The Happy Treatment

by Teri Carter

(Continued)
     Three years ago you were a single woman living in an ultramodern, downtown apartment, in four square rooms as impeccably coifed as an ad slick. Your dream home. Or at least it might have been your dream home if you’d ever spent time there. You worked too much, traveled too much – you, with your promising career in marketing – until one day you fell in love, got married and came in off the road. You were over thirty by then and your Alabama-raised, belle-of-the-ball, mother was thrilled you’d finally—finally!—found yourself a husband. "Sugar, your time is a passing you by," she often reminded. She was also thrilled about playing grandmother to the man’s eight-year-old son, having determined long ago that her only daughter was too driven and too self-centered for the pain, messiness, and general inconvenience of baby-making. "We’ve got ourselves a little boy to spoil!" she said.
     You were more realistic. You had friends with stepchildren—"baggage," they called them. Children who lived with their mothers and visited, like unwelcomed guests, every other weekend. It did not work. The kids hated the new wives; the new wives hated the ex-wives; the ex-wives hated the husbands. A virtual circle of hate. Still, your situation was different. It was. Jason’s mother had, you were told, abandoned him as a toddler. She had disappeared. Your marketing mind spun into gear. Pros: instant family, no need to have a baby of your own, no pain-in-the-ass ex-wife. Cons: instant family, no baby of your own, stepmotherhood. Outcome: unknown, but tenable. So you committed. You sold your white sofa, glass tables and black-lacquered furniture—an off-the-showroom-floor ensemble you’d purchased "as is"—and moved to suburbia. You traded the two-seater for a Volvo. You even broke your "never own a dog" rule and adopted a feisty, black and white cocker spaniel from the local shelter. Family complete. It wasn’t long, however, before your new husband’s career trumped your own. His law firm was about to take on Big Tobacco in a landmark, class-action lawsuit. He would be spending more time at work, he said, preparing his plaintiffs, his case. He might even get to argue before the Supreme Court. This one case, he insisted, could make his career. Enamored by illusions of his future success you offered to give up your job—temporarily, of course—and stay home with Jason. To bond with your new son. You would trade the designer suits and three-inch heels for faded jeans and comfortable shoes.
     Your husband was grateful. Ecstatic.
     Jason was ecstatic, too. About the dog.
     You admired the dog – so elegant in her silky, black and white coat – and imagined how perfect she might have looked in your bygone dream of an apartment.

     In an attempt to become Stepmother Extraordinaire, you used dinnertime to stake a claim in the household routine. This was your first mistake.
     "You’re in my chair," Jason said, standing next to you at the table.
     "Don’t you want to sit next to your dad? I can be closer to the stove here, in case you guys need something."
     "But this is my chair."
     "Okay. I’m happy to sit by Dad."
     You stood. Jason sat. "He’s not your dad, though."
     And so the evenings passed.
     Now that you had a family, now that you were at home and had the time, you were determined to work on your culinary skills. Your mother mailed her favorite recipe books and you scoured them for hours, aspiring to churn out flawless family meals: chicken francese with wilted spinach; steak tapenade with arugula salad; lamb chops with sweet pea soup and parmesano toast. Most nights, Jason used the tines of his fork to scoot bits of food to the edges of his plate, intent on separating miniscule bits of onions from tomatoes from mushrooms, then asked to be excused. When the dishes were done and the kitchen dark, Jason would reappear, flip on all the lights, and pour himself a bowl of cereal. You protested.
     "He’s eight," your husband said, too worn down from twelve-hour days of legal briefs and trial prep to have this conversation again. "He eats macaroni and cheese and hamburgers and pancakes."
     "I am not making pancakes for dinner."
     He shrugged.
     You stood firm.
     Jason lived on Fruity Pebbles and Frosted Cheerios.
     When you asked the advice of friends – the ones with the revolving doors of weekend-only stepchildren – they merely smiled their "I told you sos." Old co-workers mocked your decision to put your career on hold to raise someone else’s child. "What the hell were you thinking?" they said. When frustration morphed into a persistent stomachache, one of your suburban neighbors—a stay-at-home mother of five—suggested you see Ned.
     "What is he exactly?" you asked.
     "A healer. Homeopathic stuff. He works in the basement of his house downtown. He does a little bit of everything—body work, acupuncture, Chinese medicine. Appointments last an hour, so you talk a lot. It’s like seeing a therapist. With needles."
     You weren’t so sure about the needles, but you went anyway.
     You’d been in Ned’s office—the basement—all of a minute when he first instructed you to undress to bra and panties and lie down on the table. He left the room. You stripped, embarrassed by your sheer white undergarments, and laid yourself down on the table under a sheet. You wondered what your husband would think – what your mother would think – about your being basically naked in the basement of a strange house in a strange neighborhood with a strange man.
     Ned returned, the door latch snapping behind him. "So. Why are you here?"
     "Stomachache. It won’t seem to go away."
     Ned leaned over your prone body and stared you right in the eyes. It felt like a dare. You examined the pores in his face, tiny black dots, and the gray stubble on his chin. "I don’t believe you."
     "I’ve had it for months now. I went to the doctor and he said I’m fine, but I’m not fine. I don’t feel right." You felt like a specimen under a microscope. You wished he’d sit down. "My neighbor said I should ask for the Happy Treatment. Whatever that is."