91.

Age Twenty-One

Milly and Damien tried couples counseling. The therapist was a woman in her sixties.

“Don’t make this about me, Damien.” Milly pointed. “You cheated! I do what you want, when you ask, as best as I can — but it’s not enough for you. You spent the money on drugs!”

He pointed back. “I’m pretty sure I spent more on you!”

“Was that an insult or a compliment?” Milly shrugged. “I don’t need either. But again, you changed the subject.”

“I already said — I’m — sorry.” He pouted. “It’s been a bad year. I can turn it around.”

The therapist said, “Milly, if you forgive someone it doesn’t mean what they did was OK, it just—"

“No.” Milly silenced her with outstretched palms. “I think I finally understand. He wants to insert himself wherever and into whomever he likes, then act like it hurts him to offer so generous an apology, even though it’s meaningless. That way we women, including his mistress, all feel sorry — for him.” Milly shook her head at Damien. “No.”

Turning to the therapist, Milly dressed her down as well. “And you want me to forgive him so you feel like you did a good job according to your lesson plan. But you don’t have to live with him, and you’ve already gotten paid — by him.”

The therapist recoiled.

Milly cooled her tone. “You both want more and more from me.” She made grabby hands in the air. “Yes, I could say the words, but what am I actually getting in return?”

She asked the therapist, “Do you think he’s entitled because he broke the agreement?” Milly crossed her arms. “No apology requested, Damien. No forgiveness required. Just — no.”

He dropped his jaw, speechless.

The therapist spoke with heart. “Marriage can be much more than an arrangement or an exchange of wants.” Her hands wobbled with give-and-take motions. “Apologies and forgiveness do mean something coming from a deeply loving place, cherishing your partner, and being genuinely curious about what the other is feeling in their internal world.”

Spinning to face the therapist in unison, Milly and Damien shouted, “What?”

Damien stood, flinging his arms up in disgust. “Milly, you’re like a brick wall!” He touched the doorknob and vanished.

It was probably too late for counseling.

The therapist’s face flushed. “Do you think he’s going to — log back on, or?”

Milly offered a blazé shrug.

“Aren’t you”—the therapist squinted—“upset by this?”

“No, counseling was his idea.”

“That’s not what I meant. Can you call him?”

Milly furrowed her brow. “I don’t see why I would do that. Do you?”

The therapist leaned back. After a minute, she asked, “How do you feel right now?”

Milly adjusted in her chair. “I don’t miss the drama.”

“That’s not a feeling, exactly.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

They chuckled. The antique clock ticked a while.

The therapist coughed. “Well, I guess the rest of the time is for just you and me. As you know”—she imitated Milly in jest—“I got paid by him already.”

Milly acquiesced a tiny smile. “And this is the last session of the package?”

“Yes. So, might as well?”

“Sure, why not? But do I have to keep doing this?”

“Therapy? No.”

“I meant: stay married.”

“Hmm. How does it feel to consider divorce?”

“We married when I was eighteen. I’ve never been single, really.”

“If being single is on your mind, are you looking at men differently? Do you notice how they look at you?”

“Yes.”

“Is this your actual appearance?”

“Yes — no filters.”

“You’re very pretty.”

“I know.”

The therapist raised her eyebrows.

“I find some men attractive,” Milly said. “It’s more how they act, less how they look. But most men look at me in that way. I always notice.”

The therapist took a quick breath. “And what do you feel when men look at you?”

“Power.”

“Does a man’s power feel exciting or intimidating or validating or—”

“Not his power.” Milly held out her left palm. “Mine.” She curled her fingers into a clenched fist. “My power.” Her bracelet glimmered.

The therapist’s eyes widened. “You’re very self-assured for a woman your age — any age.”

“I don’t think of it that way.”

“How do you think of yourself?”

“Realistically.”

“Explain, please?”

“There are many things I’m not good at. Damien played his guitars. He sang. He was so talented. But I tried and I’m terrible. Instead, I’m athletic and good at math. And frankly”—she snickered—“I might just be lucky. Many things I don’t know. But I know what people want from me.”

“How?”

“The usual ways. I watch their face and body language. Listen not to what they say, but how. But what’s unusual is … somehow, I sense pain. I trust pain. When a man wants me, it’s a longing, a kind of pain. There’s no point in me being naïve. I learned years ago how powerful appearances can be.”

“Wow.” The therapist exhaled. “I still hear fondness in your voice, though, when you speak of Damien — his talent.”

