Henny on the Couch

by Rebecca Land Soodak

Genres: Family Life

Synopsis

Kara Caine Lawson has worked hard to become the woman she is-wife, mother and successful shop owner. Having survived a turbulent childhood, Kara understands that life could've just as easily gone another way . . . and even if she isn't gliding through the trials of lost library books, entitled customers and routine date nights, at least she's not sipping a Dewar's all day like her mother did. But then Kara unexpectedly encounters paintings by her now-famous college boyfriend just as she's beginning to suspect that her daughter Henny's difficulties may be the sign of something serious, and all of her past decisions are thrown into dramatic relief. Kara's narration, at turns heartbreaking and hilarious, captures the imperfect thoughts we have about ourselves and those around us. Rebecca Land Soodak's debut novel asks the difficult questions about the choices we make while revealing the minute details that end up defining our lives.

Release date: March 27, 2012

Publisher: 5 Spot

Print pages: 298

Sample

I knew the paintings immediately, even though I hadn’t seen him in years. If I’d been downtown, say Chelsea or Nolita, I would have been prepared. Even SoHo would have made sense. In those neighborhoods, I always braced myself for the possibility of seeing his work around any corner. And yet, in all these years, I never had.

My neighborhood, however, was a whole different story. The Upper East Side is not a hotbed for superstars of the contemporary art world. The dead masters, absolutely. But Oliver Bellows, I did not expect.

I felt it like an assault.

This doesn’t have to be a big deal, I reasoned, composing myself. It’ll be interesting to see his work. I tugged on Trudy’s leash and we crossed the avenue, but as I got closer to the street-level window I became cautious, as if the bold canvases could poison me. That had been my strategy all those years ago. I’d loved his work, but after everything happened, I pretended that he, and by extension his art, was like bleach, something to be handled very carefully, or not at all. Benign in the right circumstances, but too close, possibly lethal.

I stood in front of his abstractions while New York City navigated around us. It was as if Trudes could read my sense of anticipation, because her tail slapped my side and she gave me her where are you hiding that tennis ball? look, which I ignored. Ever accommodating, she switched gears and settled on the pavement while I stared straight ahead.

His work still moved me. My eye kept going to one painting in particular. It was saturated in burgundy and shades of blue and I marveled at its balance of form and color. For a split second, I considered buying it. Michael will like this, I thought. It belongs with us. Then I remembered. My desire for the burgundy canvas was completely absurd, but for that instant it had been pleasant to consider.

I glanced down the avenue toward my shop; the red-and-white-striped awning might as well have been a flag, reminding me of where I belonged. I felt a pang of guilt at having left Willa to deal with the Burke birthday party alone. Updos and face paint for a bunch of four-year-olds was more manageable with an ally… but it was my day to pick up the kids. Willa understood.

Suddenly it occurred to me that he could be in the gallery that very moment, observing me. This was to be avoided at all costs. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Being moved after all these years was one thing, but for Oliver to witness it seemed like a betrayal to Michael.

I looked in, afraid to see him, and was disappointed when I didn’t.

Instead, there was a stunning woman with very short hair focused on the computer. He’s probably slept with her, I decided. She glanced up. I must’ve tensed, because just as she smiled, my codependent cocoa Labrador leapt in excitement. Her paws pressed against the window, making loud clicking sounds on the Madison Avenue glass.

“Trudy!” I scolded, pulling her down. “You crazy girl.” With a flick of her leash, we darted away. It took a block and a half for me to calm down, but once I did, I realized now that the canvases were out of my vision, I missed them. This scared me. It’s just his work, I rationalized while stroking Trudy’s ears. Nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, every couple of years I’d searched for the latest news on Oliver. I knew of his success. He lived in London, was married. Last I checked, they didn’t have kids, but I’m sure there was still time. And I followed his work. From behind the barrier of my computer screen, I watched his evolution. He was predictable without being stagnant. I remember feeling pleased that he’d maintained that signature brushwork.

Seeing his paintings in person didn’t have to be as disturbing as that first search had been. That had been difficult. Adam was just two and a half and Henny a newborn. On top of already losing me to Little Scissors, my busy boy now had to share me with my brand-new baby girl. I was terrified that neither was getting what they needed. And worse, that it would haunt them for years.

That’s when I found out about the Browning Arts Fellowship. I couldn’t hide from Oliver’s newsprint face and familiar name. Oliver had the fellowship while I had engorged breasts the size of tissue boxes. I was devastated. All I wanted to do was sleep, and I would have, if the salon and my babies hadn’t needed me.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Adam had asked while we were snuggled in front of the TV.

