I’ve never gotten used to people not liking me. Once I slighted the secretary at school, and now I’m up every night at three in the morning thinking of ways to win her affections back. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was late and had just gotten a cavity filled, and my jaw was sore. I could feel a headache starting in the back of my neck, and I didn’t want to sign in because, for Christ Sake, she knew who I was and had known me since kindergarten; couldn’t she just wave me through? This one time? Chloe was late for a dress rehearsal, but she said someone was always late and it was protocol, so I mumbled something about her being a member of the Gestapo, and now I practically get strip searched whenever I want to get through the door.

I’m a good person. I felt badly and wanted a chance to make amends. I’m not a chef, but I’m good at reheating souffles and passing them off as my own. The problem with that was the secretary always ordered in her lunch, and she’d probably guess I could never have made something like that all by myself, even if I scraped off the garnish, so cooking was out. I always wanted to make elaborate scarves or colorful mittens, but I never learned how to knit. I wasn’t sure if the secretary had any children, but even if she had, it wasn’t like I could teach them how to swim or ride a horse. I was pretty good at picking out lice and was a fast note-taker, but I figured that since she was a secretary, she was a neat and fast note-taker too. Unfortunately, the things I couldn’t do outweighed the things I could, and I began to think my life was wasted, and that kept me up longer than my clash with the secretary.

Dr. Lynn’s flannel dress looks like it doubles as a nightgown, and I picture her crawling underneath her bedsheets without changing. I want to tell her about how bacteria stick to outside clothing, but in front of Chloe, I try to hide my crazy.

A white, cottony dog wiggles in Lynn’s arms and reaches for us with its nose and paws.

“This little one is a flight risk. Sorry about that.” She smiles, maneuvers around us, closes the door with the back of her foot, and lets it down, where it immediately jumps up and licks every exposed part of us.

“Estelle!” She scolds. “At least, let them come in.”

The name doesn’t fit the dog. It looks like a Snowball or a Fluffy, maybe, but definitely not an Estelle.

When we are inside, Lynn explains that waiting rooms make most of her clients jumpy, so she set out to create a comfortable space.

She waves her arms. “And I realized my nest is best.” She chirps. “And so,  mi casa es tu casa.” She gestures toward the dog. “Mi perro es tu perro.”

Just then, her husband walked out of the back of the house.

He claps his chest. “Mi esposo es tu esposo.”

Lynn laughs with a high-pitched squeal. “No. My husband is not your husband.” She smacks him on the shoulder. “You bad boy.”

“Help yourself to anything else, though.” She says. “Really.” And I envision rifling through drawers until I find treasures from my past. An antique Snow White Pez dispenser, a ball of rubber bands, a game of Jax, and a pack of discontinued minty Cloretes.

The houses that had been built in the development were all identical. Crisp and white. Every front door had a brass knocker in the center. All of the garages had a camera installed above the corner of the frame.

I scanned the homes and imagined each one filled with a different professional. Orthodontists fitting pink Silly Putty-like substance in crooked mouths in living rooms, accountants punching numbers into calculators while they ran their blenders, dancers leaping across hallways, and stylists blowing out hair next to the grill. It was a neighborhood where everyone knew their role and played it perfectly.

When Chloe told me she wanted to kill herself, I could’ve said a thousand things.

“I’m here for you.”

“You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“You’ll get through it. We’ll get through this together.”

But what I actually said was, “You can’t. Because if you do, I won’t survive, and I don’t want to die. I have too many things to do.”

I told my sister I was a terrible mother, and she laughed. “Oh, please, I once packed Dean a bag and told him to go walk to his fucking father’s place if he thought it was so much better over there.” She shook her head. “Motherhood brings out the best and worst parts of us. Cheers.” She clinked a fake glass against my head.

When Lynn asks what brought us here, I answer before Chloe can. “Lately, she’s been feeling low.”

Lynn writes something down. Since we’re in her new home, it could be anything. Call the plumber and see about the hot water tank. Ask our neighbor about the invisible fence. Return mother-in-law’s call.

She looks from me to Chloe, and I can tell from the look that she doesn’t care for me.

She directs her next question at my daughter and says, “Can you tell me a little more about what that feels like?”

Inside my purse, a bag of pistachios has capsized, and empty shells litter my bag. I dig for ones that are still intact, but my purse is a giant maraca.

“Bill, why don’t you show Mom the garden we’re planting while I get to know Chloe better?”

Lynn is probably five years older than me, yet she is referring to me as Mom? Her tone is condescending too, but I lean into it and say, “Chloe, is that okay? Are you good with Mom leaving for a little bit?”

Her cheeks pinken, and I feel guilty for laying it on too thick. Now I’ll have to wake up at two forty-five to find ways I can make it up to Chloe for embarrassing her. The idea is exhausting.

I start to slip my shoes back on, but Bill stops me. “The garden’s in here.”

