Extract from Punchline

Meredith Smola

Michigan – December, 2023

Four months after Ada’s death. 

Still living in a video game, it seemed. A low-budget, pixilated one where the main character, me, is stuck in a loop, trying to walk through a concrete wall. The gamer must’ve spilled pop on the controller buttons. Step, fail. Step, fail. WALL. WALL. WALL.

Ada was always crying wolf, we’d joke. And that joke did not age well. In-patient this, out-patient that, infection this, disease that. Because she was perpetually ill since I could count, I never told my friends about it or bought her a cookie bouquet. I never questioned the two dozen rainbow-colored pills she shotgunned with Root beer every morning, or the stack of sharps containers in the corner of her bedroom filled with used syringes. Her roller-coaster-health was a normal part of life. 

I’d visit her at the hospital, but I never flinched; she’d always come home. 

Except for the time she didn’t.

Anywho. What’s done was done. 

I was still living with my parents, still brewing coffee and picking up doggy diarrhoea for money – not at the same time, of course – and daydreaming about a better, cooler life in London. But did I only want to return to London to relive my college study abroad trip? Was I one of those annoying, sentimental people who just couldn’t let a good time go? 

The grief group was going alright, but I preferred more intimate, one-on-one sessions; so, I booked myself an appointment with another Diane-type on a bitter December morning. 

Her name was Lesley.

She looked early forties in her profile picture on Good Therapy Dictionary, which was my target age demographic. Her hair was a rich brunette with maroon undertones, and her eyes were two different colours which I considered to be good luck. I know it might seem shallow to judge a therapist by their profile picture, but this is the unfortunate age we live in. I wouldn’t be surprised if grocery store baggers had their own sites soon. ‘Frank, let’s go to the Walmart on fifth street today. The baggers on the clock look more approachable.’

So, I wrote a blurb about my problems, uploaded photos of my insurance card, picked a time slot, and before I knew it, I was in yet another tiny room of healing with fugly, musty blue carpet, oak walls, and one of those ceramic Japanese cats aggressively waving at me on a small side table. 

But the lady sitting before me was no Lesley.        

She had stark white hair, pruning skin, and a pair of matte black, thick-framed glasses that said, ‘I take my coffee black and my whiskey neat. Also, fuck you’. Her stiff white blouse was buttoned to the top, choking her turkey neck. She didn’t look anything like her picture. The vibes were not vibing in the way I envisioned them to vibe. I promise I’m not trying to be ageist – it’s a privilege to live long enough to earn yourself a turkey neck. I’m just particular about who I air my grievances to! 

Did my new therapist seriously catfish me? 

‘So, you’re Dr. Lesley Willis, right?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone polite and neutral.

‘Yes. I know my picture online is a little dated. I keep meaning to upload a new one, but I can’t seem to figure out how!’ 

You haven’t been able to figure it out in the last twenty years? I thought.

She crossed her legs, making a noise in the process, and propped her clipboard onto her thigh. ‘So, Merry, I noticed you checked the bereavement box in your online form.’
I played with the zipper of my puffer coat, which I kept on. ‘Wow. Straight to it, huh?’

‘Does the word “bereavement” make you uncomfortable?’

‘No, it’s my favourite word. Has a beautiful, melancholy ring to it. And kinda sounds like “beaver”. Did you know they hold hands while they sleep? Fucking precious. Or maybe that’s otters…’

‘That’s otters.’

Well! Semi-aquatic animal expert over here.

‘So, would you like to tell me about yourself, and why you made today’s appointment?’

‘To be honest, not really.’

‘Have you been to therapy before?’

‘I go to a grief group every week with my mom. So I guess I’m having a therapy affair right now. You’re a homewrecker. I won’t tell the others.’

‘And how has the group been going?’

Damn. Not even a pity-chuckle.

‘It’s a bit too Christian for my Agnostic taste. Like, guys, wake up, God isn’t going to save us, just like Santa isn’t going to bring us presents. We have to do it ourselves.’

