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Rebuilt Parts

Kenneth Schalhoub

    My disassembled life happened not suddenly, although it seemed it had. I somehow lost my attention. The time-distended rush of pot and the warm flow of Scotch whiskey distracted my senses. How did this happen? I ask my therapist, the one who will not take money from me. She always answers me the same way: “That’s the way humans are. We are a species of deniers. Don’t criticize yourself; we just need to work on it.”
    I am working on it. My search began in the local newspaper personals, not for a therapist, but for a companion. My ad was a simple request for a woman to share some time with me. I waited in my current environment, the one that is devoid of richness. My solitary room (a kind of cave) is dust-filled with microscopic particles that challenge my nose’s ability to hold back each imminent sneeze. The window is basement sized with a northern exposure. The walls are off-white, not because they were painted as such—years of neglect allowed the white paint to turn into pale gray without guilt. My bed is cot-like in size with a three inch mattress. When I turn from one side to the other, I must take care to keep from falling off the edge. I dare not let my face leave the pillow and be exposed to the sour odor of my stale neglected mattress. There are other rooms that I no longer use. I used to sleep on a king-sized bed with pale blue silk sheets and a two inch comforter. A cold female body maintained its position just enough distance away so as to not risk touching me. The body had once been warm. “Why did it turn cold?” I ask my therapist. Her answer is direct and lacking in emotion.
    “People change.”
    “But I didn’t—haven’t. Why did she?
    “I cannot answer that question,” she says, “I can only help you now.”
    “You are not yet helping me,” I say every day.
    “But I want to. I will if you let me,” she says every day. And as I lie on my three inch mattress, littered with dust mites, I understand that I must find all the parts again.
    “We must work backward,” my therapist says. “We must separate your life into sections to determine how you came to be here with me.” She calls them Personality Parts, and they are numbered.

