What Does Nothing Feel Like?

Chapter 1

         The first time I heard Crazy by Gnarls Barkley, I was being driven home from my first therapy session by my mother and I appreciated the irony.

At 22, I felt I could’ve handled driving home from therapy on my own, but my mom felt differently.

         “You’ll be emotionally drained, sweetheart, I don’t want you driving in that condition.”

         I have no emotions mother, hence the therapy.

         The 2nd time I heard Crazy by Gnarls Barkley, my mom was  again driving home, this time from my third therapy session. I was full out gasping, wiping the snot away, can barely see much less breath bawling. I’d had what Therapist triumphantly declared a “breakthrough”. It came upon me suddenly while we were “talking through the past”. I made sure it never happened again.

         After that, Crazy by Gnarls Barkley became a suppressed memory that I tried to avoid at all times. Therapist says that creating new suppressed memories goes against everything we do in his sessions. I’m not actually sure what it is we do in his sessions so whatever.

         To be honest, I’m not actually sure why I’m in therapy at all.

That’s a lie. My lies are part of why I’m in therapy. I started lying to make life more interesting and it worked for while.

In grade 6 my dad was an ultra-spy working overseas in Russia. He stalked other spies and killed the ones that were taking bribes from the enemy. In grade 8 he was a deep sea diver searching for gold at the bottom of the pacific.

By grade 11 no one really believed my lies anymore, but they still liked to listen to the stories the weird girl with no friends who liked to tell stories about her dad. At that point in time, dad was the world’s best juggler travelling the world hopping from one amazing show to another, performing for Emperors in China, High Chiefs in Africa, Monks in Tibet, Royalty in England, etcetera. 

In grade 12 a human calve and foot was fond by a dog at the edge of my neighbour’s property one block over. It turned out to be my dad’s calve and foot. Everyone from school preferred the real story to the lies. Murder is always a great story, full of intrigue and mystery. Who did it? Was it the wife? The estranged brother? The disgruntled former employee? Nope. It was the “secret gay lover”, as the police referred to him.

Therapist would love that little nugget of information. Screw “breakthrough”, that would qualify as a full on breach of emotion. Sometimes when Therapist is being particularly annoying, I feel like dangling the possibility of this breach of emotion in front of him.

“Chelsea, tell me a happy story from your childhood.”

“I don’t remember any.”

“Chelsea, don’t be difficult, you’re only injuring your own process.”

I sigh, “Fine.”

A smug look crosses Therapist’s face, but he tries to hide before I see.

“When I was three my family and I went to skating. We went to Tim Hortons after for hot chocolate. The girl working at the counter gave me and my brother free cookies.”

Therapist stares at me for a full 30 seconds after I finished my story.

“You’re only injuring your process, Chelsea.”

That’s when I want to scream “My dad went for a weekend fishing trip when I was eight and never came back!”

I don’t, but I come close. I leave instead, declaring the session over. When I get home, I phone mom and tell her I’m pretty sure I’m done with therapy.

“Oh honey, you can’t stop now, you’ve just started.”

This was actually my 17th session. Quite far from just having started.

“I know you’ll regret it if you stop now, sweetie. This could change your life.”

Oh God, she’s started crying.

“I just want you to be happy Chelsea, I just want you to laugh and smile and joke around like other girls your age.”

“I joke mom.”

“But they’re not funny honey,” she sniffs, “I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

Back to therapy. It’s not ma’s fault that I’m me.

She was that mom who always had freshly baked brownies ready in case you brought some friends home from school. My brother’s friends loved her, they were always at our house and eating brownies. Even now when I go home, there’s always at least one stray friend in our kitchen eating a brownie.

I never brought friends home, but that never stopped her from hoping and praying that I would. Most days after school she would rush from the kitchen to the foyer and then stop short, seeing that I was, once again, all by myself.

In 10th grade I dragged an exchange student home with me, just so that one day she wouldn’t be disappointed. When I found out that Mulkah, the South African exchange student, didn’t like brownies I made her leave. This made mom think that I’d ended my only friendship because the nice brown girl didn’t like her brownies. She cried for a week.

My mom was also the mom who was always ready to drop anything and have “girl talk”.

“Any cute boys in your classes this semester Chelsea?”

“There’s one.”

“Oooohhh, what’s his name?” In her mind we were one step away from giving each other pedicures and facials.

         “I don’t remember.”

         “Come one Chelsea, you must remember the name of the cute boy.”

         “Paul. No Jeffrey. Steve?”

         I could tell she was disappointed.

         “Oh honey, that’s ok, we don’t have to talk about it.”

         It was useless to explain to her that I did want to talk about it and I wanted to have a crush on a boy and giggle about it with her, but I just wasn’t built like other girls. My internal emoticon was stuck on blah.

         I did have a date to grad though. His name was Paul. No Jeffrey. Steve?

