Therapy

Day 39: Entrusted

Placido/Placida had told him her last name was “Halbert” and that she did therapeutic counseling online. Finding her was relatively easy: “Placido D. Halbert, MA” appeared quickly, associated with a website called “ReGrow.” Ted decided to request a counseling session. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to play this game, except that it would be a reflection of the game Placida herself was playing, and had played, benignly, with him. And he wouldn’t be directly begging for contact— that he could not do. The idea was to layer up with irony and humor, dressing for the psychological weather. “I don’t need no stinkin’ counseling,” told himself in a weird Mexican accent.

Ted hadn’t yet arrived home; he was at a very pleasant KOA “Holiday” campground in Salt Lake City with a great internet connection and an outdoor pool table, not to mention a pool. He was getting soft in his old age, he feared. His 40th birthday was coming up, so he told himself this overly-civilized location was a birthday treat. It was his second day there in a cheap tent spot, though he had only his bedroll. The site was shaded, showers were nearby, the breakfast had been filling, and here was an isolated picnic table where he could, maybe, surprise his online therapist if she/he accepted his request. It would be 8 pm in New Haven. She might be busy, but she’d still be online, he figured. Should he use another name? Should he say it was an emergency?

“Placido” had just ended her last session with Edwina, who had seemed very happy despite the neighbor’s fatal fall from her roof; despite her father’s condition. “He’s not my biological father,” she’d explained, “and he misremembers some things. But let me tell you about this wonderful opportunity that came my way!” Edwina proceeded to tell “Placido” about the invitation to become the community college spokesperson in a series of advertisements.

This was most important to her, Placida understood. “Deeper” concerns and feelings were brushed away like old crumbs from a table full of brand-new delights. That was how Edwina lived, and really, who was to say it wasn’t valid? And so, “Placido” produced a little talk about how far Edwina had come during these counseling sessions, how proud “Placido” was of her progress, and how, perhaps, they should end these meetings positively. Somewhat to Placida’s surprise, Edwina had no objections. They chatted for another few minutes, then said their farewells, just as Placida saw that an email had come in for “Placido” from a “Fred Champion.”

“That was so obvious,” Placida said, once they were in a meeting. “Do you want me to keep the beard on, Ted?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to talk about? What’s on your mind?”

“I’m going to turn 40 next week,” Ted said.

“Really? I’m going to turn 57 in September. It’s just a birthday.” Neither of them wanted to express what a delicious relief it was to “see” each other again. They had entrusted each other with their essential shyness, not to be revealed in speech.

“I wrote a sonnet about you,” Placida said, pulling at her beard, her eyes crinkling, dangerously close to violating that trust. “It’s quite terrible. I will need to keep working on it. No one rhymes these days, so it must contain something else to recommend it, but I have yet to find that magical ingredient.”

“You did say you were a poet, I recall.”

“I am a poet who was just invited to contribute to a non-academic anthology that Yale’s supposedly putting out. Wait until they get all the submissions, and then they’ll give up. There’ll be nothing worth publishing.”

“Have you ever had computer sex?” Ted said, without intending to be rude. But it was rude, and Placida sat back in her chair and raised her hands in a way that combined disparagement and— surrender.

— Macoff