Part One: My therapist

    The personal ad I placed only attracts one response, not by phone call, but rather in person. She rings my doorbell at 8 A.M. on the morning she calls “the only right morning.”
    “Yes?” I say.
    “Hello. I am Dr. Eleanor Durand, your in-home therapist.”
    She asks me if I know what her name means and I do not. She tells me that her surname means “make strong,” and she plans to make me strong. She asks me if I know what an in-home therapist is and I say no, again.
    “That is how I can help you,” she says as she slips past me and eyes my environment. She tells me that she is sure that I was different and strong at a time in my past, and that together, through working on all the Personality Parts, we will rediscover my strength. I trust her, although she shows me no credentials. Her way sooths me and she calls herself a doctor. I lack the energy to doubt her.
    “What shall I pay you?”
    “We will work out the details later.”
    I ask her why she does not take payment from me now and she smiles supportively. “You may pay me when I help you. And there are many methods of payment that we shall discuss in the future. I will leave you now to decide.”
    “I have decided.”
    “Eight then, tomorrow morning?” she does not ask, but expects.
    “Yes.”
    “Yes,” she says as she leaves my home as confidently as when she entered.
    I escape to my room to think for the hours that remain in the long day. I am emotionally juxtaposed. She is an answer, but not the answer I wanted. She excites me and scares me. I decide to medicate until tomorrow.
    The first session begins on a personal level. I tell her that it seems an odd way to do therapy, and she insists that it is a way to make the conversation more friendly and comfortable for us. Eleanor is not an unattractive woman, but I doubt she turns heads. Her clothing is professional, almost matronly. I wonder what her hair is like when she is in her home. In my home it is tied in a tight bun, medium brown with some strands of gray. I notice how well groomed her clear coated nails are and wonder if her toenails are as attractive. She wears no noticeable makeup or hides it strategically. Today she asks me if I like her appearance and I admit that I noticed her attention to detail.
    “Good,” she says. That means you are observant. A very good sign for progress.” It seems we talk about her when we should be talking about me. I say that to her and she assures me it is the process.
    “Shall we begin with your loneliness?”
    We talk for hours about as much as I am willing to admit in the first session. She assures me she will be back at eight sharp, same day next week. I watch as she disappears into the night fog. Is she real? I ask myself once my evening of solitude begins. I research techniques of therapy to determine if Eleanor (she insists I call her by her first name) is conducting herself in a professional manner and find that her technique is not used by others in her field. I sleepwalk through the week awaiting her return. The second session begins at 8:05 A.M. exactly one week later with her appearance identical as last time, as if she never changed clothes or has a closet full of identical business suits. When I confront her of the oddity of her techniques, she insists that she is unorthodox, but that I need her method.
    “Where were we?” she asks.
    I talk for hours as she prods and pushes. She never smiles, only nods and writes. When she finally leaves in mid-afternoon, I am too fatigued to see her to the door.
    “No worries. I know the way,” she says and touches my arm. It is a touch that is not professional. But I think about her stated methods and feel a growing warmth. Is she my friend? I sleep with a guarded feeling about the next session.
    She arrives, again, one week later at the prescribed time. It is our third time together and she asks me what I think of her face. I do not want to hurt her feelings and decide to tell her that she is a handsome woman. She asks for details. I analyze her facial structure and itemize my observations to her. Oval shaped, with plump cheeks, she appears gentle, but not delicate. She seems to like that.
    “And my eyes?”
    “They are just brown,” I say
    She smiles but seems disappointed. “Tell me about my lips.”
    I do see they are quite succulent and tell her so.
    “Should I wear lipstick?”
    “That is up to you,” I say.
    “And finally my ears?”
    I tell her they are nicely shaped with pinchable earlobes.
    She laughs. “You have passed your first Personality Part. You are beginning to see life again,” she says.
    She leaves my home after the third session and I feel as if I have moved forward. Eleanor believes I have made progress. After I smoke my evening joint, I lie on my cot and stare at the peeling ceiling. I have not felt any feelings for a woman since my descent. Why am I not able to clear my mind of Eleanor? Seeing her only once a week is too infrequent—an interminable wait. It is late evening and I am holding her number suspended in my mind; I call her; she answers.
    “You said I could call anytime,” I say.
    “Of course, Joseph.”
    “I want to start the next Part,” I say.
    “And when would you like to begin?”
    I want to say now. Why am I so needy? “Tomorrow?”
    “I believe I can clear a spot. 2 P.M.”
    “You have nothing earlier?”
    “I can see you at 8 A.M. if you are available.”
    I tell her I will be waiting for her to arrive at eight. I lie awake watching the clock.

Part Two: How the color in my life left me

    The doorbell rings at eight sharp. Her presentation is new; more casual and interesting. She is wearing noticeable eye makeup, red lipstick and nail polish, jewel studded earrings, and open-toed heals with equally painted toenails. Her top is flowered silk with two buttons open just enough to show she is a woman. Her royal blue skirt is mid-thigh.
    “You may stop staring,” she says.
    “Please explain.”
    “You are about to begin to explore Part Number Two, color in your life and I am the first to bring some back in.”
    We sit in my dank living room as always, but this time she opens all the shades and curtains to let in the morning light.
    “Sun is good,” she says.
    We begin to explore.
    “When did you close the curtains?”
    That one question starts a floodgate of thoughts that I did not realize were still in my memory. While I talk, she sits listening with legs crossed and shoe dangling the way women do when they want to get a man’s attention. I try to ignore her enticement.
    I was married once and it lasted for twenty-six years. We enjoyed a good life but could not have children. It was my fault. She nods with each revelation. I was completely dependent on my wife for emotional stability and day-to-day happiness. My job was demanding and I needed my wife to keep my spirits level. We smoked pot every day and always had cocktail hour.
    “Do you like pot,” she asks.”
    “Who doesn’t,” I answer. She smiles and I fantasize smoking with Eleanor. Does she know?
    I reveal with raw emotions that a day came when my wife and I realized that all we had were pot and alcohol. I came home from work after the revelation the next day and the living room curtains were closed. I asked her why and she said our lifestyle was smothering her and she wanted to show me how she felt. As the days passed, one room at a time became closed off. She told me it was her way to shock me into understanding. She stopped smoking, I did not. She left. I closed the remainder of the blinds and curtains and quit my job.
    “Is that all?”
    “Should there be more?” I ask.
    “Next time.”
    “When?” I ask.
    “Tonight. You will cook me dinner. You are moving to Part Number Three: re-establishing having fun. I will be back at seven with the food that you will cook. And please clean the kitchen.”

