Chapter 11
Jerry perched on the edge of a leather couch. Over to the side was an office desk. Behind the desk, bay windows offered a view of the tree-filled University campus.
Raymond Taylor, a rotund figure and Jerry’s new therapist, settled into his chair at a right angle to Jerry. He picked up a grando sized cup of ice water, took a large swig, set it down and crushed the ice with his teeth. The sound was like hard hat construction work. He interlaced his equally grando hands across his belly. With home cooking comfort, he smiled at Jerry.
Jerry wondered how candid he should be, already burned once.
“Is this going to be reported to my Candidate’s Committee?” he asked.
“Not at all. This is private. Whatever is discussed here stays here. You are safe. You can talk about whatever you want, Jerry. This is for you.”
A lump rose up in Jerry’s throat. To his disbelief, he sobbed, unrestrained.
“It’s alright,” said Raymond and waited.
Jerry sank back into the couch. The two of them sat in silence. Raymond picked up his cup, took another swig and commenced another round of construction work.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Jerry. “I’m not even sure why I’m here, well, I do know, see, I’m in this ministry program and in order to become a minister, this Candidate’s Committee has to sponsor me, they sent me to this place that did all these personality tests, and I basically flunked which is kind of funny when you think about it, I flunked me, me was deemed unsuitable for the ministry, and maybe they’re right, because inside, deep inside, well, actually, I don’t think I really know the me deep inside me, but as far inside me as I know, I don’t have a strong faith, I’ve never met Jesus, I’ve never met God, I’d like to, I mean, I believe in God, but based only on what others have told me, and what I’ve read, I mean, millions before me can’t be all wrong, right? It’s a good cause, right? I’m sorry, I’m rambling, but if you want to see what’s going on inside, this is it.”
Jerry grabbed a deep breath. He hadn’t spoken that many words together in his life.
“There’s something missing inside me,” he continued. “I’m running out of gas. I don’t feel like I have enough to keep going, and God is the gas station I’m seeking. I thought going to seminary would help me find it, but it’s not. Let me put it another way, continuing with this propulsion metaphor. It’s like I’m a rocket, see, and the first stage of fuel has dropped off, that’s my parents, now the second stage of fuel is supposed to kick in, but it hasn’t, and that’s supposed to be from my belief in God. He’s my second stage of fuel, get it?”
Raymond didn’t move. Tough crowd, thought Jerry.
“So-o-o-o, anyway, I thought I would try therapy. Actually that’s what the personality measuring place suggested I do. I feel like I don’t know me very well. Administrators and tests seem to know me better than I know me. I got people telling me I’m mad at my father, I’m not a good minister, I need a mother.”
Raymond nodded.
Huh, a reaction. What was it that made him nod, Jerry wondered.
“So, this is how it goes?” said Jerry. “I just talk?”
“Why don’t we start with your childhood.”
***
“I was 15.
“My dad takes me camping, just me and him. We get there early and go hiking. The hike is up a mountain, and it’s pretty rigorous. I enjoy it, though. Back at camp, dad gets the fire going, and we cook up some burgers with potato chips and carrot sticks. We hang around the camp fire mostly in silence. That night, inside the tent, I’m uncomfortable. I can’t sleep. He’s sleeping fine. I panic. I’m desperate to get away.
***
“I was 14.
“I’m trying to go to sleep, but muffled voices from my parents’ room keep waking me up. My Mom is crying; my dad’s voice is just a low monotone. I knock on the door, and dad opens it. I see my Mom wiping away tears, and dad has a smile glued to his face. He ushers me back to my bed, telling me to go to sleep, I have school tomorrow. I tell him their voices are keeping me up, please talk more softly, but it doesn’t work. The same thing continues. I put the pillow over my head trying to block out the sound.”
***
“I must have been 12.
“I come home from school, just another day, and Cindy, our Irish Setter, well, my Irish Setter, doesn’t come. I ask mom, and she says mom and dad gave Cindy away. They decided she would be happier on a farm.
“I don’t say a thing. I go to my room and close the door. I just stand in my room not doing anything for a very long time.
“Cindy was my best friend.”
***
“I’m 7.
“My Mom is calling me. Time to come in for dinner. I’m with my friend next door having a catch. My friend asks me if I heard my mom.
“‘No,’ I say and smirk.”
* * *
“I dunno, 4, 5?
“My mom is calling me. I run across the neighbor’s yard, and I trip and fall on the gravel driveway. Blood runs down my leg from my shredded knee. It hurts like heck, but I don’t cry.Mom doesn’t clean it; she doesn’t put any antiseptic on it. She doesn’t touch me. She hands me a Band-Aid. I notice her hand is shaking. I thank her for the Band-Aid.
***
“Maybe 3.
“My Mom is shampooing my hair in the kitchen sink. Her fingers move through my hair, rub my scalp back and forth. I lean my head back for her. There’re clouds outside the window, big and fat, like giant bowls of vanilla ice cream. I love clouds.”
***
“I don’t know how old I am.
“I’m in my crib. It’s dark. The crib has smooth wood posts and bright colored wood balls that slide up and down. A black shadow comes towards me. A giant hand reaches down. There’s a giant thumb.”