Lunar Park

17. couples counseling

When I arrived back home Jayne was in the middle of packing. The studio’s Gulfstream would fly her out of Midland Airport tomorrow morning and land in Toronto sometime after ten. Marta reminded me of this while Jayne busied herself in the master bedroom, fitting clothes into various Tumi bags spread across the bed, checking each item off a list. She was saving everything she needed to say for Dr. Faheida’s office. (Couples counseling always reminded me of what a terrible thing optimism was.) I took a shower and dressed and was so exhausted I doubted my ability to sit through a session—I shuddered at the energy it would take. Since these dreadful hours usually ended in tears on Jayne’s part and a raging helplessness on mine, I steeled myself and didn’t mention the phone call from Harrison Ford’s office that I received in the parking lot in front of Aimee Light’s studio, warning me that it would be in “everyone’s best interests” (I noted the ominous new Hollywood-speak) if I could be there on Friday afternoon. In a zombie monotone I said I would call them back tomorrow to confirm while I stared through the windshield at the swaying pine trees looming up into the darkness above where I sat in the Porsche. Another failure on my part—though any excuse to get out of the house was now acceptable to me. Was, in fact, becoming a priority. While waiting downstairs I avoided the living room and my office and didn’t glance at the house as Jayne and I walked to the Range Rover parked in the driveway because I didn’t want to see how much more of its exterior had peeled off.

(But maybe it had stopped. Maybe it knew that I understood already what it wanted from me.)

And there was none of the casual bitching in the car that usually preceded these evenings. No argument ensued because I kept focusing on my silence. Jayne knew nothing about what was going on inside the house, or that a video clip existed of my father moments before his death, or that 307 Elsinore Lane was turning itself into a house that used to exist on Valley Vista in a suburb of the San Fernando Valley called Sherman Oaks, or that a vast wind had kept me from looking for a car I’d driven as a teenager, or that a murderer was roaming Midland County because of a book I’d written or—most urgently—that a girl I desired had disappeared into the Orsic Motel in Stoneboat sometime late last night. And I suddenly thought to myself: If you wrote something and it happened, could you also write something and make it disappear?

I concentrated on the flat asphalt ribbon of the interstate so I wouldn’t have to see the wind-bent palm and citrus trees that suddenly lined the roads (I imagined their trunks pushing out of the dark, hard ground for my benefit only), and the windows were rolled up so the scent of the Pacific didn’t seep into the car, and the radio was off so “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” or “Rocket Man” wasn’t pouring from an oldies station in another state. Jayne was leaning away from me in the passenger seat, arms crossed, tugging her seat belt every so often as a reminder for me to strap myself in. She made a clicking noise with her mouth when she noticed my conscientiousness. It was taking every cell I possessed to destroy (for just this evening) all the things that had been whirling through my mind, but in the end, I was just too tired and distracted to freak out. It was time to concentrate on tonight. And because I started paying attention something eased as we walked through the parking lot. I made a joke that caused her to smile and then we shared another joke. She took my hand as we moved toward the building, and I felt hopeful as the two of us entered Dr. Faheida’s office, where Jayne and I sat in black leather armchairs facing each other while Dr. Faheida (who seemed at once stirred and humbled by Jayne’s stardom) perched on a wooden stool off to the side, a referee with a yellow legal pad that she would mark up and casually refer back to throughout the session. We were supposed to talk to each other, but often forgot and during the first ten minutes we usually aimed our complaints at the shrink, forgetting to not use specific pronouns, and I always zoned out while Jayne always started (because she had so much more to contend with) and then I would hear something that would snap me out of my lassitude.

Tonight it was “He hasn’t connected with Robby.”

A pause, and then Dr. Faheida asked, “Bret?”

This was the crux of the matter, the slashing detour from the numbing sameness that enveloped each hour. Very quickly I began formulating a defense with “That’s not true” but was interrupted by an exasperated sound from Jayne.

“Okay . . . I want to say that’s not true because it’s not totally true . . . I think we get along a little better now and . . .”

Dr. Faheida held up a hand to silence Jayne, who was writhing in her chair. “Let Bret speak, Jayne.”

“And, I mean, Jesus, it’s only been four months. It can’t happen overnight.” My voice was rigid with calm.

A pause. “Are you finished?” Dr. Faheida asked.

“I mean, I could say he hasn’t connected with me.” I turned to Dr. Faheida. “I can say that, right? Is that okay? That Robby hasn’t tried connecting with me?”

Dr. Faheida stroked her thin neck and nodded benevolently.

“He wasn’t here when Robby was growing up,” Jayne said. And I could already tell by her voice—just minutes into the session—that her rage was going to end up being defeated by sadness.

“Address Bret, Jayne.”

