Baltimore by Jelena Lengold Page A

ignores this and says:
    “Can you try to pay attention to your facial expression while you speak, for a short time at least? To allow your face to express your true feelings?”
    “Are you trying to say that my face doesn’t show what I’m really feeling?”
    “I didn’t say that. I just said that sometimes you smile when you talk about very serious and painful matters. How can the person you’re talking to know what you’re really feeling if you’re smiling?”
    What is she doing? What is she trying to tell me? That I always hide my pain, or that my “pain” is, in fact, bogus and that my face is giving me away? Which of the two is she referring to? I don’t ask.
    In any case, she won’t be getting anymore of my smiles today. It seems best for all concerned if I just sit in my chair and cry. This way, I appear more like the patient, she appears more like the therapist, and everyone’s happy.
    That said, she goes on to another fabrication:
    “Do you remember a fairy tale which meant a lot to you as a child?”
    Hey! I know this game! Now I’m supposed to say something based on which you’re going to interpret my perception of life! This all too typical question makes me want to scream. Besides, I wanted to tell her, all fairy tales are designed to make me look like an idiot. Which one should I choose? Cinderella? That won’t do, after all, I was an only child. Sleeping Beauty? Right, then I’d have to listen to her tell me how I’ve been waiting all my life for a prince to come and wake me from my everlasting dream with his kiss. Indeed, which fairy tale did I like?
    “This won’t work,” I say to her. “The problem is I know the reason why you’re asking me this and I can’t think of one.”
    “You don’t want to expose yourself?”
    And then the smile again. Aha! Go ahead, smile. Meanwhile, you’ve banned mine.
    “Truth be told, I know now, from this perspective, where this exercise is going. But back then, when I was just a child choosing a story I liked the most, I didn’t know this. So, I think it makes sense to mention the fairy tale my grandfather used to read to me at bedtime….”
    “So then, there is that one story?”
    “Yes, of course. But it’s almost pointless talking about it. It’s extremely obvious.”
    “Never mind. Tell me.”
    And then I told her the story about a boy who lost his parents and wandered around the world trying to find them again. Somewhere along the way, he came across an old man and they continued the journey together. They travelled halfway across the world, got into various predicaments and dangerous situations, and in the end, due to a lot of luck and practically a miracle, the boy managed to find his parents.
    “Is there any need for me to interpret this for you?” she asks.
    She’s finally beginning to understand.
    “No, really no. I told you it was obvious. But, nevertheless, this was a fairy tale from my childhood. And who knows how many times my grandfather had to read it to me….”
    “What does that story remind you of now?”
    Our two heads on an enormous down pillow. His soft voice. His irremediable Russian accent. I see him reading the story and falling asleep in the middle of a sentence. I’d nudge him a little with my hand and he would awake with a jerk and continue reading. This is how we would lull each other to sleep, only he never nudged me once I dozed off.
    “It reminds me of my grandfather,” I say.
    “What was your grandfather like with you?”
    How do I explain this to her? I wanted to say that he was the love of my life.
    “He always had time for me. Lots of patience. He would let me write on his typewriter. We would go to the Russian library together and read newspapers. We liked similar things. We would go on boats and tour the city from the river. We would go to the movies. We would tell each other all kinds of stories… basically, we had a wonderful time when we were together.”
    She’s going to make me cry