Underneath It All Read Online Free PDF

for establishing a long-lasting, fulfilling relationship.”
    “Yeah, that!”
    I don’t mean to make Dr. N work for her fee, but I have lots on my mind. The last thing I need is to spend an hour in therapy.
    “So do you think you’ve made progress toward those goals?”
    “Well, sure. I can relate to my parents as an adult. I’m so over my divorce, and I’m not falling apart because Bina totally blindsided me with her getting married. I really feel as if my life is coming together. I might even be ready to start dating again. Soon.”
    See? Calm, cool and collected. Dr. N nods and smiles. Good answer!
    “And how about the issue of your work life encroaching on your private life?”
    “Oh, that. Ha, I’ve managed to work out a balance.” One time, for lack of anything else to bitch about and forty minutes of therapy to fill, I talked about Mrs. Mayor and what I do all day, night and morning. Nothing major, nothing out of the ordinary, I just went through a normal 23-hour day on the job. Somehow she got the idea that I’m hiding behind my work and now it’s an issue, one of my many issues, as she puts it.
    “I was hoping you’d say that. We seem to have gotten you to a good place in your life.”
    “Absolutely.” Not.
    “We should really evaluate where you want to go with your therapy.” Dr. N looks at me and smiles slightly. “At this point, I think we’ve come to a good place to think about scaling back or even stopping your sessions.”
    “I think that’s a good idea.” Is Dr. N dumping me? If I’ve ever needed a therapist, it’s now. “Umm, but I think scaling back would be better for me. You know, to kind of wean me off. Like the patch when I quit smoking.”
    I took up smoking for about a week after a messy breakup from a rebound jerk and stayed on the patch for six months. How was I supposed to know I had an addictive personality?
    “I agree. So, instead of meeting once a week, let’s go to one session every other week and then go from there.” Dr. N makes a series of checks and scribbles on my chart. “I think we can safely say you’ll be out of therapy soon, Jacquelyn. Isn’t that great news?”
    “Great. Great news. Thanks!” I never know if I should thank Dr. N; I mean, I am paying her for her time, and it’s not as if she’s doing me a favor, but I can’t seem to not thank her. “OK. See you next week. Thanks.”
    “Very good. Good-bye, Jacquelyn.” Dr. N nods slightly, the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile, and she looks down at her notepad.
    “Bye, thanks again.”

8
    Yolie
    T hough I know my mother will still love me if she doesn’t hear from me this very moment, guilt outweighs my duty to both the woman who puts bread on my plate and to San Francisco’s traffic laws. Not by much, but still. I hate calling her after seeing my shrink. Even with the physical distance between us, I always feel she can sense when I’ve been up to no good, therapeutic or not.
    It’s not like I didn’t try the church route, in fact my shrink sessions are essentially sanctioned by the pope. Shortly before my divorce, when things were looking very bleak, I went to confession and after twenty minutes the priest suggested I consider talking to a professional. If I told this to my mom she’d only want to know what scandalous things I said to the poor priest.
    “Hello? Hello?” The phone gives one more watery ring. I make an illegal right turn onto Market Street and am soundly beeped by at least five other drivers.
    “¿Hola?” I freeze. It’s my sister Yolie, the last person on earth I want to talk to. Ever. “Hola!”
    “Oh, hey, Yolie. It’s me.” I check my watch, a Cartier Panther Mrs. Mayor gave me. It’s yet another hand-me-down, but real. I made sure to inquire, discreetly, when I went in to get the battery changed the day after she gave it to me to make up for almost getting me arrested at Saks.
    “Me?” Yolie’s mouth twists around the word. She knows who it is.