Chapter 32

As promised, Allensent me the files for the new project. And as expected, everything is a complete mess. Text documents are out of order and pictures aren't numbered with the pages they are supposed to be grouped with. I have a headache thrumming at the base of my skull, and I have to leave in twenty minutes to drive an hour to meet Barbara at the rehab facility.

A shadow falls across my desk and the smell of cheap cologne invades my space. Jeremy leans against my cubicle.

"Summer, do you have the first five chapters done yet?"

"Allen just sent the files this morning and they are a disaster. I'm not a miracle worker," I grumble.

"That's not the response I was hoping for. How about a more positive attitude? A yes I can do kind of attitude. I'd like to have it by four." He wraps his knuckles on the top ledge of my cubicle before he walks away, whistling a jaunty tune. I hate him.

I open up a file and import the text, wrapping it around a picture of molecules. I used to find pleasure in the steady rhythm of formatting. Placing the text where it needed to go, making sure the margins were correct, that the words flowed correctly, spacing it as needed. But I no longer find joy in it. The creative juices that flowed in Italy are fighting against the monotonous rhythm I once found easy and comforting.

I glance at the clock. It's three thirty p.m. here, which means it's twelve thirty in the morning in Italy. Lorenzo is probably asleep.

I find myself glancing at the clock a lot these days, wondering how he's doing and what everyone at the farm would be doing at that hour. I haven't talked to him in weeks. He's been so busy with harvest. I called to thank him for the painting, but got sent to his voicemail. Is this what my life has turned into? Looking at the clock and wishing I was somewhere else with someone else?

Wishing I didn't feel stuck.

I walk towardthe palatial building in front of me surrounded by beautifully manicured lawns and tropical flowers. This looks more like a resort than a rehab facility. I check in at the front desk and show my ID before I'm asked to take a seat in the light, airy lobby.

I'm checking my messages when a woman approaches me with a warm smile. "Summer Andrews?"

"Yes, I'm Summer." I stand and shake her hand, immediately at ease by her warm smile.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Naomi Rice. I've been assigned to your mother's case. It's a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for driving all this way to visit with us this evening. Why don't you follow me. Barbara is waiting in my office."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Rice. I haven't been allowed to talk to Barbara since she arrived and was detoxing. Is she doing alright?"

"She's doing beautifully." The doctor smiles as we reach her door.

"That's great to hear."

Relief washes over me. I try not to get my hopes up, but perhaps this time treatment will work. She pauses, her hand on the handle, and turns to me.

"Summer, I want to warn you, this won't be easy today. Sometimes in therapy, people say things that aren't always kind, because they are in a safe space. For Barbara to move forward, I will need you to come back again for more sessions, as painful as they might be."

"I understand, Dr. Rice. We've been through this before."

Her eyes tilt down. "Yes, I know. I'm not giving up on Barbara without a fight. Are we in this together?"

I nod my head, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks, too choked up to agree with words. It's the first time I've ever had a therapist want to fight for her.

"Very good," she says, turning the handle. We step into a spacious room decorated in calming cream tones. "Barbara, Summer is here."

Barbara is sitting on a suede couch, her bare feet tucked under her. She looks small and frail. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes, sliding one out, but doesn't light it. She holds it between her fingers. "Trying to quit." She smiles ruefully at me.

"That's good." I give her a small smile in return, taking a seat in a comfortable-looking chair perpendicular to her, as Dr. Rice sits opposite me.

"Thank you for coming today, Summer." Dr. Rice opens her leatherbound notebook and jots something down. "I want open communication during this session. This is a safe place for you both and I am here merely as a buffer. I'm not here to take sides or to help settle a dispute. This session is to help you both understand each other better. Does that sound good?"

We both nod.

"Great, let's get started. Barbara, why don't you go first."

Barbara takes a deep breath. "Summer, I am sorry for the accident, for stealing your car, for being negligent. I want to be a better person, a better parent."