“Because sometimes Clifford makes Mommy sad.” Though only two, he’d rubbed my hand empathically, as if he too occasionally found the big red dog disheartening. This only made me more miserable. He deserved better.

I couldn’t confide in Michael. My grief was too extreme. He’d have needed reassurance, which would’ve required dishonesty, or disloyalty. Since I was up for neither, I let him think I had some sort of postpartum depression, which in a way I guess I did.

But that was years ago. Max hadn’t even been born yet, and now he’s three! Yet another reminder of how fast time flies—not that I needed reminders.

Trudy and I walked up the avenue as I tried to convince myself that seeing Oliver’s work in person didn’t need to be jarring. I didn’t want to spend time healing from it. Our lives were full. Happy. There wasn’t room for an emotional setback. Then I remembered the shampoo purchase order—if the delivery didn’t come by tomorrow, I’d have to give them a call.

I shrugged. Oliver’s paintings. “No big deal,” I told Trudy, who wagged in agreement. As we passed each exquisite boutique, I reminded myself: He’s an artist, and back there was his art. A fact. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then I picked up my pace and we headed toward school.

I feel the drunken crowd walk into the diner before I see or hear them. Like a blast of air-conditioning, they alter the room. I taste my grilled cheese on rye. It’s Saturday night and all I’ve done so far is wash my clothes and order this sandwich, which although delicious, I’m ashamed of. They seem around my age, barely legal to drink. I wish I hadn’t gone to eat so close to campus. What was I thinking? I might as well wear a sign around my neck: loser.

One boy is captivating. This, I notice immediately. But the group is loud; it makes me uneasy. Still, I try to watch the beautiful boy, but each time I peek, he catches my eye and I look away. I’m certain if he hasn’t already dismissed me, he will. They are too happy for my taste anyway, doing ridiculous things with the salt and pepper.

I decide they are idiots.

“Garçon!” The beautiful one stands and claps his hands. One, two, a gesture for the waiter.

Entitled asshole. With a conspiratorial eye roll, I convey my disgust to the server, but he thinks I’m unhappy with the grilled cheese. “It’s fine,” I try to reassure him, but his English is not good. He doesn’t understand the source of my displeasure and points to my full glass of water.

“No, no, it’s fine.” I look at the group, worried they are watching me. “Forget it,” I mumble, unable to explain. The waiter shrugs and moves toward the boisterous table. I was mistaken—he is not my ally.

I rummage in my bag. Please, please, let me have remembered a book. I cannot bear to stare into nothingness in such close vicinity to people who do not hide behind literature on Saturday nights. Nikki Giovanni saves me. This way I can position myself as an intellectual, deep in concentration.

Their laughter is distracting. I read at them and everyone else who’s ever made me feel inadequate.

I’m new to the city. Though I’m taking classes at Columbia, I’m part of the continuing education program, not a real student, which to me makes all the difference. Thankfully, a friend of my mother’s helped me get into the dorm; otherwise, I think there’s a very good chance I’d become one of those New York casualties you hear about who’s found by a disheveled landlord there to investigate the stench of cat piss and rotting flesh.

My loneliness, when it strikes, is brutal—though my fascination with New York is a helpful remedy. I study city women the way med students memorize anatomy. I take it all in. The bag (Chanel with a gold chain), the shoes, the hair. I am determined to understand the uniform of the different neighborhoods. Determined to belong.

I walk hour after hour, learning the streets. When I’m downtown, I take pride in deciphering the illogical West Village. West 10th turns into West 4th, Greenwich is both an avenue and a street. I discover that knee socks and a miniskirt are welcome in Alphabet City but suspect on the Upper East Side. Like a mantra, I recite, Central Park West, Columbus, Amsterdam, Broadway, Central Park West, Columbus, Amsterdam, Broadway, because real New Yorkers know the order of the Upper West Side avenues.

Yesterday, I followed a mother and teenager on Ludlow Street. I overheard the woman tell her daughter, “Because no one fits bras better…” The girl seemed so accustomed to her mother imparting practical information that she paid her no mind. She wasn’t disrespectful exactly, just dismissive, as if her mother’s wisdom was no more notable than waking up each morning with the ability to walk or talk. Or breathe.

I pierced my belly button and stalked knowing women in Balducci’s, so one day I’d be able to mimic the way they picked out melons, cheese, and coffee. I have waited a long time (as long as any twenty-one-year-old can wait for anything) to live in Manhattan, and now that I’m here, I’m anxious to start the rest of my life.