Part Three: Re-learning how to have fun

    Eleanor returns at seven with a bag of food. She is dressed in tight spandex jeans, cut sweatshirt, and pumps. Her hair is in a ponytail and she has very little makeup on. She kisses me on the cheek and says that’s just to make sure I’m relaxed. She has brought steaks, potatoes, pre-made salad, and a bottle of red wine.
    “Where’s the pot?” she asks.
    I say I’m surprised that she would smoke with a client and she assures me it is only for therapeutic effect. We sit in my opened up but filthy living room; the same room we have been having our sessions (call them meetings now, she says). She closes the curtains (for privacy, she says), and I light the pipe. She smokes in the style of a seasoned pot user, does not cough, and exhales after many seconds. We both become very stoned but she maintains her physical distance.
    At her insistence I cook. I have not cooked good food since my wife left me and my skills do not return in time. I burn the steaks and undercook the potatoes.
    She laughs. “You’re rusty. That’s cute.”
    “I’m confused.”
    “About what?”
    “About you. About you saying I’m cute.”
    “You are and it’s my job to reinforce you.”
    “I haven’t interacted with a woman in some time.”
    “I know”
    “Are you flirting with me?”
    “That’s your interpretation and I know it makes you feel good,” she says. Her statement floats in front of me. She does make me feel good, but she scares me. How can a person who answers a personal ad and claims to be a therapist (no credentials shown) seem to know so much about me?
    We smoke many more times at her urging, but she never touches me. At midnight she informs me that she is too tired to drive home but she planned for this possibility.
    “I will sleep on your sofa tonight and we can begin your next Part at eight tomorrow morning. I expect you will be a perfect gentleman.”
    I assure her that I will remain in my bedroom and will be showered and ready by eight.
    “You may use the guest shower down the hall,” I tell her. She kisses me on the cheek one more time and thanks me for accepting her methods. Apparently I am making great progress.

Part 4: Work and money

    When I emerge from my stale sleeping room showered and ready I see her already seated in the living room chair—the one she always uses during meetings. She is not the flamboyant partier from last night, but rather, she is dressed as a professional again; hair back in a bun, gray business suit and medium black heals. I ask her why the change?
    “Today we talk about your work, professional career, and money. We cannot be meretricious for this Part Number Four. Shall we begin?”
    This meeting lasts all day and I wonder if she has any other patients. She spends all her time with me. Fear returns with a hollow sickening in my stomach. I’m being controlled; I like it and fear it. Her method is relentless, but not cruel. She asks targeted questions with insistency.
    “What’s your degree in?”
    “Finance.”
    “What is your career?”
    “I have no career.”
    “What was your career? You must be honest with me. This Part is critical to your therapy. It is absolutely vital for your recovery. There is a reason why you have this mansion, even if it is covered in filth and in disrepair.”
    I spend undetermined time chronicling how I came to be this rich. It is a boring story in my mind and my narrative lacks verve. I was simply very good at buying and selling stocks and bonds. She asks me if I liked my career.
    “In the beginning I did.”
    “And?”
    “It became boring.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. It just did.”
    “Things do not just happen. Was it your medicated lifestyle?”
    I do not answer because I don’t want to admit it may have. She asks if my wife had liked the lifestyle.
    “In the beginning she did, and she spent money without regard.”
    “She became bored of the lifestyle, is that not true?” Eleanor asks.
    “She never said that. She did begin to resist the excessive medication.”
    “She became bored with you.”
    Her comment is unexpected. Eleanor has never criticized me in past meetings. I am hurt and confused. I ask her why she would say that. No answer is proffered. She then floats a very personal question in front of me.
    “How much money do you have now? Are you independently wealthy?”
    Why would she ask me this? Is she planning to send me a bill that she’s afraid I cannot afford? My fear becomes focused as I realize this woman has become a needed person in my life. I have substituted a chemical dependence with an emotional dependence; an unplanned consequence.
    “I have enough money to live any way I desire. My investments are stable and always growing. Are you planning to steal from me?” I ask, but not seriously. She looks at me with her steely therapist eyes (not her party eyes) in admonishment. I apologize. She nods and smiles.
    “Why did you stop working?”
    “Ambivalence.”
    “About what?” she asks.
    “About whether I should be excited about my work. I believe the pot may have had something to do with it. I don’t know.”
    She asks me a question that I had never considered. She wants to know if there is a connection between my ambivalence and my wife’s insistence to close the house from light. I ask her if she thinks my wife caused my malaise. Did my wife take advantage of my changes? Was she simply being malicious knowing that she would get a generous divorce settlement?
    “Possibly she was, Joseph.”
    Hearing the words from Eleanor, two conflicting emotions hold me in confusion. I know that therapists are not supposed to give succinct opinions. I also know that I have needed someone to validate that thought since the divorce.
    “Are you allowed to give me such an opinion? Is it allowed?”
    “I do and say what is necessary to help.”
    “Is this meeting now over?” I ask.
    “We have made great progress. This Part has been the best one for us. Tomorrow we begin at eight with Part Number Five, your mother. I must leave now.”
    She quickly leaves with a curt smile and I retire to my cave. Become blissfully stoned and think of one word: “us?”

