Chapter 8

chapter 8

“It’s why everyonethinks the Monopoly man has a monocle, but he doesn’t.”

“Does he not?”

“No, we’re mixing him up with the Planters peanut guy. And it’s called the Mandela effect because everyone believes Mandela died in prison, but he didn’t.”

On Tuesdays at 1:00 p.m., I have therapy. I love therapy so much. Mostly because I’m an excellent patient. Gina Lombardi’s a social worker, not, like, a psychiatrist or psychologist, which made me dubious at first, but she’s soothing to spend time with. She’s super tanned with a deep side part, and sometimes I just pretend that I’m talking to Miuccia Prada.

“Does that make you question your own long-held beliefs? What you thought you knew?” she asks.

I shrug. “Sure.” I mostly want her to know that I’ve read entire Wikipedia pages about South-African political revolutionaries. “Don’t you find it fascinating that we don’t know what we don’t know?”

Gina gets my best material if I’m honest. For the past two months I’ve been saving up clever bon mots for her benefit. For our initial appointment, I’d spent the whole ride reading up on the news and world events because her office is on the Upper West Side. She’s in the garden apartment of a town house, and you can see everyone’s calves and purebred dogs on the street level out her windows. She has built-in bookcases and a white-noise machine, and though I’ve only ever seen the little waiting area by the downstairs entryway and her office, I like to imagine this is her actual home. I feel giddy at the possibility that there could be an Egyptian cotton pillowcase with her silvery-blond hairs on it mere feet from where I’m sitting. I bet she wears a pajama set. And that it’s monogrammed.

It’s moments like these when I wish we could be real friends. I’ve only made her laugh out loud once, but I felt high all day. When we first met, she said she didn’t know who Rihanna was, which made me almost walk out until I thought about what that signifies. She has no loyalties. To not know about Rihanna means she’s a total nihilist.

Gina’s constantly telling me that it’s my negative self-talk that’s derailing my productivity, not a debilitating laziness. The first time we met, I tried to ice her out because I was so pissed that student services made me wait five weeks for the appointment, but then I forgot I wasn’t talking to her and complained about a stupid documentary. It was about violin prodigies. Gina mentioned that I was responding with undue hostility that someone would dedicate themselves to a single pursuit and then she said something that blew my mind.

She said that there was more than one type of perfectionist. And that I qualified because the kind of perfectionist I was, was the kind that abandoned everything if I wasn’t good enough at it. And that’s why I couldn’t finish tasks. Meanwhile, I thought you had to be Natalie Portman from Black Swan to be a perfectionist, all shivering from malnourishment and eighteen-hour practices, but she’s right. I’d rather fail outright than be imperfect. It’s why last year, when I was on academic probation, I couldn’t bring myself to cram for finals and end up with a C average. I just kinda gave up. There’s nothing more humiliating than trying so hard for everyone to see and still ending up a loser. Right now I have As and Bs, and I like to think that’s due to Gina.

“It is fascinating,” she says. I beam back at her proudly. “Knowing that we don’t know everything leaves room for mindfulness. It opens up the possibility that thoughts and feelings can change. Perception is a lot more subjective than anyone feels in the moment.”

“Totally.” I nod enthusiastically, before serving up a thoughtful pause. “But don’t you think that sometimes it’s better not to know anything at all? My sister, June, is the least self-aware person in the world and she’s really fuck—she’s extremely accomplished.” I try not to curse in front of Gina. She has Diptyque candles on her desk and wears pantyhose.

She glances up. My therapist removes her hand from her chin and uncrosses her legs.

Unclasping the enormous silver cuff bracelet from her wrist, she sets it down on the tasteful coffee table between us and studies me. I wonder if she’s about to tell me something unbelievably profound.

“How old is your sister?” she asks.

“Tw-twenty-three,” I stammer, holding my breath.

“And she’s extremely accomplished?”

I nod, watchful. I know it’s not how psychology works, but a part of me really believes Gina’s like an oracle.

“You know you’ve never mentioned your sister before?” she says, and then writes something down in her notebook before I can answer.

“Where does she live?”

“Twenty-sixth and Sixth.”

She writes even more down. I feel like I’m failing a test.

“Are you close?”

“Yes?”

“But you’ve never mentioned her before and you both live here.”

“Okay.”

“Do you find this significant?”

I hate when she does this.

“I guess so…”

“How so?”

“Well, we have nothing in common. She doesn’t like me and I don’t even know why.”

“What would she say if I asked her?”

That she resents me for being popular. That she blames me for her own unhappiness and wishes I was never born. That I’m a burden on Mom and Dad because I’m a baby who can’t get over herself. That I’m vapid and vain and that I’m selfish. That I’m a slut and an attention whore. And that I don’t call my mother or hang out with my sister because I’m ashamed of where I came from and that’s why I’ll never be happy.

“That she doesn’t approve of my decision-making.”

“Why?”

“Did you ever see that documentary where the brother murders the sister’s boyfriend because the sister groomed him into believing that her boyfriend stabbed their mother to death?”

It’s a true story. The sister was on America’s Most Wanted.

“No.”

“Well, it’s streaming on Netflix or Amazon right now.” I wonder if Gina even watches television. “They’re Korean.”

“I haven’t seen it.”

This session isn’t going the way I’d planned.

“Well, sometimes siblings don’t get along. For whatever reason, it’s the path they’re on,” I tell her.

“How do you feel about your sister?”

My sister died,I imagine myself saying to Gina in the future.

I feel the tears teasing at the tip of my nose.

There’s this whole theory that younger siblings are spoiled. That we’re enfeebled from all the mollycoddling. Soft. That by the time it was our turn to rebel, our parents had already given up. I disagree with this wholly. It’s firstborns who can’t take no for an answer. Youngest kids have iron constitutions. Hardy hides from lifetimes of rejection. A hundred million entreaties for their older siblings to hang out answered by shoves, eye rolls, slammed doors, and stone-cold ditches with peals of laughter.

It’s always felt like pressing into a bruise to talk about June.

It’s why I don’t do it.

I shrug. “I just wish she liked me.”