Twenty minutes later, we are sitting in her favorite breakfast restaurant, and I smile over at her drinking her coffee out of a pink-and-gold fine-china cup and saucer.
Her eyes hold mine, and she smiles knowingly. “So . . . darling.”
I roll my eyes. Here we go. “Spit it out.”
“I don’t spit. I’m not a camel, Christopher.”
I smile broadly, and there it is, her obnoxious wit. I think we boys are all more like her than we are like Dad.
“Elliot told me you are having a few issues.”
“Nope,” I lie. “He got it wrong.”
“Now, darling.” She stares at me, unrelenting. “We are not leaving this restaurant until we discuss this.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Mother.”
“You don’t want to talk about the little gold digger you met.”
“She is not a gold digger,” I snap. “She thinks I don’t have a cent to my name.”
“And there it is.” She smiles sweetly. “I knew that would make you spit it out. Tell me all about it.”
I narrow my eyes. Damn this calculating woman.
“So . . . she thinks you’re broke?”
“Yes.”
“And from what I hear she’s not that attractive.”
“What?” I scoff. “She’s fucking beautiful.”
“Language,” she reminds me with a knowing smile.
We stay silent for a moment as we both sip our coffee.
“You know”-she puts her fancy pink cup down in its matching saucer-“she’s not the girl for you.”
I feel my hackles rise. “What makes you say that?”
“She’s backpacking in filthy hostels and taking you for granted. She’s obviously hurt you in some way if you’ve had to come scurrying home. Probably sleeping around on you, and I bet she won’t commit to a relationship either.”
“It’s the other way around, Mom,” I snap. My face falls. “Wait . . . you know I’m backpacking?” I ask.
“Do you really think I was born yesterday?” she replies as she watches me. “The stories about your fake course in Paris are fascinating, though. Definitely give your father and me a chuckle.”
“Fucking hell.” I drag my hands through my hair. She’s just said that entire thing to catch me out.
“Talk to me, sweetheart,” she urges.
My eyes hold hers, and I roll my lips, the closest to tears I’ve been in my adult life.
“I fucked it up, Mom.”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I don’t know.” I stare across the restaurant as I go over the last few months. “We’re friends, and she’s just . . . so beautiful and sweet and everything I’m not, and then we kissed, and . . .” I shrug.
She smiles softly as she watches me.
“Anyway.” I straighten in my chair. “It’s over now.”
Her eyes hold mine. “Is it?”
“I want it to be over.”
“Some things you cannot choose. They choose you.”
I sip my coffee. I have nothing more to say.
“Do you remember the time I pulled you out of school and you stayed home with Dad and me for the year and went to the speech therapist Miss Theresa on Tuesdays?”
“Vaguely.”
“Do you remember what you used to talk about with her?”
“Not really.”
“She used to talk about your problems and fears with you.”
I frown. “Miss Theresa was a shrink?”
She pulls out a book from her bag. “Would you like to read it?”
I take it from her and look it over. It’s a notebook, and typed-out letters are all glued inside. I check the date on the front page. I would have been ten when this was written.
It is my belief that Christopher is experiencing traits of perfectionism.
The next part is scribbled down in my mother’s writing, as if she has researched the word perfectionism.
Perfectionism in psychology is a broad personality style characterized by a person’s concern with striving for flawlessness and perfection and is accompanied by critical self-evaluations and concerns regarding others’ evaluations.
Traits that Christopher readily displays:
All-or-nothing attitude.
Being highly critical of himself and others.
Feeling pushed by fear.
Having unrealistic standards.
Focusing only on results.
Feeling depressed or terrified by unmet goals.
Fear of failure.
Procrastination.
Defensiveness.
Although he does not display the usual low self-esteem, he does rely heavily on his brothers, which may indicate a codependent relationship. Christopher feels that to be accepted he needs to excel in all areas of his life.
Failure isn’t an option.
What?
I frown and read on. The next paragraph is from the therapist.
Moving forward, I would suggest that Christopher continue his therapy, as if he is left untreated, I would expect that these traits may worsen when he approaches adulthood and enters into personal relationships.
I close the book and pass it back to her, annoyed. “I was ten.”
Mom’s knowing eyes hold mine.
“All ten-year-olds are weird.” I shuffle around in my chair, feeling uncomfortable. “I’m not a perfectionist.”
She stays silent.
“I don’t care what that stupid book says. I’m not a fucking perfectionist.”
She sips her coffee.
“What made you take me to a damn shrink when I was ten, anyway?” I snap.
“You wouldn’t do anything new.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you didn’t think you were going to be good at something, you point-blank refused to even attempt it.”
“Like what?”
“It started in class. You refused to do algebra.”
I frown. I don’t remember any of this.
“You and your teacher came to blows. You dug your heels in and simply refused. She called me. It was at that time that we started to take notice of things that we had always seen as your little quirks.”
I stare at her.
“Sweetheart.” She takes my hand over the table. “It isn’t easy being the youngest Miles brother, growing up like you did with so much pressure on you to be perfect.”
“I don’t feel pressured, Mom.”
“Not within our family . . . but it has affected your personal relationships with women. You are thirty-one and never had a girlfriend. Don’t you ever wonder why?”
I stare at her, horrified.