Barbara doesn't meet my eyes and I'm wondering if she's being sincere. Is she just saying what Dr. Rice wants to hear so she can get out of here faster? Guilt floods my chest for thinking it, but old habits are hard to break.

"Summer?" Dr. Rice prompts.

"Well…I accept her apology, but to be honest, I've heard it all before. It's the same song and dance with Barbara. Every time she screws up, she apologizes and then the pattern starts all over again. I hope she wants to be a better person, but I think we're past her being a better parent."

"Barbara, do you see yourself repeating the pattern?"

"No, I'm being truthful, Summer," Barbara huffs.

"Barbara, why don't we start from the beginning. Perhaps it might shed some light for Summer."

"I got pregnant with you when I was fifteen. It's no secret I never wanted to have a baby, but my mother made me keep you until term, hoping it would teach me to be responsible. Your father was long gone at that point. He was a dish-washer at the café my mom worked at. As soon as I told him I was pregnant, he left town, so I was all on my own. The first few years were the hardest.

"Sure, I had my mom, but she was always working, being a single mother herself. She was constantly breathing down my neck. I couldn't see my friends anymore, or go to parties, homecoming, graduation. Everyone's life was going on without me while I was stuck at home changing diapers. I was severely depressed and angry. I was so angry at the world, so angry at her. You idolized my mom. Grams this and Grams that…I felt like I wasn't needed or wanted."

Dr. Rice passes me a tissue. I hadn't realized I was crying. This is the first time I've ever heard Barbara express raw, honest truth.

"Summer?" Dr. Rice says.

"As a kid, all I wanted was to be loved by you."

"I couldn't give you that…I wasn't capable of that. I'm sorry."

"Barbara, do you think you resented Summer?"

"Damn straight, I resented her. Her Grams gave her all the attention. Her entire world became Summer. I tried to bond with her, but I was too depressed. Here I was doing my best, incapable of loving my own child. I thought I was a monster, that I was defective. I didn't want to be a mother. My mother constantly shamed me, calling me unfit, so I started drinking for comfort. In my mom's eyes, I was her biggest failure, so why not live up to her assumption? When she threatened to take my parental rights away, I gave up on everything."

"Summer, how does it make you feel to hear that?"

I take a deep, shaky breath. I never knew Grams treated her that way.

"It makes me sad…for everyone involved. It's hurtful to hear you were never wanted or loved. I always knew Barbara resented me, I just didn't understand why."

"Barbara, do you still resent Summer?"

Barbara looks down at the carpet and then up at Dr. Rice. "Sometimes. I resent how successful she is. I resent that Grams treated her differently."

"But can you understand that's not Summer's fault? She chose her path just as you chose yours." Dr. Rice turns to me. "Can you sympathize with Barbara?"

I pause, chewing my lip, mulling over the doctor's question. I've heard of women experiencing postpartum depression before. I can't understand not loving a child, but then again, I've never walked in her shoes. I imagine myself at fifteen and there's no way I could have cared for a baby by myself. Barbara's entire world changed, and not for the better. It's as if Barbara stayed stuck in the mentality of a fifteen-year-old all these years, but the world moved on and grew up without her.

"I can sympathize," I say slowly, and I mean it. "I wish she had told me this years ago, instead of waiting for her to step up to the plate every time I needed a parent."

Dr. Rice leans forward. "Do you think we can rebuild this relationship, or do you think it's too far gone?"

Barbara flips the cigarette between her fingers, her shoulders hunched, eyes cast down. Nonna's voice whispers in my head like wind rustling through leaves. Famiglia. She's family.

"Barbara and I will never have a traditional mother-daughter relationship. That ship sailed long ago. But if she can start taking responsibility for her life, continue with therapy and do the hard work, then I'm willing to meet her halfway."

"Barbara, can you meet Summer halfway?"

My mom looks up, tears shining in her eyes. "I want to be a better person, Summer."

"Barbara, that's not what I asked," Dr. Rice says.

"Yes. I'm willing to do the hard work and meet her halfway."

I nod and give her a small smile. For once, I'm willing to believe her.