Chapter 35 – “you must give it (love) to no one, not even an animal.

For the first time in my visits, the counselor’s office becomes a refuge. I hurry in and sit down. Surrounded by eclectic decorations, I try to relax. African statues and paintings and pottery liven the room. A picture of the psychologist in a Safari jeep with three other people leads me to believe she got the art herself. The hand-carved articles match the primitive setting of The Center.

The elephant above the bookshelf is painted on a cloth with a fringed edge. His ears open to frame his full-tusked face. His left front leg bends at the knee. Some days the animal looks ready to charge and other days it seems like he’s from a circus where he learned to dance.

Dr. Maggie steps over to a stack of multicolored files on her desk. She pulls out the third one from the top. “Let’s get started.” She leans back in her chair. Her pen rotates around her fingers like a baton. “How about a little family history?”

I’m comfortable but not that much. The elephant backs away.  Serve my time. Deal with baby. Men are lame.

“No answers today either, huh?” Dr. Maggie asks.

I use the tip of my fingernail to dig unseen dirt from under another.

“Will you tell me about what just happened with Mario?”

I want to. I mean, Mario really pissed me off, but the look on Dr. Maggie’s face tells me I’d be a rat to discuss inmate to inmate business. “No.”

“Okay.” Her shrug comes off insincere, like she’s pretending not to care. And I wonder if she and Mario have history. With a dozen counselors at The Center, it’s not impossible for her to know him. “How about we start with your background.” Her curly black hair and brown skin reveals her heritage. White people are harder to dissect. The thought triggers a power button in my brain. A cruel, sarcastic button.

“My great-great-grandfather, Benjamin Harris Manchester, served in Congress. He was a representative from the state of Virginia.”

“That’s a little further back than I planned.”

“He’s important because he made our family rich from tobacco farms and real estate.” And slaves. I hold my lips closed to make sure the last two words don’t slip out. I’m not sure why it suddenly became super important to me to resist my mean impulse. Sacrifice is undervalued. Mario’s words. Mario’s idea. Stabbing Dr. Maggie with a joke about slavery feels cruel not funny. The revelation is uncomfortable. I want to control this situation. But I suddenly wonder if I have to be mean to do it. Does control equate to power? Does control require cruelty?

“Is being rich important?” She asks.

“Most people think so.” I don’t tell her the benefits have baggage. I’d give away every penny to have a father who loved me. My right ear didn’t itch, but I scratched it anyway.

“Where does this patriarch connect to you?”

“His only son had an only son who had three children, one of whom was my father, Benjamin Edward Manchester the fourth.”

“What does he do?” The pen in her hand twirls. Unlike everyone else in The Center, Dr. Maggie isn’t using modern electronics. Pen and paper. Her examination feels familiar. Like a test teachers give when they already know all the answers. That explains her demeanor. The yellow folder on her lap isn’t empty. The case file�"my case file�"has pages in it. I cross my legs and lean forward.

“My father works in international business as a consultant.”

“Does he travel?”

“At least three weeks per month.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.” Her pen stops dancing around her fingers and she writes in her folder.

Great. My history is spread out before her and still she asks these dumb questions. Does she really believe she can know me so quickly? Fix my family? What a joke.

“And your mother?”

“She’s a ghost writer.” The pen twirls again. Dr. Maggie knows that one. She is searching. “We know a lot of politicians; she writes their stories.” The pen still circles the air.

“Does she stay at home when your father is gone?”

“No. She travels too.” The pen stops. I continue, “When she is home she hides in her room.”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Maggie holds her pen over the page in anticipation.  

“She stays in her room.” It isn’t a test after all. This woman doesn’t have a profile of me in her canary-colored binder. She has a black-and-white page from a coloring book she wants to fill in.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why should it bother me?” Back home, I refused to miss my parents when they left on long business trips, in this horrible place my heart aches for them. Even Kat crawls into my thoughts. Of course, I miss Nanny Bella most, but I don’t want to get into all of that.

“What about siblings?”

“What does it matter?” This is stupid. Let’s talk about the fight. And The Bracelet. Why waste our time on people and places that can’t be reached?

“Humor me.” She smiles. Whatever. I hate doing this. I hate being forced to serve my sentence. I hate that I can’t just get up and walk out of here. Hate having to deal with this woman.

“I have a little sister.”

“That’s good.”

“Not really.” The words slip out before I can catch them.

“You don’t like your sister?” The pen colors some more. “Why not?”

What was I doing? I should never have started talking. I should have used the cruel joke and just been myself. The real me. What color would she draw if I admit my hatred for Kat? I could tell her my father never hugged me, then admit how he snuggles with my sister. I didn’t come in here to be judged or pitied. I deflect. “My parents never touch each other.”

With her pen, she adds a little shade to my profile. Maybe she drew a mustache on my mother’s face. I uncross and re-cross my legs. The elephant looks like he might charge, so I turn to the painting across from it. Women, four of them, line up on a path. Each one wears a bright African wrap and balances a basket on her head.

What did it matter? I might as well just talk. It’s one step closer to completing my sentence. One step closer to getting out of here. I clear my throat. “Victoria Matthews Manchester does not believe in PDA.”

“You call your mother Victoria?”           

“Not to her face.”

“What about you and your sister? Did your mother hold you or cuddle you?”

Here we go. I put both of my feet flat on the ground and lean forward. She wants colors, I’ll give her neon. If throwing my mother under the bus will help me serve my sentence. Then let the throwing begin.

“I only remember holding my mother’s hand once. We were at a busy intersection and Nanny Bella was too far away to grab me. I remember her palm felt soft but moist with sweat, like she was nervous or something. As soon as we were safe, her hand escaped mine. Her sweat lingered. I wiped it off and ran over to hug the hired help.” I study my intertwined fingers. This no longer feels like a game. I don’t want to say anymore. None of this matters. I’m a legal adult and when I get out of this place I’ll figure out the rest. “Look, I thought we were going to talk about the fight and stuff. Can I talk about how much I hate this place now? As bad as it was at home, I’d rather be there than here.”

“That makes perfect sense.” She leans forward. “In order to get you out of here, we need to get to the root cause of your problem.”

“Which is?” I sit back and fold my arms. Show me your work, lady. You’ve listened to me for a few minutes, tell me how you’ve got me figured out.

“You need to love yourself more.”

Love myself more? What a joke. The words to the stupid song invade my mind. Learning to love yourself… A ton of dots suddenly connect. Call it cruel. Call it honest. Call it Courtney at my best. Because once I make the connection I don’t hold back. From the deepest part of my gut, I laugh out loud.  “That’s your song.” I point at her.

“Excuse me?”

I double over and laugh harder. Forget about telling her my stupid family had slaves. She probably guessed that. But man what a joke. She can’t honestly believe that song helps one of us for a single second. 

“What are you laughing at?”

I’m able to repeat almost all of the lyrics to “The Greatest Love of All” between side-aching laughter. “That’s it? Love myself more? Is that all a psychology degree can come up with?”  

She shifts a little bit and slams the folder closed.

“I’m sorry.” My cheeks hurt. “But you can’t torture people with your favorite tune and then expect them to love you.”

“This session is over.”

“Okay.” I get up and leave the room laughing. I’m never going to get this right. Especially if serving my sentence means pretending her concept of self-love actually feels any better than Mario’s self-sacrifice.