The first gift I open is dental floss. Oral B, to be specific, which I guess is something special. At least it is a name brand that I recognize and isn’t the store brand. I’m hoping that it’s a one off. The next gifts will be better, I tell myself.
Deodorant. Shampoo. A cantaloupe.
Is this all? I ask.
What do you mean? Do you not like them?
It’s not that…I mean, well, yeah, no, I don’t like them.
But you use those things every day.
Yeah, I do. You’re right. But I guess that’s kinda the point. They’re basic hygienic products and food that I use every day and, well, today’s kinda special, right?
I suppose.
And for such a special day, I dunno, I was kinda hoping for, you know, special gifts.
Special gifts?
Yeah.
I don’t see what you mean.
Look, these are things that you get at the grocery store each week. Things that both of us use on a daily basis. They’re not special, right? They’re just common, mundane, everyday sort of products.
Alright.
And today…well, it’s supposed to be a special day.
I don’t see how or why.
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m at a bit of a loss for words. An impulse to strike him comes to mind, but I suppress any violent thoughts or ideation. I start with the breathing meditation my court-ordered therapist taught me. It rarely works, but it gives me pause. I’m reminded of the words the judge said the last time I was in court: This is your last shot. Either you get control of your temper and start acting your age, or you go to jail.
While I have never been to jail or prison or been in handcuffs without it being related to some sort of kink, I’ve watched enough reality television shows about being locked up to know that when a stern-faced, handle-bar-mustache man in a long black ritual robe tells me to stop messing around or end up in jail, then it’s time to take anger management therapy a little more seriously.
But even the threat of imprisonment isn’t enough to make the whole therapy thing seem a bit cuckoo-for-coco-puffs.
I show up each Wednesday afternoon at the office of Dr. Gwen Forsthye. Her office is located in a strip mall with a fraction of the shops actually occupied. The parking lot has way too many potholes. And the overall infrastructure of the strip mall can be summarized as needs improvement.
Each week we discuss my feelings and how I’m feelings and whether or not I felt any anger or anxiety or happiness or depression or any sort of feeling that isn’t on the approved list of feelings a therapist might want me to feel, which after eight weeks of the same routine I am guessing is the feeling of ambivalence. But I’m not positive.
I try not to pay too close attention to what goes on in anger management therapy. It kinda all pisses me off.
But I do recall the breathing exercises, though I might be making them up and remember them from some movie or show I saw where either the main or an auxiliary character had anger issues and a therapist character told them to breathe. Calmly breathe. But I don’t think they were dealing with their family giving them basic toiletries as a gift.
I remind myself that it’s the thought that counts. It’s the thought that counts. It becomes my internal mantra. A silent chant I whisper in my head as I close my eyes, count to ten, become aware of my presence in the universe, and breathe in, out.
Are you feeling alright, babe?
Yeah, yeah, I think I’m good. I wasn’t for a second. But I think it’s going to be alright.
Did you need me to grab you something? I could always go back to the store.
Do you think you can grab some Ben & Jerry’s? It’s been a while.
Because they’re so damn expensive. You sure? I don’t have a coupon for them this week.
Why should that matter?
Because we’re budgeting. Because we have a child on the way. Because there’s probably some sort of mind-control device or chemicals in those pints. I dunno, pick one, but there’s plenty of reasons why we shouldn’t get them.
But only one good reason to get it, right? Because your pregnant wife is asking you to do this one small favor on this one special day.
You keep referring to today as special. I don’t get it. Why? What’s so special about grocery shopping day?
What? You don’t know?
I don’t. Sorry.
Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. Maybe I need to go stay with my parents until you figure it out.
Are you feeling alright?
Of course. I’m not the one that’s completely ruining today.
Stop it! I haven’t ruined anything. If you want to go be with your parents, then go. I’m not going to stop you. But if you want to be an adult, explain to me why you’re so damn upset, and then maybe we can figure this out and resolve the issue together.
He sounded too reasonable. Suspiciously reasonable. I knew right then and there that my husband had been replaced. A clone. A pod person. An alien wearing his skin. It didn’t really matter. All I knew was that my husband was gone, perhaps forever. I was left with the facsimile of him. Some cheap carbon copy.
This might sound like too elaborate, or circuitous, of an explanation as to why I shot my husband with a shotgun. But I can assure you that it was justifiable. Anyone in my shoes would have done the exact same thing. So, go ahead, charge me if you have to. I won’t dispute what I did. But I can guarantee that there’s not a jury out there, not a single one of my peers, that would ever convict
Fred Aiken Writing 