‘So, you don’t believe in God.’

‘No.’

She removed her glasses. ‘And you don’t believe in Santa.’

Oh, she was a deadpan comedian in the making. I smiled to acknowledge her joke. I was hoping this humour – albeit subtle – would continue. Nothing worse than a stale piece of forgotten sourdough as a therapist. Flashbacks to Diane.

‘There’s nobody my age in this group either,’ I said, gripping the arms of my chair like I was locking into an amusement park ride. Weeee!

‘I can see how that would feel isolating, with no peers there to connect with, to relate to.’

I flashed a quick pursed-lip smile. Truth is, I didn’t know anyone my age who’d lost a sibling. Perhaps I was the world’s first. Can’t we all just wear a badge 24/7, so we know who to approach with our sappy little stories, and who to stay TF away from?

‘Speaking of, in your form,’ Lesley went on, clearing her throat and scanning her notes, ‘you wrote that you lost your sister in August. I’m so sorry. I presume that’s why you’re in this group, and I presume that’s why you’re here right now.’

I knew if I’d verbally confirmed this, I would’ve blown my cover and cried. I could finally write about her death in my journal, but my vocal cords had other plans.

Thirty minutes of small talk and wisecracks and beating around the bush later, Lesley said, ‘Have you ever tried not making a joke of things?’

I leaned back in my chair and woman-spread. ‘Not to my knowledge, why?’

‘I think it would benefit you, long-term, if you took this a little more seriously.’

‘I think humour is a good thing,’ I said, as she began writing, slandering me with her prissy ballpoint pen. ‘The world is dark. Wit is necessary.’

She dotted her last “i” and looked up.

‘It can be an effective, healthy coping mechanism, yes, but at some point it’s going to catch up to you. You come across as quite avoidant, have you noticed that? We’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes and I haven’t heard you identify any feelings about your sister’s death, go into any detail about what happened, or tell me what your goals are in therapy. I recommend tapping into something more genuine, more meaningful. Otherwise, I’m afraid we won’t make any progress.’

‘Oh, my jokes are full of meaning. It’s actually been scientifically proven that funny people are intellectually superior to the rest of society. Our cerebral cortexes work faster! I read that once. In the comment section of a TikTok.’

‘What do you think about when you’re alone?’

What my last words to Ada were. What our last fight was about. The last thing I said that made her laugh. What secrets I didn’t get the chance to tell her, like how it was me, not Patrick, who over-fed and killed her gerbil when we were kids. How I lost half my family and friends over this – Exhibit A: when my aunt and uncle came to our house the day after she died, with not one card or carnation or even a pan of under-seasoned lasagne, and the only thing my aunt said to me was, ‘How awful for your parents. Take care of them.’ What my future milestones would look like without her there: graduation, marriage, kids, my red carpet debut. How Ada wouldn’t be able to approve my future husband or wedding dress, or help me make macaron towers at my future baby shower. How unlovable and insufferable I was in this mentally drunken state. How weird and wrong it would feel to one day pass her age – how I almost didn’t want to allow it. How I couldn’t eat without wondering what flavour combo was the last to touch her tastebuds, and if moments before her death she was thinking, ‘Dammit, I never did finish my leftover cheesecake in the back of the fridge.’ (Rest assured, I took care of that). 

How people who haven’t experienced a loss like this are stupid and boring and privileged and living in la la land and I hate them and occasionally want to light them on fire.

‘How much I wish I could be having sex with Pedro Pascal on the daily,’ I said instead. ‘Total daddy.’

Lesley and I sat in silence; she waited for me to fill it. A brilliant tactic. When you sit still and don’t speak, the people you’re with will always scramble and overshare. That’s how the police get criminals to confess. Well, that and pretending to befriend the fuckers.

‘Sadly, though,’ I confessed, ‘Pedro can only manage intercourse once a month right now. Busy schedule. Mismatched libidos.’ I leaned in. ‘But we’re working on it.’

