Page 40 of The Fix-Up

On Wednesday, the overgrown bushes in the front yard had been neatly trimmed.

On Thursday, I went to see Sunny.

Sunny’s office was twenty minutes down I-10 east in a little unassuming house that had been converted into an office building she shared with four other counselors. The waiting room was small but cozy. I checked in at the front desk. Only two minutes late today—that’s what we called progress—and took a seat in the middle of a long row of chairs lined up against one wall. Generic prints dotted the beige walls. Four of them in total. The second to last picture was just a tiny bit crooked.

Four other people sat scattered down the row. A guy in a beanie with a jiggling leg stuck to his phone screen. A middle-aged couple who sat ramrod straight without touching. And a woman who looked in her forties and was in a sweater that would win an ugly Valentine’s sweater contest. She also had on matching earrings. And a headband.

It was deathly quiet. People did not make small talk in the waiting room at a therapist’s office. It wasn’t like a dentist’s office:

“What are you here for?”

“Just a cleaning.”

No, the small talk at a therapist’s office would go something like:

“What brings you in?”

“Oh, you know. Daddy issues with a strong side of social anxiety, negative self-talk, and an inability to hold meaningful relationships. You?”

I snorted and the couple’s eyes swung my way. With a little wave, I settled back in my seat and clutched my purse to my chest. Before a therapy appointment, I was always nervous.Patience had never especially been a strong trait with me. But in this waiting room, it was worse for some reason. A million questions raced through my head.

What if I didn’t have anything to talk about? What if Sunny didn’t care about what I did have to talk about? What if Sunny didn’t really like me and was only counting down the minutes until she could kick me out? What if I was so messed up, Sunny couldn’t help me? What if this was all a waste of time? What if Sunny went home every night after my appointment and over two huge glasses of wine, she told Mr. Sunny all about her most messed-up patient?

It’s weird I’m in therapy, right?

Intrusive thoughts aside, I’d been seeing Sunny for over two years. I’d learned a lot about myself—some things I liked, other things not so much.

“A huge part of therapy is gaining self-awareness,” Sunny often pointed out. Sometimes self-awareness sucked.

One of the other therapists stuck her head into the waiting room. “Dolores?”

The woman in the ugly Valentine’s sweater pushed to her feet and hurried across the room but she paused at the crooked picture. Quickly, she straightened it, sighing happily with her work, and continued to her session.

Sunny called me back a couple of minutes later. I plopped onto the oversized love seat and grabbed one of about a dozen throw pillows to hold on my lap. The office was small and cozy with soft colors and lighting. “A cocoon for feelings” Sunny had once described it.

Sunny settled into a matching chair across from me and picked up the notebook she scribbled in when we talked.

“How are you?” she said, arranging her skirt as she settled back into her chair. She liked broomstick skirts in bright colors and layers. Loose, linen shirts, and she especially loved agood crochet vest. She always smelled faintly of patchouli and sandalwood. My therapist was kind of a hippie.

“Okay.” I played with the fringe on the pillow.

She waited me out. I had never been able to pinpoint her age, but it was somewhere between thirty-five and fifty-five. She had one of those smooth, unlined faces with big dark eyes and long flowing dark hair.

“There’s a man living in a tent in my backyard.”

She froze and slowly set her notebook on the coffee table. “Why?”

“You remember the appointment with the lawyer?” It was wild that appointment had been only two weeks ago. “Ollie had a grandson. No one knew about him. Ollie never said a word to anyone. But he knew about him. He left the café, the house, the property, everything to him and me. Fifty-fifty if we live on the property for six months.”

Sunny leaned back in her chair. “And now Ollie’s grandson is living in a tent in your backyard.”

“Yes.” I nodded firmly. “He’s a total stranger. I didn’t want a stranger living in the house with Oliver.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gil.”

“What’s he like?”

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