In Need of Therapy Kindle Edition

Chapter 12

“I have a date tonight,” Mitch confided after we’d spent a half-hour discussing the loveless (by all appearances) marriage of his deceased parents.

“Oh, really? With whom?”

“Her name’s Cynthia. I met her at the grocery store. I was keeping my eyes open for nice girls like you told me to and boom, there she was, in the produce section at Publix.”

“And what was it about Cynthia that attracted you to her?” I willed him to say something other than “her knockers.”

“Uh, well, she was very natural-looking. Hair in a ponytail, no makeup, and she was wearing this pretty dress with little pink flowers on it. I don’t know; she just seemed different. I’m used to chicks who let it all hang out, if you know what I mean.”

Indeed, I did. The beaches and clubs in Miami were full of women who liked to flaunt their assets in as little clothing as they could without being arrested for public indecency.

“So, how did you approach Cynthia?”

Smirking, he replied, “I handed her a couple of casabas and asked her to squeeze my melons and tell me if they were ripe.”

“And that worked?” I was incredulous.

“She laughed and said that it was the cheesiest pick-up line she’d ever heard, but she had to admire my improvisational technique since I’d made good use of the props at hand.”

“Sounds like Cynthia has a good sense of humor.”

“Yeah, she seems to. And she’s smart, too. She’s a grad student at UM.”

A fellow Hurricane? That was a point in her favor, at least in my eyes. “What’s she studying?”

Mitch shrugged. “Beats me.”

Baby steps, I told myself. Her name and how she occupied herself while the sun was out was probably more information than Mitch had ever collected on any of the women he’d slept with.

“So, you’ll have plenty to talk about on your date tonight. What are you planning to do?”

“I don’t know. I figured I’d play it by ear. What?” he questioned the disapproving expression on my face. “That’s no good?”

“Some thought should go into a date, especially a first one. You want to impress this woman, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Then, show her you think she’s special by taking her some place nice.”

“Such as?” he asked.

“Well, you can’t go wrong with dinner at a good restaurant. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy or expensive; you just want to be sure that the restaurant has the right ambiance. It should be quiet so that the two of you can talk and since you don’t know what Cynthia likes or dislikes when it comes to food, go to a place where a variety of entrées are offered.”

“I don’t know much about nice restaurants,” Mitch admitted.

“I can suggest a few if you like?”

 He nodded his assent, and I scribbled three names down on a blank piece of paper in my notebook, then ripped out the page and handed it to him. Mitch rubbed the stubble on his chin as he studied his options.

“Make a reservation. Wear something appropriate. And . . . you might want to shave.”

He stopped rubbing his whiskers and looked up from the paper. “I don’t know, Doc. Chicks love the stubble.”

“We love it from a distance, but up-close?” I grimaced.

“Alright, I’ll get a razor,” he grudgingly conceded. “Dating’s a lot of work.”

“It’s worth it when you meet the right person.”

He eyed me with curiosity. “Have you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Have you met the right person?”

I averted my gaze and squirmed uncomfortably in my chair. “I don’t really think that that’s pertinent.”

“Come on, Doc, share and share alike. I’ve told you a bunch of personal stuff about myself. Now, how ‘bout it?” he prompted.

“Have I met the right person?” I pondered the question for a moment before replying, “I don’t think so, but who knows? The perfect man could be waiting for me just around the corner or he could already be right under my nose . . .”

* * *

“Dr. Fordham on Line 1.”

“Thanks, Margo.”

I put down my pen and picked up the phone. “Ford?”

“Busy?”

“I’m just reviewing some notes. What’s up?”

“I was hoping that you could come to my office for a few minutes. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Who?” I wondered if it could be Mrs. Dr. Ford. Maybe she’d come to meet her husband for an early dinner, and I was finally going to get a look at her? I was incredibly curious about the woman since I knew next-to-nothing about her other than her name was Sam, which was presumably short for Samantha. And I’d only found that out when I’d seen the address label on some personal mail Ford had left lying out on his desk. For some reason, Ford hardly ever talked about his wife, and I felt like pumping him for more data so early in our friendship wasn’t appropriate.

“You’ll have to walk the two hundred feet over here to find out.”

“Give me five,” I said, then hurriedly slammed the phone receiver down and dashed out my office door.

“Be right back,” I told Margo as I scurried past her desk and out into the hallway.

Ford’s waiting area was empty, so I proceeded to the closed door of his office. I knocked softly and tapped my foot impatiently while I waited for him to answer.

“When you said ‘give me five,’ I thought you meant minutes, not seconds,” he greeted me with a twinkle in his blue eyes. His suit jacket was off and the sleeves of his pale purple shirt were rolled up to just below his elbows.

“You were so mysterious on the phone that I was intrigued.” I leaned a little bit to my right, trying to sneak a peek into his office, but Ford’s tall, broad-shouldered frame effectively blocked my view.

“Don’t let me keep you in suspense then.” He stepped back and waved me in.

I entered the room and glanced around, expecting to find Mrs. Dr. Ford sitting on the couch, or in the chair behind his desk, but there was no one in sight.

“So, where’s this person you wanted me to meet?”

“Oh, he’s here,” Ford replied, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he was trying to suppress a smile.

He? Was Sam a man? If that was true, then that meant that Ford was . . . gay! How was that possible? We hadn’t known each other for long, but we’d spent quite a bit of time together, sharing lunches, swapping war stories about our work, parents, and siblings. I’d never once suspected he was gay. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. And I was supposed to be insightful for a living!

