Gratitude
The Patient sat in the modest, nondescript chair in the Therapist’s modest, nondescript office for the fourth time. Her oaken desk, as usual, held no personal objects. Just a beige coffee cup of pens and a yellow-paged legal pad. The therapist was probably in her early 60s, same age as he was, with oversized round glasses and a brown sweater that created the image of an owl.
She always looked a little sad to him. A sad owl.
The Therapist viewed the Patient’s expression and thought, still pissed to be here. Still has the armor on. Hates having to be here every week because of his probation, but that’s the deal. The Patient was dressed in blue jeans that were faded by age, not process, and a too-big plaid flannel shirt, the kind that all the hunters around here wore during deer season.
— Did you do your assignment? she asked him.
He dug the crumpled paper out of his hip pocket and slid it across the desk. Gratitude lists, he groused under his breath. How he hated doing them with every therapist. She unfurled the wad and began to recite.
— April 26, the Therapist intoned, adjusting her owl glasses a bit. — Apartment, clothes, food, dog. April 27: Apartment, dog, food, clothes. April 28, Dog, food, apartment, clothes. The Therapist gently tossed her eyewear onto the desktop.
— You were supposed to come up with four new things each day.
— Is it my fault I got nothing to be grateful for? Surly. And more than usual.
Let’s try going down another road, the Therapist thought.
— Your father came from around here, right?
— Born, raised and died, the Patient replied, leaning back and crossing his arms. — So? We already talked about this.
— Tell me about him.
— Like what?
— When you were young, the Therapist continued, leaning forward and clasping her hands on her desk, what did he tell you about himself as a child?
The Patient looked away. What was this one getting at? — Not much.
— One thing, the Therapist nudged. It felt like a poke to the Patient. About his parents, what kind of house he lived in, what he did for fun, his first job, whatever.
The Patient remained silent. He didn’t want to remember his father’s memories, much less relay them across the decades to this woman who could never understand.
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— You know, the Therapist pushed, how well you cooperate here goes into your probation report.
— I know, the Patient growled. — OK, fine.
First, he didn’t have a home. He was in the Children’s Home. And he said it was because it was the Depression and his parents couldn’t keep a job. My Uncle Kenny told me later they were both drunks. Anyway, my dad told me one Christmas in the Children’s Home all he got was two oranges and a bag of walnuts, and he was damn glad to have ’em. I saw a picture of him and his parents once, when he was like 14, and they were standing on patch of dirt. Dirt poor.
The Patient hadn’t realized he had cast his eyes down and was looking at the brown-and-beige carpet. But the Therapist had.
— OK, the Therapist said. What about him as a teenager?
— He was an usher in the local movie theater. Movies actually had ushers back then. Then he enlisted in the Army. Was supposed to be part of the invasion of Burma, but then they dropped the Bomb and he wound up spending a year with British troops in India. Then he came home.
The Patient paused. — Ya know, I asked him once why we never went anywhere as a family. I mean, the farthest we ever drove was two or three hours to see relatives. And he told me, ‘I went around the world once and seen all I needed to see. I’m happy here.’ All he ever did here was work for 50 years and then sit in his easy chair.
— OK, how was he before you finally left?
— Like I just said. All he did was pop movies into the VCR and sit in the recliner at home. That’s all it took to make him happy.
The Patient looked up. The Therapist saw a little spark enter the light bulb. She sat back, clasped her hands behind her graying hair.
— What? The Patient said. — You expect me to just be happy watching movies on TV?
— Of course not. But look at your dad: He started out dirt poor, in a Children’s Home, getting only oranges and walnuts. Maybe the only enjoyment he got was seeing movies as an usher. By the end of his life he had his own home and could watch any movie he wanted. He probably felt like a king in a castle, though he probably never told anyone that.
— Yeah, I knew him. He probably figured if people couldn’t see it for themselves, he wasn’t about to explain it to them. So … I suppose you want me to figure out how I can do this in my own life?
The Therapist put her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. — I think, she said, why don’t you just sit with this for now. Borrow your father’s gratitude for a week and see how that goes.
++++
Jeanne, the Therapist, entered her apartment hungry and exhausted again. She threw her purse on the floor and coat over a kitchen chair. As she’d done every night for five months, she picked up a small, silver-framed photo of her late husband, Bob, kissed it, and set it gently back in its resting place.
Her stomach growled. Jeanne scanned the counters for a snack. Her eyes lit upon a couple of oranges in a ceramic bowl.
I wonder, Jeanne thought, if I have any walnuts. And if there’s a good movie on TV tonight.