But as I witness the beautiful boy and his friends so clearly connected and happy, I’m filled with loss. Here I am, in this magnificent, bustling city, but around public joy I’m reminded of what is finally gone.

I push my sandwich aside, no longer hungry. At least I’ve gotten thin. Some nights I lie on my lumpy mattress, touching my jutting ribs and hip bones, and remember my first. He didn’t mean much to me, though in fairness, given the circumstances, no one could’ve punctured my icy shield. I’d lie under him and watch his face twisted and unfamiliar. It was pleasurable enough, but that wasn’t really the point; I needed something sex provided. Not love. Something even harder for girls to come by on their own; he’d made me feel worthy. But just when he was push, push, pushing me to some faraway place, I knew it was also a warning that he’d be pulling out soon, and I’d once again be left feeling nothing at all.

He’d been kind and dependable, a good choice for my first. But if it hadn’t been him, I would’ve settled on someone else, many someones if necessary. I didn’t tell him much, but neither of us noticed. Had the boy required more from me, I would’ve had to acknowledge what was happening around me. Thankfully, he left me for a narrow-hipped girl named Cindy, which was lucky, really. Because even though I didn’t love him, leaving would’ve been hard.

I glance at the group. The loud boy is sketching a girl wearing black. She has a dancer’s body, small breasts free beneath a Clash T-shirt. Of course he would sketch the striking girl. I feel clumsy; his attention on the graceful one makes me angry. What a poser he is, drawing her in a diner. A diner, how pretentious! Then I remember that I’m the one reading poetry. I wonder if they’re sleeping together. I’ve only had sex once since the funeral several months ago. It had been my way of saying goodbye. Seeing them reminds me of that loss as well.

What would it be like to be with the beautiful, loud boy, I wonder. His confidence is arresting. The ballerina tries to see his sketch but he crumples it. I wrongly perceive the gesture as one of perfectionism.

“Fuck you, Oliver,” she says.

Oliver. Behind my book, I practice saying it. Oliver. I like how many movements my mouth needs to make just to say his name. Like a waltz, quite possibly making it the most enticing name known.

After my plate has been cleared and my coffee refill refilled, I know it’s time to go. I dread walking near them, ashamed of my loneliness. But I gather my things and saunter toward the cashier, deceptively oblivious of Oliver and his friends. I dig in my bag for money and berate myself when I can’t find any. As I search my jeans, my mind pulses with: I’m such an asshole; I’m such an asshole. Finally, I find some singles in one of my back pockets.

And then, when I turn to leave, he is standing right next to me. I hadn’t heard him approach and am startled. I want to flee but maneuvering my body around his isn’t an option; my brain will not let me choreograph such a task.

He stands close. If I were to put my hands out ever so slightly (which I don’t, but if I did) I wouldn’t have to straighten my elbows to touch him.

“For the serious girl…” he says, offering me a folded placemat just like the ballerina’s.

I pause. Because I’ve been watching his every move, I know he is handing me a drawing. I should pretend I have no idea what it is, but I can’t figure out how to do this. So without meeting his eyes, I take it and leave quickly.

If I said thank you, neither of us heard.

Michael and I hustled among the throngs of Saturday night moviegoers. Like most married people, we had a system. I got the seats while he got the popcorn.

“Get a small,” I told him, worried about his cholesterol (and belly). He returned with a medium, which I pretended not to notice, and handed me M&M’s I hadn’t requested but appreciated nonetheless. I reminded him to turn off his phone and he read trivia questions aloud, even though I’d seen the answers while I was waiting.

During the first three minutes, one of us inevitably whispered, “Are you in?” which really wasn’t necessary. We always knew whether the other was hooked or not. Besides, for me, liking the movie mattered little. There was no place I’d rather be on a Saturday night than next to my husband in a darkened theater.

In the taxi home we sat close. Michael stroked my leg, knee to thigh.

“I’m thinking of painting again,” I said. Though the desire had been brewing for a while, seeing Oliver’s paintings the other day accelerated it. I still hadn’t told Michael about the gallery. Oliver was always a loaded topic, and now didn’t seem like the time.

“You should,” he said, moving his hand higher.

“You think?” I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I didn’t want him to notice if I didn’t follow through.

“I do.” He nudged my knees apart. I looked at the cab driver through the rearview mirror and wondered if he could see us.