He asked me because he thought I was dark and full of sadness. That’s what he told me when he picked me up. He said that he was dark too, also full of sadness. And horny it turns out.

I was curious so I let him touch and rub for a bit. I guess, if you’re keeping score, he was on his way to second base when I got bored and went inside. I never saw Paul/Jeffrey/Steven again. Or maybe I did, I don’t fully remember what he looked like.

         But mom was so happy, we finally had some good old fashioned “girl talk”. I’m pretty sure it didn’t turn out to be quite as juicy and exciting as she’d hoped, but it was something and she seemed really pleased. I have a feeling she wrote down our entire conversation in her journal as soon as I left the room.







Chapter 2

Therapy session number 26. I think Therapist is beyond bored with me. At first he found me and my lack of emotion titillating. His little muskrat face would jut out from his neck as he leaned closer and closer while I described the few emotions I did feel: Annoyance – Level one and Annoyance – Level two. I could just imagine him at the Country Club--or wherever it is muskrat-faced therapists go to socialize—talking about his “inimitable” new patient her “massive” issues which he could barely wait to “get to the bottom of”. I don’t think I would be exaggerating to say that my one breakthrough was the material for at least one wet dream for old Therapist.

         Now though, he just begins the sessions with a question whose answer will take me at least an hour to deliver.

         “Chelsea, take me through the 14th year of your life.” And he sits there, with his laptop--which I’m pretty sure his other patients would have a problem with--and plays games. He can barely hide it when he loses his game. I spend most sessions attempting to guess which game he’s playing. I’m sure it’s almost always something boring like Minesweeper with a little Solitaire thrown in to spice things up.

         My cell phone starts ringing, interrupting my tale of Christmas Eve circa the 14th year of my life. I pull it out of my purse and answer it. Therapist doesn’t look up. It’s Pete, my brother, the one with all the friends.

         “Chelsea, mom’s missing.”

         Immediately I’m back to being eight-years-old and hearing those exact same words, only that time dad was missing. “What do you mean?”

         “I mean I haven’t spoken to her in four days and you know what today is.”

         Of course I knew what today was, I’d spent the last 14 years of my life trying to forget what today was.

         “When was the last time you talked to her?”

         I thought back. “Actually, not since Monday.”

         “It’s Friday, didn’t you think that was odd?”

         “I didn’t notice, I was too busy trying not to think about today.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Therapist look up. Crap, Muskrat-man has caught the scent of a possible breakthrough. I can feel myself reaching Annoyance - Level One.

         “Pete, I still don’t understand how you came to this conclusion.” I try to be vague to throw what’s-his-Muskrat-Face off the scent.

         “Aunt Genie hasn’t talked to her since Monday either. And she said that when they talked, mom sounded really down. Apparently she was completely down and talking in a low voice.”

         I sat up straighter. Mom always talks in a cheerful high-pitched voice. The only time I ever heard her voice lower to a human pitch was during the week the police were searching for the rest my dad’s body after the calve and foot were found. Once they found the body, the high-pitch came right back.

         “Where are you? Come get me, my car’s in the shop.” I’d finally convinced mom to let me drive myself to and from my therapy sessions only to have my car break down a week later.

         “I’m in Denver.”

         “What? Why?”

         “Visiting Tammy’s family.”

         Just the thought of Tammy, my brother’s keeper, I mean fiancé, brought me to past Level One and headed to Level Two.

         “Well come home. We need to start looking for her.”

         “Tammy says that she’s just doing this for attention because we didn’t go over for dinner last Friday. Tammy thinks we should stay and that she’ll show up on her own. Tammy—”

         “Fuck Tammy. I’ll find Mom myself.”

         “Chels, come on. You know Tammy is just trying to help and mom does need a lot of attention.”

         “Bye Pete.” I hung up the phone and turned to find Therapist had assumed the position he’d perfected during our early session: face jutting out from scrawny, veiny neck. I was repulsed; I’d forgotten just how muskratty he looked up close. Can muskrats mate with humans? I think Therapist may be living proof that it’s happened at least once.

         “I have to go.”

         “What happened?” He says it in a low, tense whisper. Creepy.

         “My mom is missing. I need to find her.”

         “Why is she missing. What is so special about today?”

         Oh Therapist, ever poised for a breakthrough. Well, not today, my half muskrat-half human friend. Not today.

         “Nothing is special about today but my mother is fragile so I need to go find her. Now.” I just remembered my car is in the shop. I can’t afford to take a cab to go search the city for my mom. Much less to drive out to our old abandoned cabin 3 hours away, which is most likely where I’ll find her.

         “But you’ve never told me why she’s so fragile.”

My annoyance had receded but I could it feel it waiting in the wings.

“I’m leaving.”

“I thought your car was in the shop.”

“It is, I’ll cab it or call a friend.”

“I thought you had no friends.”

Damn it, I forgot I’d told him that.

“Well, looks like I’m fucked. What do you suppose I do?”

“I’ll drive you.”

