Thieving Weasels - Billy Taylor Page 0,44
DVD collection, and we made less than the cost of a single DVD. It was lunacy, absolute lunacy, and the fact that I couldn’t tell anyone about it made me feel powerless and alone.
“You have a minute, Skip?”
I looked up and Dr. Braunstein was climbing out of a beat-up Outback in the parking lot.
“I was hoping to catch the S21 bus before rush hour gets crazy,” I said, immediately regretting my use of the word “crazy” within a hundred yards of a psychiatrist.
“This will only take a minute,” he said. “Walk with me.”
Seeing no alternative, I did as I was told.
“What do you think?” he asked as we walked to the O’Neil Pavilion. “The Knicks going to take it this year?”
“Maybe,” I replied, surprised that Dr. Braunstein chose the Sports Opening to kick off our conversation. The Sports Opening—or the SO as I liked to call it—was a technique used by school psychologists to see if you were gay. I had no idea what me being gay or not had to do with my mother’s mental condition, but that didn’t prevent me from giving the good doctor my standard reply.
“It’s a little early in the season to tell,” I said, pretending to think about it for a moment. “But they’ve got a pretty good bench, and as long as their shooters stay healthy I’d say they’ve got a decent chance.”
Dr. Braunstein nodded, and I watched him check off the little Straight box in his head. I was pleased with my response, but also a bit disappointed that he’d opted for such a pedestrian opening. After all, his fee had cost me a Mustang.
“So, how do you think my mother is doing?” I asked.
“How do you think she’s doing?” he replied in perfect shrinkly fashion.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve been away for so long it’s hard to separate the mother in my memory from the person I see today.”
“Then let me be the first to tell you. She’s making real progress.”
“That’s terrific news,” I said. “When do you think she can be released?”
“It’s still too early to say.”
“I’ll put it another way. Spring break starts the first week of March. Do you think she’ll be okay by then?”
Dr. Braunstein scratched his beard and said, “If things continue the way they’re going, March is not out of the question.”
“And she won’t try to kill herself again if I go back to school?”
He stared at me. “Your mother didn’t try to kill herself because you went away to school.”
“But that’s what my uncle said.”
“That’s ridiculous. And even if it was true—which it’s not—it would be completely irresponsible for him to say that.”
“So why did she try to kill herself?”
“It’s not really my place to discuss these things with you, Skip. Although I will say, she has a lot of unresolved guilt about her father, and her marriage, and the loss of her first child.”
“I understand,” I said, and this time I really did. Not that my mother harbored guilt over a dead child or failed marriage because those things never happened. What I understood was that she was spinning fairy tales for her doctor.
Dr. Braunstein opened the back door of the O’Neil Pavilion, and as we walked inside I almost felt sorry for the guy. He might have been a rube, but he was still trying to get to the bottom of my mother’s problems. Unfortunately, none of them were real. Way to go, Mom.
We stopped at the reception area, and Dr. Braunstein pulled some letters from the mailboxes behind the desk. He thumbed through the envelopes and said, “I hope you’re also making time to visit your father while you’re home. It must be strange having both your parents here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your mother and your father. It must be strange having both of them here at Shady Oaks.”
“My father’s here?” I sputtered. “Where?”
“At the Williams Pavilion.” Dr. Braunstein looked up from his mail. “You mean, you didn’t know?”
“Of course I knew,” I replied as nonchalantly as my pounding heart would allow. “I’m just so tired from working all night my brain isn’t functioning properly.”
Dr. Braunstein nodded. “I had the same problem when I used to work twenty-four-hour shifts as a resident. It was a miracle I was able to drive home sometimes.”
“Have you spoken to my father much?” I asked, trying to pump Dr. Braunstein for more information.
“Just in passing. The Williams Pavilion has its own therapists on staff.”
“He’s quite the character, huh?”
“You can say that again.”
Dr. Braunstein’s phone rang and he