“Then again, Little Scissors…”

“That’s why you have a partner,” said Michael.

“Yeah, but it’s not fair to Willa if I just check out.”

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, placing his hand on my crotch. I closed my eyes and ever so slightly rocked into him.

We bought the Times on the way home, and as we walked into our building I wondered if we had enough milk for the morning. Suddenly I was torn between reading the paper and being with my husband. Michael didn’t seem conflicted.

“How was everything?” I asked our sitter, Beth.

“Great. I made them turn off the computer and we actually baked cookies,” she told me.

“Fun,” I lied. Even with my best of intentions, baking with my kids was usually an ordeal. I looked at Beth and vowed to be more patient. Who cares about eggshells in the brownie mix?

“They wanted you guys to taste them.” Beth presented cookies slathered in thick frosting and carefully applied rainbow sprinkles. They looked like love.

“Of course.” I chose one with raisin eyes and a chocolate chip smile. I could just imagine Henny’s concentrated expression as she created this masterpiece.

“Oh. I almost forgot, Max had a nightmare,” said Beth. I braced myself.

“He was crying for you. Don’t worry, I handled it,” she added proudly, mistaking my expression of guilt for one of alarm.

Perhaps going out every Saturday night was unnecessary. I glanced at Michael as he scanned the front page.

“He couldn’t find Chocobunny,” Beth continued. “It was under his bed.”

I nodded, familiar with the routine, and opened the fridge to calculate our coffee-cereal-milk quantities. It would be close.

“He loves when you rub his back,” she said. “Works like magic. He fell right back to sleep.”

I looked at her. Was she implying I didn’t know how to soothe him? A flash of anger came over me. Thankfully, the cookies brought me down. Anyone who could supervise that endeavor deserved my admiration.

“I’m glad you were there,” I said, which was also true. I was glad Beth was there. That, and the exact opposite of glad, something Michael didn’t understand at all.

“Alrighty then,” Michael said. He wanted the girl out. Michael was adept at sensing when my scale was tipping more toward mother than woman, a situation that did not usually bode well for him.

I grabbed the Times from the kitchen counter and headed for our bedroom.

“Come on, girl,” Michael said to Trudy, who was already following him to the door.

“Get milk,” I urged, adding “please” a few seconds too late.

When Michael returned, he called from the den, “You up?”

“Barely.” I paused in the middle of an article from the magazine section.

“Guess a blow job’s out of the question…” he teased, which I pretended not to hear. Silence filled both rooms until Michael turned on the TV. Relieved, I listened to my husband listening to the laugh track of comedic situations that were not our own.

Mondays weren’t usually hectic at Little Scissors, but early September was the ceremonial trimming time for hair brittle from chlorine and Long Island rays. Customers who hadn’t seen each other all summer were busy exchanging updates on sleep-away camp and trips abroad. The shop echoed with whirling blow dryers and children’s pleas for their mothers to buy rainbow-colored back-to-school pencil cases and sparkly hair accessories. Willa had been right; upgrading the gift shop had been a great move.

One tyke sat in a race car, center stage, none too pleased by the experience of his first haircut. Tears left tracks on his splotchy cheeks while his mother and nanny stood off to the side cajoling him with silly faces and an impromptu jig.

“Check for lice,” Willa whispered to Ava, one of our newer stylists. Camps are a breeding ground for them. Each autumn we inevitably got the thankless job of informing an unsuspecting parent that their precious one’s scalp was teeming with parasites.

“Gross,” Ava whined at the thought. Willa shrugged. After a dozen years in business, very little fazed her. I never would’ve gone ahead with this place if Willa hadn’t agreed to join me. I got the idea a few months before Michael and I were married. I’d gone to a swanky salon far too expensive for my prior, single self. But there I was, soon to be a Mrs.; I looked around in amazement. For several hundred dollars a pop, confident women were being tended to. One stood out, though. She was pregnant—swollen and seemingly miserable. I remember wondering whether she’d bring little Susie or Billy to this place. Somewhere between my blowout and handing over Michael’s hard-earned cash (by then I’d quit my job at a high-end wallpaper showroom), I began envisioning a salon that catered only to kids.

Michael had loved the idea from the beginning. He found investors practically overnight, which made me feel fortunate, yet frightened. I knew I was lucky to be set up in business, but at the same time, I was completely dependent on him to make it happen. That’s when I approached Willa. I’d actually been closer to her girlfriend, but I’d always liked Willa, and more importantly, I’d trusted her. She’d been aching for something more dependable, having spent most of her twenties auditioning for plays and landing only the occasional commercial.