I felt an urge I hadn’t felt in nearly 15 years: the urge to laugh ‘til I peed. “Um, no.”

“Ahem.”

I turned to find a guy, around my brother’s age, standing in the doorway.

“I was just on my way out, I could drop you somewhere if you’d like.”

“And you are…?”

“Chelsea, this is my son Henry.”

No shit. They actually allowed Therapist to reproduce. But Therapist Jr. lacks that unfortunate muskrat-essence that his father exudes at all times. He has the same dark brown curly  hair as Therapist and the same clear blue eyes but no muskratiness. I hope he knows how lucky he is that the muskrat gene skipped him.

“Henry, I’ve asked you never to come into my sessions.” Therapist is pissed.

I love it.

“Sorry dad, I was just walking by and I heard Chelsea say her car was in the shop. I figured I would just offer to drop her at the shop or wherever she was going.”

“Chelsea, I am so sorry. I know this is a gross invasion of the trusting, intimate world that we try to build in all our sessions. Henry, please leave.”

“No Henry, stay.” I am not in a position to turn down a ride from a non-Muskrat. “I would really appreciate the ride.”

Henry smiled. It wasn’t bad. “Great, let’s go.”

“Chelsea, I don’t think this is a good idea. I do not feel comfortable with this. Chelsea!”

I was already out the door, Henry right behind me. “I’ll see you next week,” I yelled back to his Muskrat Highness, “Have a great night.” I really enjoy seeing his Muskrat Majesty lose his cool.

Therapist Jr. aka Non-Muskrat holds the door to his car open for me and I climb in.

“Where are you going?” I hope he’s going in the direction of my mom’s house so that I can take her car.

“I’m really in no rush, I could drop you where ever.”

I look over at Therapist Jr. “387 Maplegrove.”

He nodds and pulls out of the driveway. “Are you worried?”

“Not really. I probably should be. But then, I probably should be a lot of things.”

He nodds again, as though he understands. I’m  pretty sure Non-Muskrat dose not understand but I don’t say anything.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

My turn to nod now, oddly though, I feel the Annoyance that was waiting in the wings fade back a bit more.

As soon as we turn onto the street I see my mom’s car is gone.

“Is her car in the garage?’

“No, she doesn’t use the garage. Her car is gone.” I get out and go into the house, I hear Therapist Jr. follow me.

“Mom?” I call out as I walk through each room of the downstairs. “Mom?” I go and look upstairs too. Nothing, but her bed is unmade, not a good sign. This is a woman who would come back from the grave to make her bed.

“Do you want to check the garage, just in case?”

I don’t want to but I know that I should so I do. I slowly push the door open. A faint light filters through the small, dust covered window on the far wall. Tiny particles of dust waltz slowly through the stream of light, lingering in the warmth. I can make out the piles of old boxes of dad’s clothes, his tool boxes and the car parts strewn about where he had been working on them. His motorbike, his sea doo, his snowmobile, I look away and then look back.

As far as I know, no one but me has been in here since mom brought his clothes down. I notice a square patch of non-dust covered cement where something has recently been removed. I take another look around the gloom. His tackle box is missing.

I remember when the police came to the house with the tackle box. They’d found it in a bag in Mr. Phipps’s vault along with my dad’s shirt, shoes, hat and pants. That was the night we stopped calling him Uncle Dave and started calling him Mr. Phipps like when we first moved into the neighbourhood. After that we didn’t see the tackle box for another three months, until the police closed the case. Detective Schroeder came by the house and gave it to mom in an evidence bag as well as another evidence bag containing dad’s clothes. Mom took both, went into the garage for a few minutes and came out. The door had thudded behind her as if it knew it would be a long time before it was opened again.

Fuck. The bag of dad’s clothes were on top of the tackle box, those are gone too. I turn to find Therapist Jr. standing about 1/6th of an inch behind me. I feel weird standing this close to him. He takes a step back.

“Anything missing?”

“Yes.” I walk past him, careful not to touch him, and go down the hall. I’m already out the door when I remember I have no vehicle. I turn to Therapist Jr. He looks back at me, eyebrows raised, waiting.

“You said you weren’t in a rush?”

“I’m not.”

“Can whatever you were going to do wait ‘til, say, tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I think Mom went up to our cabin on Pink Lake”

“Let’s go.”

Just like that, Therapist Jr. gets in the car.

“Do you know where Pink Lake is?”

“Ya, we have a cabin up there too.”

“Small world.” Actually not so small, Thank God. I imagine running into Therapist-the-Muskrat and his clan at Pink Lake. I shuddered at the thought of Therapist-the-muskrat’s small little body in swimming trunks. The terrifying image is stuck in my mind. I turn to Therapist Jr. and suddenly it is him in swimming trunks in my head. Better than King Muskrat.

“Are you ok?”

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

He backs out of the drive way and starts down the street. We’re off to find Mom. Mom is missing.

Fuck.