Part Five: My mother

    Eleanor returns dressed in a simple cotton green and yellow quilted day dress not unlike the type my mother always wore. Her feet are hidden by simple flats and her hair is pulled into a loose French Twist helped with bobby pins. She brings eggs, bacon, and white bread.
    “Breakfast?” she asks, and without letting me answer, she begins frying the eggs and bacon. I must stay in the living room until I am called. The scent of the splattering bacon fat makes me feel like a pre-teen boy waiting for his mother’s perfect breakfast. How does this woman, my therapist know these things about me? My daydream is interrupted by her calling me to the kitchen.
    “How did you know I would want this breakfast? How did you know about the dress and hair?”
    She looks at me with the look a mother would at her son. “Women know. Do not forget what I am.”
    I want to ask her what she is, but instead I eat her breakfast while she watches. I finish feeling stuffed as a dutiful son.
    “What did you mean by ‘us’ yesterday,” I ask.
    “It will become apparent as we proceed. Now let us begin today’s interlude.”
    “I thought they are called meetings.”
    “That was before. Now we have moved into interludes.”
    The hours are grueling. I must tell her everything about my childhood. I have no choice.
    “Were you a happy boy?”
    I tell her I was until my father died. I was twelve.
    “Did you love your father?”
    What boy doesn’t? I question her.
    “How did your mother behave when your father died?”
    This question engenders an hour of admissions. She listens with caring eyes as I tell her of my mother’s need for me to always be at her beckon call. I could not play sports; I might get hurt. I could not date girls; I might like one more than her. She insisted I study many hours a day; she needed me to take care of her.
    “There is one more thing, is there not?
    “Is there?” I ask.
    “Yes. I already know, but I must hear it from you,” she says with arms crossed.
    She knows somehow and I do not want to admit it. I had never told my wife, but Eleanor is my therapist. I must tell her. “She made me sleep with her.” There, it is admitted.
    “How far?” she asks.
    “Completely.”
    “Did you like it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Did you resent it?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Did it cause revulsion?”
    “I was her son. It was my duty. Dad was gone.”
    “Did she tell you that?”
    “Yes. She said it was what everyone did, but no one admitted it.”
    “Did she take care of you, sexually, as you liked it?”
    “I was too young to know.”
    “What about when you were a teenager?”
    “She met someone when I was sixteen. I could no longer sleep with her.”
    “She rejected you.”
    “Yes.”
    I cry after her questions and she lets me. She waits until I recover and begins her next inquiry: sex with my wife. This only lasts a few minutes. I have little to say. The reason we did not have children is because I could not have consistent sex with her. I was only able to think about my mother.
    “And you were angry by her rejection,” she finishes for me. Then she says what I don’t want to hear, but must admit.
    “You must admit this one thing, Joseph. It was not the pot, it was not the alcohol, it was not ambivalence about work, it was all about your mother keeping you from becoming a man. Your marriage was doomed from the start. Your life has been under the cloud of your mother’s selfishness.”
    I nod. That is all I can do. Eleanor has picked apart my life as a master locksmith.
    “We are done with this Part. Tomorrow we have a day off. I want to you purchase cleaning supplies. I will be back the day after tomorrow for our final interlude.”
    I spend the next day shopping for every cleaning supply I can imagine she might want. I make myself eggs and bacon for dinner, pot for dessert, and fall asleep on the sofa with one word dancing in my mind: “us.”