When I asked her, a slow smile started to form on her face. Unbeknownst to me, she had a small inheritance to invest and was a few hours shy of an abandoned cosmetology license. It was the perfect match; she coached me while I got my hairstylist’s license, and I enabled her to make a change. But what she really provided I wouldn’t have been able to articulate at the time. I needed someone from my pre-Michael life around while I was busy becoming a whole new me.

Willa moved across the shop to answer the phone, pausing briefly to blow bubbles toward the hysterical boy—stopping him mid-sob. It was a rare child who didn’t respond to her, even with her tattoos. Brightly colored peonies, lilies, and lotus flowers covered her right arm like ivy; a nonconformist’s celebration of life. Her left side however, was far less festive. Spanning from fingertips to shoulder was a weeping willow. Dark and light green leaves dripped down her arm. Beneath the hearty trunk was a maze of roots that despite being intricate capillaries connecting tree to earth always reminded me of the impermanence intrinsic to all living things… until I looked away.

Despite the ink, Willa had gentleness about her. She wasn’t meek or submissive; it was more that she carried herself with quiet purpose, which, depending on the day she was having, or the observer, came across as either serenity or sorrow. Occasionally I’d try to imitate her demeanor, but you can’t fake authenticity.

The bustling shop was making my head spin. Bills needed filing and I kept forgetting to ask someone to empty the overflowing trash can in the bathroom. Plus, a part-time worker who was supposed to be on tomorrow’s schedule had quit this morning and I still hadn’t found anyone to cover for her. I contemplated putting myself on, but didn’t want to reopen that can of worms. After I had Henny, I’d stopped cutting hair. I’d felt pulled in too many directions, so I’d surrendered the scissors to Willa and found my niche in payroll and purchase orders. These I could do at my own pace and in silence.

I scanned the schedule book. Even if I wanted to step in, tomorrow was parents’ day at Max’s preschool. Not to mention, my day to pick up the kids. Everything will get done, I reminded myself. It always does.

I checked my watch. Beth would’ve just gotten Max and they’d be en route to pick up Adam and Henny. I looked out the display window—at least it wasn’t raining. I returned my attention to a sale I was ringing up. The customer kept adding items that caught her eye: kiwi conditioner, pellets that turned the tub water purple, packets of smiley-face tissues. I was thrilled to be racking up her balance, but a line was starting to form, creeping into our already cramped shop. I was sweating and craved calm.

“Excuse me,” a woman said to Willa. “Any chance my daughter can get in today?”

“We’re completely booked,” Willa answered without looking up.

“What about Ava?” I asked.

“Ava”—Willa scanned the schedule—“might be able to squeeze you in.”

“Which one’s Ava?” the woman asked. Willa pointed to her.

The customer shook her head no. “I don’t think so,” she said. “She looks like a scared little mouse. I prefer… confident women.” The nerve.

“Do you now?” Willa asked. Usually she responded to difficult customers with a penetrating stare, but she was smiling.

I studied the customer. Tall and svelte, she looked like she’d stepped off a movie set. She wore gabardine trousers and a silk shirt, all in the mauve/beige family. And she had perfect cheekbones. Perfect cheekbones and the ability to wear mauve—probably the quintessential characteristics of elegance.

I grabbed the appointment book. “Ava’s an excellent stylist,” I said encouragingly,

“I don’t even want a haircut,” said the svelte one’s surly daughter.

“A trim, Leah. Just a trim.” The woman scanned email on her phone. “Come to think about it, tomorrow might be better. I’ve got to get back to the office.”

“Well, I’m available tomorrow,” said Willa. “And no one’s ever accused me of lacking confidence,” she added, smiling.

The woman extended her hand over charm bracelets and troll pencils. “Victoria Layton,” she said, shaking Willa’s hand.

“You’re off tomorrow,” I reminded her. “The commemoration.” I shouldn’t have said anything. It had been six years since 9/11. If Willa wanted to skip the ceremony, it was none of my business. It’s just that I’d adored her girlfriend. But if hitting on Mama Mauve was preferable to listening to thousands of names being called at Ground Zero, who was I to judge?

“It’s supposed to rain,” said Willa, writing Leah’s name in the book. Right, I thought to myself. This is about rain.

On the bright side, my scheduling problem was now solved.

“Ahh, Kara,” a customer called. “Toilet’s backed up.”

I am only seven years old, but this much I know: I should not be . . .