“Damien’s the only person I’m not sure what he wants. I don’t know what all is wrong with him. But he had so many notes to play up here”—Milly bounced her perfectly manicured fingernails off the top of her blonde head—“like a piano: his confidence, laughter, passion. I found this attractive. I learned to match his frequency.” She raised her hand like a conductor. “But other notes …”

“What a beautiful metaphor.” The therapist smiled. “What other notes?”

“Like when he cried. That note is out of tune, or very faint — on my keyboard.” Milly tapped her forehead. “Some notes I can’t even hear. I don’t know what it means to miss someone. But I wonder if I will miss the notes he could play for me that I cannot play for myself.”

“How thoughtful. But you’ve begun speaking about your husband in the past tense, have you noticed that?”

“Yes.”

The therapist gulped.

“I answered all your questions,” Milly said. “You didn’t answer mine.”

The therapist nervously cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, which was?”

“Marriage. Do I have to keep doing it? What will you do to me if I don’t?”

“Milly, I’m not going to do anything to you. I know relationships but I have no authority over you.”

“OK.” Milly squinted. “I believe you.”

“But as you probably know, the court made a ruling. Since then, new laws have made getting divorced more complicated.” The therapist held her hands up. “And I’m not a lawyer.”

“Understood.”

“A lot depends on the State in which you married. Where’d you sign the documents?”

“Hawai’i.”

In unison, they said, “It’s not a State.”

“Not anymore. Well, Milly, this much I do know about the laws — foreign marriages are exempt. To be perfectly clear, no you do not need to ask for Damien’s permission to divorce him. Nor do you need to prove your competence to a judge. And, no, you don’t have to stay married.”

Milly sighed. “I don’t have to stay married.”

It’s interesting how many smart people in this field lack insight into their own behavior. Not just this therapist — Milly herself was about to get her degree in psychology. It sometimes takes a crisis to shake thoughts loose.

Milly tapped her lip. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, hon.”

“How much pain do you think is too much? More than I must endure?”

“Oh my!” The therapist’s brow arched with sympathy. “I had no idea you were in pain. In what context?”

“Every context. Here’s one: I’m in pain from my workout yesterday. After Damien left just now, I realized I’d been holding my body in ways that increased the pain. So, I moved.” Milly wiggled her neck. “Now the pain is less. Just being near Damien was painful, at least this last year. Life is like that.”

“Go on …”

“Where I grew up, life was harsh. I tried not to show pain. There was no point. Sometimes showing my pain made the situation worse, like with Father or Damien. Instead, I showed strength. When I left, people said my experience was not normal, but no one told me what normal is. Since then, I’ve mostly had to learn the hard way what pain I have the power to choose — when, how much, and for what purpose — versus the pain I must endure just to survive. Now that I’m leaving marriage, I have similar thoughts.”

“Oh, sweetheart! I’m so sorry.” The therapist leaned forward, arms outstretched, offering a hug.

Milly scooted away.

“You don’t have to choose pain, Milly. You don’t have to accept it either, from anyone.” The therapist sat back. “I’ve always wanted to visit Hawai’i and I almost did when I was your age.” She smiled. “You actually did. I hear it’s still so lovely. Please tell me you don’t think life needs to be painful.”

“What a luxurious perspective,” said Milly. “You must be living in a different world. You also talk as if I were you”—she pointed back and forth—“telling me what you want to hear from me. Damien did that a lot. I asked what you think, not what you think I shouldn’t think.”

“Milly, I’m not trying to tell you what not to think.”

“But that’s literally what you just said: ‘Please tell me you don’t think …’ Is that — normal?”

“I’m sorry.” The therapist dipped her head. “It’s not OK, not normal, what I just did.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Do you understand now why I say words can be meaningless?”

The therapist’s shoulders sank.

Milly huffed. “I just figured out one thing Damien wanted.”

“What’s that?”

“My pain.”

The therapist sighed hard. “There is a lot I want to learn about you. I want to help. But we don’t have much time.” She touched the air. “I’ll cancel my next appointment.”

“No, please. I don’t owe you that.”

The therapist jerked her head back.

Milly stood. “I’m finished here. I want a new life.” Her tone grew businesslike. “This last part was valuable. Thank you. I’ve never met an older woman I could talk to like this.”

“What about your mother?”

“They said she died when I was a baby. She may have killed herself.”

The therapist gasped. “Oh my god, Milly! I am so sorry. I should have asked more, asked earlier. I was just so focused elsewhere.” She stood. “Forgive me! You just seemed so …”

“What? What did I seem?”

The therapist’s eyelids fluttered in disbelief. “Normal.”

“Good.” Milly tapped the couch console and the room turned blank white. A red clock flashed.

Milly was born twenty-two years earlier, nearly to the minute.

She never saw Damien’s therapist again.

That could be considered Milly’s birthday present to herself.