Part Six: Us

    Eleanor Durand arrives at the prescribed time, on the prescribed day in jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers, ponytail, with two suitcases. I stare at her and she laughs.
    “Close your mouth, silly and listen to me.”
    She outlines all the work for the day. I am to clean the master bedroom and living room. She will clean the kitchen and bathrooms. I am to lock the cave door. “That room is off limits,” she says. We do not speak for the several hours of cleaning. Once we complete our respective jobs, she disappears in the master bedroom with both her suitcases. I hear the bath water running. I sit thinking. Where has this therapy brought me? What does this woman have planned? Have I been manipulated as my mother did to me all those years ago? I should be feeling fear, but an odd warmth fills me when I see her emerge from the bedroom. She is done with her bath. Her hair is still wet and she is wearing a white terrycloth robe.
    “Your turn now and please shave,” she commands.
    I do as she says quickly. I must find out what she has planned. What is Personality Part Number Six? I find my silk smoking jacket that I have not donned since my divorce. I return to the living room. She is drinking scotch on the rocks and one is waiting for me.
    “Sit, please. This is our last Part and it is called ‘Us’” I know you must be a bit confused. It is time for me to explain.
    I listen with a mixture of wonderment, relief, and fear. She is not a therapist, she was one years ago. She is a person in search of someone who will take care of her. She has found that person in me.
    “You see, Joseph, I understand you. I know you will always be in love with your mother and I don’t care.”
    “My mother used to say to me that if I loved her I would make love to her. I didn’t understand it meant sex until it already happened.”
    “I know. When you look at me, I see in your eyes that you see your mother. You need your mother; she’s gone, but I’m here.”
    I am confused and she knows.
    “I see you’re confused. Your wife couldn’t step in for your mother because you were not ready to admit what your mother had done to you. I brought that out.”
    “Are you saying that I love you?”
    “You will.”
    “I feel scared of you now.”
    “You shouldn’t.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I am exactly what you have needed since your mother left you.”
    “You’re controlling me.”
    “Of course I am. That is exactly what you have always needed. Your mother knew it, and I know it.”
    I want to say something, but I have no words. Eleanor has all the words now.
    “You will care for me because you must. You need to take care of the woman who controls your life. I am now that woman.”
    “But I wasn’t able to have sex with my wife.”
    “She wasn’t your mother, I am now.”
    Eleanor, my one time therapist who is now my substitute mother leads me into the master bedroom. She takes me to bed in the same gentle way my mother did years ago.
    “When you make love to me you may see your mother. I welcome it. When we climax, think of how you used to make your mother feel. I will absorb all the emotions. And I will never leave you as your mother did.”
    “You’re staying?”
    “Of course.”
    “Have I invited you?” I ask. Have I forgotten something in my medicated haze?
    “You owe me now, Joseph. I have rebuilt all your parts.”
    She stops the conversation and removes my smoking jacket. I am a naked boy standing in front of the woman who has shown me who I am and what I can only be. Her robe drops to the floor and I realize the beauty she has hidden from me. As she brings us to climax I close my eyes and see the person who was my first love. When I finally open my now wet eyes and look at her with the emotions of a son, she holds my face with both hands.
    “Remember ‘us’ and remember that you will never leave me. You cannot let go of me.”
    And I know at that moment that I am not leaving this house and I am not leaving Eleanor. My path was established before I had a choice, and that has not changed. I will always be the dutiful son.

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