She turned toward me, and when our eyes met I looked away.

“That’s why he’s just this boy to you,” she said. “That’s why you have no feelings for him.”

“He’s still growing up, Jayne,” Dr. Faheida reminded her gently.

And then I had to stop my eyes from watering by saying: “But were you really there for him, Jayne? I mean, all these years, with you traveling everywhere, were you really there for him—”

“Oh God, not this shit again,” Jayne groaned, sinking into the armchair.

“No, really. How many times have you left him when you went on location? With Marta? Or your parents? Or whoever? I mean, honey, a lot of the time he was raised by a series of faceless nannies—”

“This is exactly why I don’t think counseling is helping,” Jayne said to Dr. Faheida. “This is it exactly. It’s all a joke. This is why it’s a waste of time.”

“Is this all a joke to you, Bret?” Dr. Faheida asked.

“He’s never changed a diaper,” Jayne said, going through her hysterical litany of how the damage we were trudging through was caused by my absence during Robby’s infancy. She was actually in the middle of pointing out that I’d “never been thrown up on” when I had to cut her off. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted her guilt and anger to really start kicking in.

“I have been vomited on, honey,” I protested. “Quite often I have been vomited on. In fact there was a year sometime back there when I was vomited on continuously.”

“Vomiting on yourself doesn’t count!” she shouted, and then said, less desperately, to Dr. Faheida, “See—it’s all a joke to him.”

“Bret, why do you attempt to mask real problems with irony and sarcasm?” Dr. Faheida asked.

“Because I don’t know how seriously I can take all this if we’re only blaming me,” I said.

“No one is ‘blaming’ anyone,” Dr. Faheida said. “I thought we all agreed that this is a term we don’t use here.”

“I think Jayne needs to take responsibility as well.” I shrugged. “Did we or did we not finish last week’s session talking about Jayne’s problem? The little teensy-weensy one”—I held up two fingers, pressing them together tightly, to illustrate—“about how she doesn’t think she’s worthy of respect and how that messes up everything? Did we or did we not discuss this, Dr. Fajita?”

“It’s Faheida,” she corrected me quietly.

“Dr. Fajita, doesn’t anyone see here that I didn’t want—”

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Jayne shouted. “He’s a drug addict. He’s been using again.”

“None of this has anything to do with being a drug addict,” I shouted back. “It has to do with the fact that I didn’t want a kid!”

Everything tensed up. The room went silent. Jayne stared at me.

I breathed in, then started talking slowly.

“I didn’t want a kid. It’s true. I didn’t. But . . . now . . .” I had to stop. A circle was narrowing around me, and my chest felt so tight that I was momentarily lost in blackness.

“Now . . . what, Bret?” This was Dr. Faheida.

“But now I do . . .” I was so tired, I couldn’t help myself and started crying.

Jayne stared at me with disgust.

“Is there anything more pathetic than a monster who keeps asking please? please? please?—”

“I mean . . . what more do you want from me?” I asked, recovering slightly.

“Are you kidding? You’re actually asking that?”

“I’m going to try, Jayne. I’m going to really try. I’m . . .” I wiped my face. “I’m gonna look after the kids while you go off tomorrow and—”

Jayne started talking over me in a tired voice. “We have a maid, we have Marta, the kids are gone all day—”

“But I can look after them too, when, I mean, when they’re at the house and—”

Jayne suddenly stood up.

“But I don’t want you to look after them because you’re an addict and an alcoholic, and that’s why we need people at the house, and that’s why I don’t like you driving the kids anywhere, and that’s why you should probably just—”

“Jayne, I think you should sit down.” Dr. Faheida gestured at the armchair.

Jayne breathed in.

Realizing I had no other options (and that I didn’t want any other options), I said, “I know I haven’t exactly proven myself, but I am going to try . . . I am really gonna try and make this work.” I hoped the more I said this, the more it would register with her.

I reached for her hand. She knocked it away.

“Jayne,” Dr. Faheida warned.

“Why are you going to try, Bret?” Jayne asked, standing over me. “You’re gonna try because your life is so much worse by yourself? Because you’re too afraid to live it alone? Don’t tell me you’re gonna try because you love Robby. Or because you love me. Or Sarah. You are far too selfish to get away with fucking lying like that. You’re just afraid to be by yourself. It’s just easier for you to stick around.”

“Then kick me out!” I suddenly roared back.

Jayne collapsed into the armchair and started sobbing again.

This caused me to regain my composure.

“It is a process, Jayne,” I said, my voice lowered. “It’s not intuitive. It’s something you learn—”

“No, Bret, it’s something you feel. You don’t learn how to connect with your own son from a fucking manual.”

“Two people have to try,” I said, leaning forward. “And Robby is not trying.”

