The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson
she prodded.
“Inadequate.”
Her smile widened. “The human condition. At least for most of us. Do you want to talk specifics? Something particular that happened last Christmas?”
“Not really. Suffice it to say that I again fell short. And they let me know about it.”
“Your family,” she clarified.
“My mother in particular. She’s always been hard to please. I know I should be used to it by now, but for some reason I always think that this time I’ve found something she’ll have to approve of.”
“So this is a pattern that’s been repeated over and over, no matter what you give her.”
“Implying she’s the problem and not me?”
His question was a little too glib, but perhaps he’d done some reading on the subject. Many people did these days, especially with the proliferation of mental health information on the Web.
“Is that a possibility?” she asked, her tone neutral.
“More than a possibility. It’s almost certainly the case.”
“Then if you recognize that…” Again she hesitated, waiting for him to draw the obvious conclusion.
“I should be able to do something about it. You’re right, of course. And believe me, I’ve tried. I still manage to end up feeling as if I’ve failed. Her. And myself.”
“Then maybe the first step in changing your feelings is to acknowledge that no matter what you do or how much trouble you go to, you probably aren’t going to please her. That should lower your expectation to a more reasonable level.”
“It sounds simple, but…Look, I’m a grown man. I’ll be the first to admit that she shouldn’t have that much power over me. Not enough to spoil one holiday after another.”
“She’s your mother. Most of us were raised to care about pleasing our parents. Just not, I hope, to the detriment of our own well-being. You mentioned that my comments during the interview about holiday depression had struck a chord. Do you think that what you’ve felt over the years might be classified as depression?”
“I don’t know. I guess one person’s depression is another person’s excuse for a stiff drink and a good dinner.”
Not too far off the mark, Jenna thought with an inward smile. Not that depression wasn’t real and serious, but to some people, anytime they felt disappointment or sadness about something, even if those feelings were justified by the situation, that qualified in their minds as depression. John Nolan seemed to have a more realistic attitude.
“Is that what you do? Indulge yourself to make up for how she makes you feel?”
“Occasionally. After hearing you talk, I realized the mistake I make every year is in still having any expectation of pleasing her.”
“So will that help with the stress this year?”
“It should. But then, I am here.”
“Taking steps to deal with your feelings is definitely a move in the right direction. So what do you think you need to do next in order to feel better?”
“What do you think, Dr. Kincaid? That is why I came, you know. To hear your advice.”
Again, something about the exchange seemed contrived. It was all too pat.
Of course, some patients didn’t want to give voice to the obvious conclusions. They wanted to have them spelled out, so that they became more like directives. Since Nolan’s mother was obviously controlling if not domineering, perhaps he needed that kind of instruction.
“All right. Other than on gift-giving occasions, what kind of relationship do you have with your mother?”
“Distant,” he said with a laugh. “Both physically and emotionally. That’s by choice, by the way. Probably by both our choices.”
“And she doesn’t want a closer relationship?”
“If she does, she’s never given any indication of it.”
Which was strange, considering the apparent power play at Christmas. Still…
“Then if you’re both comfortable with not seeing one another, why not mail her presents to her. That way she can’t express any overt disappointment in them. Not any that will be up close and personal.”
“She’s the only family I have. I’d feel terrible not flying out there for the holidays.”
“And how would that be different from how you feel now?”
He laughed, and Jenna gave him points for acknowledging the absurdity of the caveat he’d just offered. Actually, she liked him better for the laughter.
Still, she’d begun to feel that he was a little old to be so thoroughly manipulated by his mother and perhaps less than truthful about why he was here. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a sliver of uneasiness.
“Maybe I’d just feel more guilty.”
“Or maybe you’d feel more in control,” she suggested. “You said it doesn’t matter what you give her. This year send her an expensive bouquet of roses and then go out and have that good dinner, knowing that you’ve done the best you can. If she doesn’t like your gift, you haven’t lost anything. Except the experience of watching her disapproval.”
“Do you really think something like that will work?”
“I think if you tell yourself this Christmas is going to be different, it will be. Call her and tell her you aren’t going to be able to make it this year. Send the flowers. Then tell yourself that you’ve done your part, and if she doesn’t like them, that’s her problem.”
“She is my mother.”
“Yes, she is. And ultimately it’s your choice as to how much control you’re going to allow her.”
His eyes again dropped to his hands. “You’re right, of course. I know that. It isn’t easy to change the dynamics of a relationship as it’s existed all your life.”
“You want to or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I think I believed that you would just give me something to make me feel better about myself.”
“I thought I was,” Jenna said, smiling at him when he looked up. “You thought I’d give you some medication.”
“I did, but…If I may, I’d like some time to think about what you’ve said.”
“Of course.”
“And I can call you again if I want to talk?”
“Call my secretary and ask for an appointment. I have to warn you, though. I may not be able to fit you in so quickly.”
“I know. And I appreciate that you saw me today. I didn’t expect it, to tell the truth. Not with what you said about how many people have problems this time of year.”
“That’s why we try to see anyone who needs us.”
He nodded, and then he stood. Jenna rose as he extended his hand. She took it and was surprised to find his handshake firm, his palm slightly callused. Of course, a couple of sessions a week at a gym could explain that.
“Thank you,” he said earnestly.
“You’re welcome. Call again if you want to talk more.”
“I will.”
He released her hand, stepping away from the desk. He had almost reached the door before he turned back, nodding once more before he went through it.
Jenna blew out a breath, before sinking back into her chair. She should write up her notes on the session, but instead she pushed the folder that held John