick up his? As part of the fabled
degree absolute
, from the days when psychology was less science than it was medicine show? Since I’d taken my cold steel throne today, the Second Act of our play had shifted from interaction like fencing to something like shadow boxing. On our stage defined by our reflections, his voice was itself a mirror . . . which would be a great tool if the point of our sessions were therapeutic.
—Forgiveness can be undertaken by one person without the knowledge or participation of the one being forgiven. Death, Justice, art and forgiveness . . . they’re facets of the same thing.
—And how did you . . . realize that? How did you come to that notion?
The shadowed and wind-swept reality trespassing on my nerves tore. A clarity pealed through my hearing and my sight, taking the light of mundane spectra. In an act of contrition, to myself, to him, to the Justice to which I’d devoted myself, I offered him the truth I wasn’t certain I wished to offer.
—It was Catherine who taught me. Forgiving her was especially sweet.
—Because you loved her?
—I love her now.
—What about when she was alive?
—I loved her. Maybe. But I didn’t know it at the time.
—If there was love between you, how did she hurt you to the point you needed to kill her?
—Catherine hated herself. Everyone near her suffered for it, because she had to alienate herself to prove she wasn’t worthy of human company. She wounded me so many times, I couldn’t see the pain she was in.
—Could she see the pain you suffered?
—She saw that very well.
Dinner with Catherine is ritual. The place mats, wine glasses, napkins all must be laid out perfectly. The meal must be eaten slowly, while the classical music station plays in the background. Catherine never comes to my place. All must be done in her domain, lined as it is by shelves of the self-help books, biographies and novels that nurture the traumas and scars she uses to define herself. I’m comfortable in this place of ritual. Because as with my parents, I don’t understand what rules I’m to follow, nor am I permitted to be certain. Catherine, I think, doesn’t understand the rules she lays down either, and uncertainty shared is doubly comforting.
A sip of wine, the glass held daintily in her long narrow hands. Faint lipstick traces on the rim of the glass. Candlelight touches the prints of her fingertips above the stem.
“Claire told me I should sort out my relationships.” Claire is Catherine’s psychologist.
“What did she say?”
Catherine never speaks directly about herself. All must be channelled through the divine authority of Claire. Catherine’s sessions with Claire are a purchased commodity, brought forth to be admired along with the pinewood-themed décor of her home. I think of her expensive coffee and espresso set, and how she called me on the day it was delivered and told me to come witness her unpacking it.
“Claire said I have to refocus how I stand in relation to the important people in my life. I have to see myself in a stronger position in relation to my father, and my mother. And she said I should sort out my feelings about Steve.”
Steve is her ex-boyfriend who used to treat her like shit. He thinks himself a writer, and his way to be a writer is to drink a lot and pretend to be Hemingway. He grew a beard and left town some months ago to rent a cabin in Maine and finish the Great Novel he’s been working on for five years. As far as I can tell, the man’s gotten nothing but form rejections. Like the meal we’ve just eaten, Catherine has taken Steve into herself. Like all she ingests, she regurgitates him from time to time, so her forced definition of her earthly existence can be maintained.
“What else did she say?”
“We didn’t talk about much else.”
“I see.”
“We didn’t talk about you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want to watch TV
degree absolute
, from the days when psychology was less science than it was medicine show? Since I’d taken my cold steel throne today, the Second Act of our play had shifted from interaction like fencing to something like shadow boxing. On our stage defined by our reflections, his voice was itself a mirror . . . which would be a great tool if the point of our sessions were therapeutic.
—Forgiveness can be undertaken by one person without the knowledge or participation of the one being forgiven. Death, Justice, art and forgiveness . . . they’re facets of the same thing.
—And how did you . . . realize that? How did you come to that notion?
The shadowed and wind-swept reality trespassing on my nerves tore. A clarity pealed through my hearing and my sight, taking the light of mundane spectra. In an act of contrition, to myself, to him, to the Justice to which I’d devoted myself, I offered him the truth I wasn’t certain I wished to offer.
—It was Catherine who taught me. Forgiving her was especially sweet.
—Because you loved her?
—I love her now.
—What about when she was alive?
—I loved her. Maybe. But I didn’t know it at the time.
—If there was love between you, how did she hurt you to the point you needed to kill her?
—Catherine hated herself. Everyone near her suffered for it, because she had to alienate herself to prove she wasn’t worthy of human company. She wounded me so many times, I couldn’t see the pain she was in.
—Could she see the pain you suffered?
—She saw that very well.
Dinner with Catherine is ritual. The place mats, wine glasses, napkins all must be laid out perfectly. The meal must be eaten slowly, while the classical music station plays in the background. Catherine never comes to my place. All must be done in her domain, lined as it is by shelves of the self-help books, biographies and novels that nurture the traumas and scars she uses to define herself. I’m comfortable in this place of ritual. Because as with my parents, I don’t understand what rules I’m to follow, nor am I permitted to be certain. Catherine, I think, doesn’t understand the rules she lays down either, and uncertainty shared is doubly comforting.
A sip of wine, the glass held daintily in her long narrow hands. Faint lipstick traces on the rim of the glass. Candlelight touches the prints of her fingertips above the stem.
“Claire told me I should sort out my relationships.” Claire is Catherine’s psychologist.
“What did she say?”
Catherine never speaks directly about herself. All must be channelled through the divine authority of Claire. Catherine’s sessions with Claire are a purchased commodity, brought forth to be admired along with the pinewood-themed décor of her home. I think of her expensive coffee and espresso set, and how she called me on the day it was delivered and told me to come witness her unpacking it.
“Claire said I have to refocus how I stand in relation to the important people in my life. I have to see myself in a stronger position in relation to my father, and my mother. And she said I should sort out my feelings about Steve.”
Steve is her ex-boyfriend who used to treat her like shit. He thinks himself a writer, and his way to be a writer is to drink a lot and pretend to be Hemingway. He grew a beard and left town some months ago to rent a cabin in Maine and finish the Great Novel he’s been working on for five years. As far as I can tell, the man’s gotten nothing but form rejections. Like the meal we’ve just eaten, Catherine has taken Steve into herself. Like all she ingests, she regurgitates him from time to time, so her forced definition of her earthly existence can be maintained.
“What else did she say?”
“We didn’t talk about much else.”
“I see.”
“We didn’t talk about you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want to watch TV
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