The entire wall of the study is fitted with glass. There is a windowsill lined with plants and a window seat that wraps around the whole base. It’s incredible! Bill takes his time showing off “Lynn’s babies.”

“The tomatoes are flourishing. The peppers are delic. Do you want to try one?”

“No, thank-you.”

There’s spinach, basal, kale, rosemary, mint, and thyme.

He rips off a mint leaf and presses it against his nose. “Hmmm.” Then he holds it out for me to take, and I sniff it without making any noise.

He points behind his desk. “These are mine.”

There are several ferns that need to be watered. Their heads are bowed, like they are in silent prayer.

He sits down in his chair and motions for me to take the spot near the window.

“So, Dedee, you’re sure we’ve never met before?”

“Dedre,” I correct. “And I don’t think so. I just have one of those faces.”

Bill leans further back into his chair, rubs the bottom of his chin, and then skips his fingers up the side of his nose, like he is feeling his skeletal structure and checking if he too has one of those faces. “I went to school with Patrick Sullivan. Any relation?”

“Nope.”

“My wife’s good, you know? Your daughter’s in good hands.”

I smile. “I know. Thanks.”

“Alright, so how can I help you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, we might as well maximize your time here. A two for one special, if you know what I mean.” He indicates the degrees on the wall. There are six of them. They are yellow at the edges. “You didn’t think my wife was the only head shrinker in the house, did ya?”

I don’t know what to say, so I giggle.

He says, “My specialty is marital problems.”

I raise my hand. “I think I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

He taps at the keyboard like he’s typing a dissertation, but he isn’t pressing down hard enough to make any words. It’s like tap shoes, and it makes me think of how my wife laughs a little too loudly whenever Chloe’s dance teacher is around.

I say, “What do most of your clients want to talk about?”

Bill says, “Adultery, Addiction, Bereavement, Eating, Fetishes, Love—” He trips on the last word, and if he was planning on rattling off any remaining disorders, he doesn’t.

When the silence continues, I say, “My wife.”

Bill smiles. “Yeah, I have one of those.”

“She’s nice.”

“Nice? You make her sound like a restaurant with those battery-operated candles in the middle of the tables.”

“She is nice.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“She’s too nice to tell me, but I know what she’s thinking. I’m failing at this.” I didn’t want to say what this was. I wanted Bill to understand that it was all-encompassing. I was failing at life.

Bill nods. “And how does that make you feel?”

Since I don’t want another person to apologize to in the middle of the night, I don’t tell him he sounds like a classic dimwitted therapist they feature in films; instead, I say, “Deflated.”

Bill exaggerates his nod. “Yes. This is a classic symptom of marriage dysfunction, so what do you want to do about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we can come at this from a variety of angles. You can rant. We can roleplay. I can offer suggestions on how to fix your marriage, or we could kill her. It’s really up to you.” Bill laughs. “No seriously.” He says it like he’s in front of an audience. “How about we start off easy?”

“What color is your wife’s hair?”

It’s the color of dark cherries. “Red,” I say.

Bill lowers his head underneath the desk and resurfaces wearing a long, auburn-colored wig. His voice is higher when he says, “Deedra, why do you keep cutting your hair? You know I like it long. Don’t you want me to be attracted to you?”

I look around, waiting for Lynn to barge in and say, “Gotcha,” but Bill’s eyes are on mine, waiting for an answer. “Uh, I don’t know. What is this?”

Bill mocks me. “Uh, uh, uh.” He rolls his eyes. “I should’ve listened to my mother. She told me not to settle, but did I listen? No. I argued that love is more important than anything in the world, and you and I were meant to be, but now I can’t even look at you.” He gags. “Your face actually makes me sick.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think this is helping.”

“Of course you don’t, because you don’t take your socks off when you fuck me, and you fart afterwards like you’re about to make a big announcement.”

I stand up. “I’m gonna go now.”

When I’m close to the door, Bill throws a stapler and yells. “Go then! I always knew you’d leave me.” The stapler makes a small dent in the door. If I was a fraction of an inch over, it would’ve hit me.

Lynn runs into the room. “What is going on in here?”

Chloe is standing behind her. I don’t know if she’s noticed Bill or his wig.

“Put your shoes on.” I tell her. “We’re leaving.”

Lynn picks up the stapler. Her hands are trembling. “He’s unorthodox, that’s all. Please, don’t leave like this. Let’s sit and talk.”

I could’ve said a thousand things.

“Of course.”

“I understand.”

“He’s clearly an innovator in his field.”

But what I actually said was, “You can’t be serious. He’s certifiable.”

He pulled the wig off of his head slowly. He looked stricken, but I didn’t apologize. I would later, at 2:30 in the morning. I’d say, “I know you were just trying to help, but it was really weird.” And in my mind, Bill would say, “Everything wonderful is.”