Reasons to Remain Happy Despite Sam’s Mood: A List in Descending Order
It’s true what they say: hard work pays off, because as of yesterday morning, I am the fifteenth-ranked reviewer on Amazon (suck it, Lola from Pensacola!).
It’s been raining all morning, and surely no fake tour takers are going to show up at my fake job, allowing me a well-earned afternoon of self-care, leading me to the top item on my list, the best reason of all to stay on the bright side:
President Josiah Edward Bartlet, the essence of humility.
The West Wing, my god. It’s Sam’s all-time favorite show, and now I can see why. I have never seen it, and I decided to turn it on this morning after he went to work, take a look at the pilot. Three hours later I couldn’t be any more invested in the conflict between Jed Bartlet the president and Jed Bartlet the man. I’m going to cheer Sam up with the news at happy hour tonight. I did it, I watched season 1. You’re right, it’s genius.
I pull the plug in the bathtub and stand up, my skin prickling in the cold air as I reach for the towel, reminding myself that whatever is going on with Sam probably has nothing to do with me. After all, it’s not only me he’s being weird around, it’s them, too: our patients. Distracted, unfocused. Yesterday’s one o’clock was a new woman named Pamela—a therapist herself from twenty miles east, thinking of sending her troubled son to boarding school. Twice he called her Marlene before she corrected him, and I could feel all three of us cringing through the remaining thirty-two minutes of the session.
I brush my hair in the mirror, noticing the gray, reminding myself to take care of that. It’s a fear of mine: coming here and letting myself go, just like a local. I should try something bold—bright red, maybe, like Agatha Lawrence. I found four boxes of her hair color—Nice’n Easy in Flaming Red—in the bathroom closet, and I’m thinking I’d look good as a redhead as I go to the window and thumb away a circle of mist, checking in on Sidney, the friendly neighbor. The Pigeon, as I’ve come to call her, like those annoying birds that can’t take a hint. She’s everywhere: Hi neighbor!-ing from behind the potato chip display in the middle of the produce section; strolling across the bridge with that weird-looking dog two days ago, as Sam happened to be on his way out of work, stopping to say hello, all doe-eyed.
My instinct was right: the two of them dated in high school. I found out during stop number two on my cultural scavenger hunt, the Free Library, where I discovered the shelf of Brookside High yearbooks, every issue since the school was built on a cornfield in 1968. (I googled it, by the way, and the closest brook is a good three miles away.) I almost missed noticing them above the magazines, the high school name printed on the spine in the year’s most popular font. I couldn’t resist taking an armful of yearbooks to a square wooden table, cramming myself onto a chair meant for a child, discovering photos of Sam’s dad, the ruggedly handsome math teacher; Margaret, the beloved secretary with the pretty smile; and then Sam himself, his first appearance on page fourteen of the 1995 edition, all chisel-cheeked and red-lipped.
Stats. That’s what they called him, and it doesn’t take being voted Most Likely to Be in the CIA like Becky Westworth, class of ’95, to figure out that this refers to the number of girls Sam slept with—including, it appears, Sidney Pigeon née Martin. She was very much his type: short legs, mousy brown hair, a little chunky. (I’m kidding, of course. She was adorable and thin.)
There’s smoke coming from her chimney, and a light’s on upstairs. I imagine her in the living room, watching the morning shows, folding laundry. I’m about to turn away when I notice the car in the driveway, parked behind Sam’s. A dark green Mini Cooper with a white racing stripe, which I’ve never seen here before.
I hang up the towel and pull on the robe I found in Agatha Lawrence’s closet when I moved in (what can I say? It’s from the Neiman Marcus cashmere collection), knowing I should forget I ever saw that green Mini Cooper and keep with the plan: fresh sheets on my bed, West Wing episode six, two Oreos waiting patiently for me on the bedside table. But before I know it I’m dashing to the stairs, toward the study, moist footprints trailing behind me on the wood floors. Exactly what everyone around here needs.
A new patient.
* * *
The cold air from the cracked window strikes me as soon as I open the door and head through the boxes toward the happy-face rug I ordered from Urban Outfitters. It was probably unnecessary, as Sam has no interest in what happens to this room, but then I read the description—Happy vibes all through your space with this plush smiley face area rug—and how could I not buy it to cover the vent?
“What kind of things did it make you aware of?” Sam is asking.
“How powerful I am.” Female with an accent. French. Possibly Italian. “You would think it’d be the opposite, right?”
“What do you mean?” Sam asks.
“I was seventeen years old, sleeping with the forty-year-old father I babysat for. He’s the one expected to wield the power in that dynamic, but I could have made him do anything.” Strong cheekbones, short brown hair. A French Natalie Portman. I do this sometimes, imagine what they look like and who’d play them in the movie based only on their voice. It usually takes me at least three sessions (I’m still deciding between Emma Thompson and Frances McDormand for Numb Nancy), but with this one it’s immediate. Dark Natalie Portman, Black Swan. “And now it’s second nature to me.”
“What is, exactly?” Sam asks.
“Manipulating men to do whatever I want,” she says. “You could call it my superpower. I should pitch it to Marvel, right? Put me in a red bodysuit and watch me find the weakness in men.”
“I can already see the movie poster,” Sam says.
They share a hearty chuckle, and I notice how relaxed he sounds. In fact, I’d say he’s more relaxed than he’s been in days.
“I can’t imagine being with someone who I couldn’t control,” she says. “Men, at least. Women are an entirely different story.”
“Are you currently seeing anyone?” he asks.
“A few people,” she says. “But most of my time is for Chandler.” My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a laugh. Chandler? “He’s the real reason I wanted to start therapy.”
“Tell me about him,” Sam says.
She sighs. “I met him at the end of summer, at an opening in New York. The guy I was with is kind of a bore, and I noticed Chandler standing near the bar. He’s insanely sexy. You know, in that way older guys are?”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Sam says. “How old is he?”
“Forty-one.” She snickers. “Sorry if you’re offended by me saying forty-one is old.”
“I’m not, but thank you,” Sam says.
“Anyway, I went over and talked to him. Asked if he was enjoying the show. And my god, the way he looked at me . . .” She stops there.
“How did he look at you?”
“He drank me up. He was utterly unabashed about it, too.” Her voice is distant, and I imagine her on the sofa, languid, her eyes on the backyard. “I still masturbate to the thought of it.”