Selling Lies
I hadn’t even noticed that Graham had left the office, but apparently he had because he re-enters with a thin brown-skinned man in tow. Graham stands awkwardly off to the side of the door, next to a Venetian urn, and it’s then that I notice his choice of outfit for the party is a football jersey. Real classy.
The other man is wearing grey slacks, a black turtle-neck, and little wire-framed glasses. The picture of ‘shrink’. He’s probably forty, with dark hair just long enough to reach his ears, greying at the temples. He appears to be South Asian or Middle Eastern, I’m not really qualified to tell what. And strangely, he’s holding an elaborately decorated wooden box in both hands instead of, like, a clipboard.
“Come in, come in!” Mom is saying while flitting about. The therapist man is standing in the center of the room calmly holding his artifact-like box. “Artie, introduce yourself. Actually, I’ll do it. This is Artie--Doctor Artie. Really an amazing man, and lovely brown eyes as well! Truly, he’s fantastic, Masie, you’re going to adore him, he’s very professional--when necessary--and I think he’ll really do you a world of good after all that… nonsense you’ve been doing out in that wretched town.”
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and give Artie a measured smile. “I was on a work trip in Windthrow Point, Illinois,” I clarify with only a hint of irritation. “I actually only came back to see to my mother, who is clearly prone to fits of hysteria.” I punctuate this statement with a cute laugh, as if it’s a joke, and put out my hand. “I’m Masie Clements, author. You might have heard of me? I’m the best-selling author of The Lakeside Haunt and Over, Behind, Beyond.”
“She’s my daughter,” Mom provides from right beside me, patting my shoulder like I’m some dog she was told to look after.
The so-called therapist, Artie, looks between us. His lips twitch into something that might’ve been a smile, but it disappears before I can really tell. He shakes my hand, his skin unnervingly cold. “Nice to meet you, Masie. Shall we begin?”
Mom falls gracefully into her office chair and laughs, drowning out any words I might’ve wanted to say. “Right to the point! It’s all business. Well, yes, let’s. I have a small gathering in the works so I might need to pop out, make an appearance--”
“That’s alright, Helene. Masie and I can take it from here.” His voice is very calm and soft, but somehow doesn’t leave room for argument. Mom closes her mouth. I’m a bit impressed.
“I should--” I start.
Mom launches herself from her chair, tripping over her feet a bit. Graham darts over and catches her arms. “You’re right, there’s a lot to do! Graham, you better check on the drinks. I’ll make the rounds, I suppose.” She tips back the last mouthful of wine in her glass, then thrusts it into Graham's hands. He takes it and stares at it blankly. “Do behave!” she cries out as she leaves the room.
Graham follows, giving a small wave with the empty glass. “See ya.”
I would absolutely love to chuck something at both of them as they leave--an insult or a piece of décor, I can’t decide--but I remain extremely professional and just clear my throat loudly instead. As soon as the wooden door latches closed I face the turtleneck man. “I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way, Artie, but there’s really no need. My mother does tend to overreact; she’s quite possibly a compulsive liar? Point being she really had no reason to call you here. Lovely to meet you, truly, but I’ve got a tight schedule. Work meetings and…writing things. Ta.” My hand’s already on the knob, flinging the door open, revealing a man in a feather boa on the other side, smoking a cigar.
I’m dodging around the feather boa man as Artie says from behind me, “I live across the street.”
"What?” I pause and look over my shoulder.
Artie has tucked his weird little box under one arm. “You said you’re sorry that I came all this way, but I live just across the street.”
I wave away a cloud of cigar smoke and look Artie up and down. “You’re not a real therapist, are you?”
He makes that non-smile face again, him in the office still, me in the hallway. Feather Boa between us, leaning against the wall. Artie shrugs. “Not licensed, but Helene keeps paying me. My name is actually Arif.” He adjusts his glasses on his face. “I’m a historian.”
A historian. I bark out a laugh. I look into his face and imagine my mother calling him in for sessions, imagine Arif, fingers steepled, smiling and nodding and then walking away with a wad of cash. It’s ridiculous, which is exactly why it makes sense. I burst into uncontrollable laughter, holding onto the wall beside me for support. Tears form in the corners of my eyes. I hunch over and clutch my side, falling against the wall. My mother had me fly four hours to meet a historian.
I can hear the disapproving click of heels coming up the stairs. “Masie, I told you--”
I’m still choking on giggles. I straighten and pull the drink out of Mom’s hand. Something bubbly this time. I manage to take a sip around my laughter, and Mom looks at me like I’m an animal. “Thanks for the drinks,” I cheers to her, then begin to walk away.
Her grip on my arm is like a vise. “Mas--”
I stop and look Mom dead in the eyes. She is old. She covers it with overdone makeup or big hairdos or thick glasses or sparkly dresses. Her eyes, half-hidden behind her bangs, are brown, just like mine, and can look black in the right lighting, just like mine. “Let me go.”
She scoffs, but releases my arm. “You’re so dramatic. I’m trying to help you.”
I’m still laughing, it's just lost all of its amusement and has boiled down into disbelief. My eyes are still watery. “You need help. Artie is bullshit.” My eyes dart to him with a half-hearted, “No offense,” then back to Mom. “Your whole life is bullshit. This party, bringing me here, Coco’s funeral, Rachael. It’s bullshit.”
Mom’s face goes red at Rachael’s name. "How can you say that?!" she demands. "Look around you, Masie, I’m alive. Are you? Running off to the country, going to bars with that stick of a friend you have, pretending to write in that big house? You have no life, barely a career, and no family." She's clutching her hands together, face pinched in pity. Not even anger, just pity.
I reel back, a highly decorative mirror on the wall lodging itself in between my shoulder blades. I could've been run through with a sword, for all I knew. “No family,” I repeat. “Is that what you think?” My voice is small, like it's on the other side of a tunnel.
Mom sighs, her arms rising and falling at her sides with her breath. “Oh, you know what I mean. You’ve not had a serious relationship in years.”
“I see, so ‘family’ to you means ‘boyfriend’?" I’m actually shocked. I push myself off the wall, press my face into hers until we’re inches apart. “You know what? I get it. You don’t know what family means. You’re right. I don’t have a family. Maybe it’s better that way.”
She leans away, chuckling uncomfortably, and puts her hands on my upper arms. “Darling--” she starts, but I shake her off, and her arms fall like loose autumn leaves. I tip back the rest of the drink I stole off her and head for the stairs.
“Masie. Masie! You don’t mean that. Come on, darling!” she’s calling after me. I have my head down, suddenly conscious of all the other partygoers. There’s a couple on the stairs and I can feel their eyes. The feather boa man. Arif.
“I meant you should take life more seriously, is all. You could really be amazing!” my mother shouts down the stairs.
At this I pause. I look up at her, at the brilliance of the chandelier above us, more expensive than my own. At the walls that are molded with arches and cherub-like faces above every doorway. At my mother, who is peering down the stairs with one hand held lightly over her heart like she's a romantic lead.
I unclench my teeth to spit one more thing at her. “Could be. You’ve never respected anything I’ve done. You wanna know something? I’m not even mad that you lied to get me here, or that you set me up with your weird little fake-therapist. I’m mad because the only time you’ve ever told me you were proud of me was over the phone yesterday. And it was just an act. Another lie to sell a series of lies. Well guess what? I’m done.” Her expression doesn’t change, other than a slight furrow of her brow. I push past the couple on the stairs, who stare at me with open mouths.
I am done.
(next chapter)
pt 21: https://www.theprose.com/post/816609/contradictions
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