Page 17 of Mornings By the Linden Tree
“The people who are overseeing your move from St. Louis to Boston think you should talk to this Dr. Bajaj so he can help you feel better at bedtime,” I softly explained while the receptionist sat sipping some sort of peppermint tea while typing away at hercomputer. Probably entering every word the child and I said out here into our brand new file.
“Okay.” She was incredibly quiet this morning, with faint bags under her eyes, last night’s round of sleep trauma fresh on her face. Mine too, I was sure. I’d even gone so far as to apply some under-eye concealer Percy had gifted me. Percy. I’d not heard a peep from him since that fateful night. But to be fair, I hadn’t thought of him much either. Our lives had been too hectic and chaotic to dwell on gentlemen callers. We fell into silence again, my sight on my knees and the crisp crease in my trousers. She poked my thigh. My sight lifted. She then pointed out the window.
“Is that the tower to Heaven?” she asked in a tiny whisper.
My gaze flew to the city, and yes, gleaming in the midafternoon sun, stood the old Hancock Tower, now called 200 Clarendon since some sort of naming issue was resolved several years ago. Most of us here still called it the Hancock Tower because Bostonians were stubborn people.
“It is, yes,” I replied softly, trying to keep our conversation to ourselves. I didn’t wholly trust that perky receptionist. Nor the unknown doctor behind the door. “When we’re finished speaking with Dr. Bajaj, we’ll go have a late lunch at the café before we send your prayers up to your mother.”
“I would like that,” she replied meekly. A door to our right opened, and a slim man wearing a Mr. Rogers-type sweater appeared in the doorway. Late fifties, lean, with a head of wild black hair that looked like he had just rubbed himself over a shag carpet.
“Oh, hello there, Valeria and Uncle Wesley.” He walked over and dropped down into a crouch to get on her level. His East India accent was rich. “I’m Dr. Bajaj, and this is my receptionist, Amy.” Amy waved her fingers at us. Valeria shyly waved back. I left my hands on my lap, my right index finger moving over thestarched crease in my slacks. “I see that your social worker, Ms. Markes, is not attending this session, so why don’t we go inside and get to know each other better.”
I rose and offered Valeria my hand, which she took instantly. We’d only met our Boston social worker once so far, a week ago, and that was via a Zoom call. Seemed Ms. Markes had been home with the flu but wanted to relay that she hoped to meet us in person soon. The young woman informed me there was no word yet on the search for Valeria’s father since their office had taken over our case. However, they would continue trying for a reasonable time before they would proceed with my being named legal guardian. My law office was now handling the consent scribblings Aida had left behind. I was not part of that, obviously, to avoid a conflict of interest, but Marty was confident we’d be free to move forward soon. All else was in good shape for Valeria and me to become a family of two.
Dr. Bajaj waved at his office. I led the reluctant child into the soft blue and eggshell room with windows that allowed light to flow in. Small couches sat along the walls and beanbag seats were stuffed into corners. The carpeting was soft blue with bright area rugs scattered about. One wall was nothing but shelves holding toys, games, stuffed animals, and stacks of papers sitting next to tins of crayons and watercolors. Valeria zoomed in on the stuffed animals, dark eyes wide.
“Feel free to go pick out a friend to cuddle and then join us on the blue sofa,” Dr. Bajaj said with a smile. The child bolted to the shelves to yank down a pink bunny with long ears. She stood talking to it, telling it her name, as we adults went to the blue sofa. “Please, have a seat.”
I did, just. My ass rested on the edge of the firm cushions. “We’re here to discuss the reasons Valeria is having sleep issues.”
He smiled that smile all therapists smile. The one that says he was already delving into my head to pluck out my oddities to reveal to potential parents. No, not parents, the state or the county or perhaps my law partners. The sun shining on the back of my head was growing increasingly warm. Did they not have the air conditioning on?
“We’ll delve into all kinds of things as we get to know each other better. Valeria, would you like to come sit with your uncle?” Bajaj asked, and the child nodded, clutching the bunny to her chest as she moved toward me as if she were heading to the gallows. I shared her dread.
With a wobbly nod, I helped her up onto the sofa, then stared at the doctor. He sat back, took off his shoes, and then folded his legs into a lotus. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.
“Don’t you always feel better with your feet free to breathe?” He wiggled his toes. Valeria giggled. I gaped. This was surely not an approved psychoanalytic means of therapy. Who took off their shoes in the middle of a counseling session? That was not sanitary at all. This man was a fraud, and as soon as I got freed from this childish room, I was going to contact DCF and inform the Massachusetts Department of Children and Family that this quack was wiggling his socked feet at me.
“I like my socks. They have bunnies.” No sooner had she said it than her little flats fell to the floor. My eyes flared. “What is on your socks, Dr. Baba?”
“Mine are tiny stars and a happy moon.” He lifted his skinny feet into the air with a short laugh that Valeria mimicked. Up into the air her feet went as her back met the sofa. Thank God she had leggings on and not the dress we had laid out—that one had an unfortunate chocolate milk spill that Mrs. Polkowski was working on removing with a good soak in something called Magic Mike’s Stain Devil Remover which had filled the laundryroom with the smell of vinegar—for her panties would have been on display.
The good doctor laughed. Valeria laughed. They both kicked their sock feet into the sunbeams as I sat with my feet firmly resting inside my Dior black polished calfskin loafers. I never let people see my sock-covered feet, not even men I had sex with. No. It was just…no. This was the most foolish counseling session I had ever been involved in. Back when I was in the system, the counselors were far less giddy or eager to show off their socks. They were trying to handle a tremendous caseload of kids with major trauma buried deep, deep down. By the time I was adopted and had a private therapist, I’d learned to tell the counselor what they wished to hear. I’d not been willing to share my drama over and over again. And I was not about to let Valeria be raked over those flaming mental coals come hell or high—
“I like to put my feet in the air,” Valeria said amid giggles.
“Me too. Have you always liked to put your feet in the air?” Dr. Bajaj asked as I sat agog and ready to bolt. “Or are you like your uncle and prefer your feet firmly on the ground?”
“In the air with bunny socks,” Valeria replied, then held up the long-eared bunny to touch her toes. “Mama liked her feet in the air too.”
Did she? I did not recall seeing Aida with her feet in the air.
“What kind of socks did your mama wear?” Dr. Bajaj gently asked, and Valeria filled him in on her mother’s socks. Then she told us about her mother’s shirts and her pants and her shoes. And the ugly shirt she had to wear to work. And about her neighbor, who wore flower shirts and smelled like cabbage rolls. A flowing river of memories rushed out of her, flooding me with pain and loss mixed with something like relief that she was talking about things. I’d tried numerous times to get her to express her fears, but she would only weep or throw things when I pushed too hard. This man, with his wild hair and goofy socks,had somehow…well, he had somehow gotten her to discuss her life before Boston. Something I had not been able to do with any great success. Maybe I needed to wiggle my sock feet in the air more often…
When the child paused to breathe, feet still in the air, Dr. Bajaj glanced at me sitting stiffly, mouth slightly agape, and lowered his feet to the loud throw rug.
“What kind of socks do you wear, Uncle Wes?”
Why did he address me in that way? “I wear sensible socks.”
“Uncle Wes says socks are to be seen and not heard.”
I choked back a snort of amusement. “I have never said that about socks.”
“Have you said it about children?” Dr. Bajaj asked as he ran his hands over his hair. The man truly needed some conditioner.
“Obviously not. She is free to express herself in any way she wishes at any time,” I countered quickly and got a nod from the counselor. “I may have said that about our neighbors’ dog.”