“He’s a child—”

“He’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for, Jayne.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, right, it’s all me,” I said, giving up. “I’ve betrayed everyone.”

“You’re so sentimental,” she said, grimacing.

“Jayne, you took me back for your own selfish reasons. You didn’t take me back because of Robby.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock.

I was shaking my head, glaring at her.

“You took me back for yourself. Because you wanted me back. You always wanted me back. And you can’t stand that that’s how you feel. I came back to you because you wanted me back and this choice had very little to do with Robby. It was what Jayne wanted.”

“How can you say that?” Jayne sobbed, her voice high and questioning.

“Because I don’t think Robby wants me here. I don’t think Robby ever wanted me back.” I became so tired when I admitted this to the room that my voice became a whisper. “I don’t think the father ever needs to be there.” My eyes were watery again. “People are better off without them.”

Jayne stopped crying and regarded me with a cold and genuine interest. “Really? You think people are better off without a father?”

“Yes.” The room could barely hear me. “I do.”

“I think we can disprove that theory right now.”

“How? How, Jayne?”

Quietly, and with no effort, she simply said, “Look how you turned out.”

I knew she was right, but I couldn’t stand the silence that would have punctuated that sentence, the silence that would give it dimension and depth and weight, transforming it into the sentence that would connect with an audience.

“What does that mean?”

“That you’re wrong. That a boy needs his father. It means that you were wrong, Bret.”

“No, Jayne, you were wrong. It was wrong of you to have that child in the first place,” I said, meeting her gaze. “And you knew it was wrong. It wasn’t planned, and when you supposedly consulted me I told you that I didn’t want a child and then you went ahead and had him even though you knew it was wrong. We did not make that decision together. If anyone is wrong here, Jayne, it’s you—”

“You’re a walking pharmacy—you don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Jayne was sobbing again. “How can anyone listen to this?”

I thought I had reached a threshold of caring, but exhaustion kept me pushing forward in a rational tone.

“You did a very selfish thing by having Robby, and now you’re understanding just how selfish it was and so you blame me for that selfishness.”

“You fucking asshole,” she sobbed, wrecked. “You are such an asshole.”

“Jayne,” Dr. Faheida interrupted. “We talked about how you should ignore Bret when he says something you disagree with or know to be patently false.”

“Hey!” I exclaimed, sitting up.

“Oh, I try,” Jayne said, breathing in, her face twisted with regret. “But he won’t let me ignore him. Because Mr. Rock Star needs all the attention and he can’t give it to anyone else.” She choked back another sob, and then she directed her fury at me again. “You can’t step back from any situation and see it from any perspective but your own. You are the one, Bret, who is completely selfish and self-absorbed and—”

“Whenever I try to give you or the kids the attention you all say you need, all you guys do is back away from me, Jayne. Why should I even try anymore?”

“Stop whining!” she screamed.

“Jayne—” Dr. Faheida jumped in.

“Robby was fucked up before I got here, Jayne,” I said quietly. “And it wasn’t because of me.”

“He’s not fucked up, Bret.” She started coughing. She reached for a Kleenex. “Is this really all you’ve learned?”

“Whatever I’ve learned in the last four months is that the hostility directed toward me in that house has alienated me from connecting with anybody. That is what I have learned, Jayne, and . . .”

I stopped. Suddenly I couldn’t keep it up. I involuntarily softened. I began weeping. How had I ended up so alone? I wanted everything to be rewound. Immediately I got up from the armchair and knelt in front of Jayne, my head bowed down. She tried pushing me away but I held her arms firmly. And I started to make promises. I spoke uninterrupted, my voice raw. I told her that I was going to be there for him and that things were changing and that I’d realized over the last week that I have to be there for him and that it was time for me to be the father. I had never spoken these words with such force and in that moment I made a decision to let the tide of narrative take me where it wanted to, which I believed at the time was toward Robby, and I kept talking while I wept. I was going to concentrate only on our family now. It was the only thing that meant anything to me. And when I was finished and finally looked up into Jayne’s face it was fractured, distorted, and then something passed between us that was distinct and clear, and in the most dreamlike way, her head slowly tilted, and in that movement I felt something ascend and then her face composed itself as she stared back at me and her tears stopped along with mine, and this new expression was in such a contrast to the harshness that had scattered it before that a stillness overtook the room, transporting it to someplace else. She had been paralyzed, transfixed, by my admission. I remained kneeling, our hands still curled together. We were drawing each other inward. It was a faint movement toward countervision, toward comfort. It felt as if I had crossed a world to arrive at this point. Something unclenched in me, and her remorseful gaze suggested a future. But—and I tried to block this thought—were we really looking at each other, or were we looking at who we wanted to be?