I heard the sound of a child giggling, and my eyes traveled to the floor, where I saw a skinny boy with unruly brown hair shimmy out from underneath Ford’s desk. Taking him by the hand, Ford led him over to me.

“Nate, this is the friend I was telling you about, the one who gave me all the info on the Pee Wee League. Her name’s Pilar.”

Ford’s son gazed up at me with big brown eyes that radiated an intelligence and maturity far beyond his years.

“Pee-lar,” he tried my name out, putting an unnecessary emphasis on the first syllable. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Spanish,” I told him.

He cocked his head to the side and squinted up at me. “Are you Spanish?”

“Actually, no, I’m Cuban, Chilean, and American. My sisters and I like to call ourselves ‘Cubchilicans.’”

“That’s funny,” Nate said in a deadpan voice. “I’ve heard of Cuba, but not that other place . . .,” He looked to his dad for help with the name of the country.

“It’s called Chile.”

“Like the food?” Nate wondered.

“It’s spelled differently, with an ‘e’ on the end instead of an ‘i,’” Ford explained.

“Where is Chile?” Nate directed this question to me.

“Way down in South America.”

“Maybe Pilar could show you on the globe?” Ford suggested, gesturing towards the round, freestanding map of the world that resided in the corner of his office.

Nate dropped his father’s hand and took a hold of mine. “Would you?” he inquired politely.

“I’d be happy to.”

The three of us walked over to the globe, and Ford spun it around so that South America was facing us.

“Okay, see this long strip of land on the east coast?” I pointed to that area of the continent on the globe, and Nate nodded. “That’s Chile. My mother’s mother, my abuela Rosalinda, came from there.”

“What about Cuba? Where’s that?”

“Cuba is an island up here.” I placed my finger on it.

“It’s not far from Florida,” Nate observed with interest.

“That’s right, and that’s why so many Cubans immigrate to Miami. There’s an area of Miami not too far from here called ‘Little Havana,’ where a lot of Cubans live and work, and our native culture’s been preserved through the food, music, and architecture.”

“Sounds neat! Can we go there some time, Poppa?”

“Sure.” Ford tousled his son’s hair affectionately. I had a feeling that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t agree to do for Nate. “But the only place we’re going right now is Tee-Ball practice.”

“Is today your first day?” I queried.

“Yes,” Nate puffed out his little chest proudly, “I’m going to play for the Diamond Backs.”

“How exciting!” I enthused. “I think that that’s the same team my nephew Charlie plays for.”

“It is,” Ford confirmed. “Ray still had an open slot on his roster and we live near the practice field, so it worked out perfectly. Ready to go, sport?”

“First, I want to ask Pee-lar something.” Nate tugged on my hand, and I knelt down on the floor so that we were eye-to-eye.

“Yes?”

“You speak Spanish, don’t you?”

“I do. Everyone in my family is bilingual, which means that we speak two languages.”

“There are some bilingual kids in my class, too. I’d like to learn Spanish. Would you teach me?”

“Oh, Nate,” Ford put his hand on his son’s shoulder, “it takes years to learn a foreign language, and Pilar’s not a teacher; she’s a doctor.”

“She could still teach me.” Nate wouldn’t let it go. “I’m a fast learner.”

“I’ll bet you are. How about this? Whenever we see each other, I’ll teach you one word in Spanish.”

“Two words,” he bargained.

I chuckled. “Okay, two. Your first word for today is tortuga. That means ‘turtle.’”

“I have a pet turtle.”

“I know, your father told me.”

“So, Vinny is a tortuga?”

“Yes, very good. Your pronunciation was perfecto,” I praised him.

“And that’s your two words in Spanish. Now we need to hit the road or we’ll be late for your first day of practice, and you don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with Coach Castaneira.”

Perfecto doesn’t count as a word,” Nate protested.

I stood up. “Your dad’s right. You should get going. Do you have your guante de béisbol?”

Nate’s brow furrowed with confusion. “My what?”

“Your guante de béisbol. That’s your baseball mitt.”

“Did you hear that, Poppa? Baseball mitt is guante de béisbol in Spanish.”

“I heard.” Ford picked up his suit jacket and briefcase. “Now, what do you say to Pilar for being so nice?”

“Um,” he thought about it for a second, “gracias?”

Ford frowned. “How did you know that gracias meant ‘thank you?’”

“I was watching Univision last night. It was one of those shows where people are either yelling at each other or kissing.”

With an amused snicker, I said, “A telenovela. My mother loves those.”

Ford gave me a ‘don’t-encourage-him’ look before addressing his son. “That’s a grown-up show, Nate. I don’t want you watching that channel anymore.”

“But it’s a good way to learn Spanish, Poppa,” Nate defended his actions as his father propelled his small body through the waiting area, and I trailed behind them. “Last night, I learned gracias and de nadaand adiós and hazme el amor. I’m not sure what that last one meant, but the people in the telenovela said it a lot.”

We were out in the corridor now, and Ford was locking his office door. “‘Hazme el amor?’” he raised an eyebrow questioningly at me.

I put my hands over Nate’s ears and whispered the translation, “Make love to me.”

“Oh, geez.” Ford looked embarrassed, which I thought was cute. He motioned for me to remove my hands so that his son could hear him. “No more Univision, understand?”

“But . . .”

“No ‘buts.’ We’ll get you a Spanish DVD or a book or something.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. Now, let’s go.” He reached for his son’s hand, then pulled him away.

“See you tomorrow, Pilar. Bye Pee-lar,” the Fordham men bid me a hasty farewell before disappearing down the stairs.



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