Maybe he’ll have to call Bruce Blend, the expensive mindfulness provider uptown. Blend helped with the environmental stuff two years ago. Now if the neighbors are loud McCormick doesn’t fear home invasion. If the heater goes out he knows Julie and June can snuggle under a blanket. No one’s freezing to death on his watch, but other perils have risen.
Will Bruce know their chances of having to flee an inbound missile? Will he downplay the harm of a race-baiting president? Does he know if there will be fish in June’s ocean? Guns in her streets? If she will hope?
(McCormick tells Sal Bergen about the night when he was six and thought he was going to die…)
The poison-lemon-juice arrow grazed his cheek and became a part of him.
The spindly shaft matched his skeletal appendages. He was the skinniest boy in any class. Frayed green fletching precursed thrift store and even home-sewn outfits Barbara sent him off in (more out of Pioneer thrift than necessity, he explains to the crossed, hairy ankles just visible from the couch). And the crux of the biscuit, that fraudulent head, only pretending to be special.
That’s how you see yourself? Sal spits.
No, he admits. Then, yes.
Whenever he trips someone’s wires like that, McCormick knows he must be wrong.
(McCormick has discovered that Sal Bergen referred him to his ex-wife for marriage counseling…)
Because he hasn’t yet agreed to lie on the couch three times a week, McCormick can study his analyst’s face.
Setting aside Sal’s Parkinson’s, he sees guilt in the tremorous lip.
“You didn’t think I would find out. You thought the two of you could have a little rehearsal of your conflict through me and Gwen. Do you do this to other patients? You’re sick, Sal.”
McCormick watches Bergen blink and purse. So sweet, for once, to be angry as he fucking wants with no fear of smack down or freeze out.
And now leaving Gwen won’t be his fault.
(He’s recalling therapeutic passages that led to the moment at hand...)
Elaine Southard was recommended to McCormick and Gwen (his partner of twenty years) by Sal Bergen, McCormick’s analyst.
Sal and McCormick’s signal exchange had been punctuated by Bergen gasping, dropping his shaved head into his hands, and saying “The self-deception is just breathtaking.”
That inextinguishable memory lit up when Southard, describing her own divorce, said “marriage can be an arena of sublime self-delusion.”
At his next session with Sal, whom he loved, McCormick said, “You sent me to your ex-wife for marriage counseling.”
Sal flinched, and the sadness in his eyes was something they could not help each other process.
When McCormick, during guided meditation, hears “Direct gentle attention to any areas of discomfort,” he opens his eyes to sneak a peek.
Bruce Blend is a cool looking cat. Tweed jacket over jeans that aren’t skinny or, on the other hand, just a pair of denim slacks. Sharp-edged goatee that says, this face belongs to a dude whose shit is together.
Blend is the best looking shrink he’s seen, excepting Elaine Southard, whose jeans were tight. Whose brown boots gleamed.
Once McCormick told Dr. Southard that human love should include adoration. And she said, “Maybe you just want a puppy.”
Along with Decatastrophizing, Dr. Bruce Blend taught Attention Shifting (Catch then Devalue the ineffective…Shift to healthy alternatives…Repeat as necessary…), Countering Probability Overestimation (Could my negative prediction be driven by the intense emotions I’m experiencing?). And, of course, Mindfulness (Present-Centered, Non-Judgmental Attention).
McCormick applied these techniques to the pretty millennial neighbors who let their Pit Bull (Cooper) trot to the elevator without a leash and blew bong hits into an air vent that whooshed skunky reek into his and Julie’s kitchen.
This thought—Lindsey and Andrew are unbearable, self-regarding assholes who will get my kid mauled and stoned—definitely needed CBTing.
Posting only pictures of garbage did not attract a slew of Instagram followers.
Maybe that’s not all McCormick was after.
He told Julie, who claimed not to notice unless they were pointed out things like melting snowbanks that shed chicken bones and soiled underwear, that he wanted to see art when he looked at trash. So life would be more beautiful and she would hear fewer complaints about the city.
Just one of the ways he deployed Dr. Bruce Blend’s mindfulness therapy. Decatastrophize, Blend urged. Slicks of shit and cigarette butt are disgusting, yes, but not signs of the apocalypse.
Failing to reach enlightenment during morning meditation, McCormick must contend with the seven hours before J&J come home.
Two undergraduate memories contribute (invade?): Asking his advisor how carefully William Trevor’s intricate plots were planned, and staring at a therapist’s beard one winter-break morning after crashing his Wagoneer into the big pine in Shelly Holland’s icy front yard the night before.
“I think he just sits down and writes,” said Vern.”
“Stop imagining yourself the hero of your life’s drama,” said Dr. Blackmann.
McCormick is sure both men meant well. But the problems of art, living, and Shelly Holland’s lips remain.