Mental TherapyPosted: January 18, 2014 | |
It was after 1:00 and I was in the kitchen nuking my lunch. As I waited for the timer to count down, I poked my head through the doorway and looked into the living room at Mom as she paged through a Family Circle magazine.
“Want your Slim Fast?” I asked, noting the absence of a tell-tale can on her end table.
“Sure,” she whispered, still raspy from the lingering cold that we’d all been fighting for the three weeks since the New Year began. I went to her special frig and extracted a can of chocolate diet yumminess and, as I shook it, than popped the top, she said, “You know, I think you have that thing.”
I looked down at my sweatshirt and blue jeans, expecting to discover something large and creepy and possible poisonous clamoring around. This is, after all, Arizona, home to black widows, scorpions and tarantulas.
“What?” I exclaimed, somewhat alarmed. “Is there something crawling on me?” I said, brushing myself off.
“No, no, no,” she replied. “Not that. You have that thing. You know, that you know what I want even when I don’t ask.”
“Oh, that thing,” I sighed in relief.
“What’s it called,” she muttered, scratching her chin. “Telephoning? No. Sensible? No. Never mind, I’ll think of it.”
“Ok, Mom,” I said, deciding to let her figure it out as the microwave dinged that my lunch was ready.
On my way back to the office with my soup and crackers, she called out to me, so I backpedaled down the hall and peeked out at her from the foyer. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got it,” she said with a grin. “What we have.”
“Oh? Okay, what’d you come up with?” I asked.
“Mental therapy. That’s what we’ve got,” she said, obviously quite pleased with herself.
“Telepathy, Mom. Mental Telepathy,” I corrected. “Although a little therapy wouldn’t hurt,” I murmured, heading back to the office.