“The toxicity seeps into my soul like oil spoils the soil.”

And my therapist says: “Yes, you said that at the beginning. But how does that make you feel?” 

“Feel?” I reply, “I haven’t done much of that in a while.” 

“Everybody loves my husband, except for me. But my husband doesn’t want any other love, except for mine.”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids, and now we have three of our own. There’s plenty of money and all, that’s not the problem.”

“Then what is the problem?” 

I’m still not used to this whole telehealth thing. Talking to some twenty-something-year-old on my son’s computer. She sits there, petite, short red hair, bright pink lips, blue eyes that have never seen life, at least not real life. 

“I don’t know, he’s changed, I guess,” I tell this therapist with a shrug. I adjust in my chair. I’m uncomfortable. The waistline of my too-tight pants digs into my stomach.

“How has he changed?” 

My mind wanders back to the iced teas with lemonade he used to get me—for no particular reason. First thing in the morning, a tall cup of iced tea and lemonade, he’d leave it for me by my keys. Tuesdays, Sundays, rain or shine, sick days, even vacation, didn’t matter. He used to prioritize me.

But not anymore. He doesn’t care about me. . . .

“Maureen, are you still with me? When was the last time you both did something together, just the two of you, for fun?”

I think about it for a moment. “We split the bill on a few slices of pizza at the food court last Sunday.” 

“Well, there. That’s someth—.”

“Oh, wait, Johnny was with us, we went to the mall to get him new cleats for town soccer this summer.” 

“Oh.” Neither one of us speaks for a moment. Dr. Townsend averts her eyes from the screen, down at a pad of paper on her lap. 

“Ya, Doctor, listen, there really isn’t much to say about my husband. He’s always working, or with the kids, or with anyone except for me. No matter what I seem to do, things don’t get any better. I guess that’s just my lot in life, to be tethered to this oil spill of a man.” 

“Now, Maureen, I know you’re hurting, but let’s be careful with our language.” 

“Careful? What for?” I snarl. “It isn’t like he’s sitting here listening. He’s off saving God-knows-who.” 

“Well, our thoughts and feelings can—if we’re not careful—influence our words and actions.” Her voice catches in her throat. She is clearly nervous. “Do you think that all of this anger is noticeable to your husband? Have you ever asked him how he feels about your marriage?”

Thoughts and feelings!? How he feels about our marriage? Who does this lady think she is?!

“Alright, I gave this a try, okay? I really did, but this isn’t for me. Thanks for nothing.” I click around the screen for a few seconds, unable to figure out how to end the video call, so I just slam the computer’s screen down so I don’t have to see her patronizing smile anymore.

“I have so much to do. What a waste. What an absolute waste,” I tell myself.

Crossing the room towards the door, I hear the telephone ring. It’s probably Dr. Townsend, no way I’m answering that. 

I exit the den, walk down the hallway, and into the kitchen. “What a mess.” Smelly hockey pads block my way to the door, and day-old takeout containers cover the counter. I step around the kids’ sports gear and reach for my keys in a hurry, plunging my hand mindlessly into the mess on the counter, my mind focused on the growing list of errands. 

SPLASH!

In my haste, I knock over a tall plastic cup that was amongst the rubbish next to my keys. 

“Goddamnit, I don’t have time for this!” Enraged, I mop up the mess, toss the paper towels in the bin, and head out into the garage. 

As I enter my car, I smell something unexpected. Earthy, sweet, woody, with a hint of sharp citrus. And my fingers are all sticky. Iced tea with lemonade.

I pause, comprehension blooming like rain lilies after a summer shower. Was that an olive branch? A gesture? A remembrance from a lost yesterday? I smile softly to myself. 

“Siri, call Derek.”