‘Can I ask why you booked this appointment? Or did someone else book it for you?’

‘I booked it.’

‘Because…’

‘Because it’s what you’re supposed to do. And I needed a break from the Jesus group.’

She started poking and circling the air with her pen, like she was searching for something. Probably my sanity. ‘What do you mean, “supposed” to do?’

‘When someone dies, you’re supposed to talk about it. You know, with a professional. You’re supposed to start the road to healing so you don’t fuck up your life with drugs and meaningless sex.’

‘So, if you know all of this, why aren’t you doing it?’

‘Drugs and meaningless sex?’

She’d had enough of my asinine quips.

‘Well, I’m here, aren’t I?’ I said, straightening up. ‘Give me some credit! I could be out skiing right now!’

‘So, this is more of a tick off your to-do list.’

‘I guess so, yeah.’

‘To make you feel like you tried, like you did the “right thing” and gave one-on-one therapy a shot.’

‘Right. Sure.’

‘And I’m getting paid either way. Big bucks.’

Totally unprofessional, but I oddly respected it.

Battle of the stares. I couldn’t pick an eye to focus on. We seemed to be holding our breath underwater. 

‘I only go to the Jesus group for my mom,’ I exhaled. ‘It was her idea. She wanted someone to go with. But I don’t want to have a conniption in front of nine strangers in some abandoned church classroom. And I don’t want to analyse any more Bible quotes about pain and suffering.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you to do something you’re uncomfortable with in order to be there for your mom.’ She lowered her head and her voice like she was letting me in on a little secret. ‘Do you think you could be there for yourself now?’

Ohh, she was good.

I thought by booking this appointment, I was being there for myself. Just like my booking with Diane. I was filling out the forms and forking over the cash and showing up and being myself! But maybe I was just being stupid. You can’t join a basketball league and sit on the bench game after game, claiming your elbow hurts, mindlessly sipping Gatorade and picking wedgies until the timer runs out. You have to play.

I cracked my knuckles and shook out my hands. ‘I felt weird with my last therapist. I think I just need to warm up this time around. You know like, stretch?’

‘We can stretch,’ she smiled. 

I tore off my coat, due to the fact that sweat was pouring down my crack. Lesley took it and plopped it onto a coat rack, which already housed a frayed, dull blue scarf, smothered in those pesky fuzzies. I guess she wasn’t as pretentious and polished as I thought.

‘Better?’ she asked.

‘Much,’ I smiled.

She adjusted herself in her seat, pushed those smart frames up her nose. ‘Are you in any sort of romantic relationship right now?’

Was Lesley trying to get some from me?

‘No, I’m not,’ I laughed. ‘I uh, don’t think a man would want to deal with me right now.’ My throat started closing, like I’d swallowed a chili pepper down the wrong tube. 

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true. All kinds of people have problems, things to work through. That doesn’t mean they’re not worthy of love.’

‘True. But I also don’t really wanna get involved with someone who doesn’t get it. Is there a dating site for the newly bereaved?’

‘Compassionate Connections, but that would narrow down your choices. I think plenty of people have the capacity to empathise and provide support without having gone through the specific experience themselves.’

‘Right. Well, when you find one of those unicorns, and they also happen to be funny, worldly, and hot, give me a call.’

I had never met a guy who could empathise with period cramps, let alone death. 

Except for the Italian medical student I dated when I studied abroad in London two years ago, who my friends and I referred to as “Fabio MD”. He ticked the boxes – funny, worldly, hot – and would swoop in like Spider-Man whenever I had even a whisper of a health problem. Throat feeling sore? He’d be at my door with lozenges, popsicles, a box of lemon ginger tea, and a sad face. But our time had passed. He was the last man to have experienced me romantically in my original, unwarped form. Now, I was expired milk. I wondered what he’d think of me in this new grieving era. Would he notice the lack of sparkle in my eyes? Would he bring tea and a sad face? Or run the other direction?

‘Who have you been leaning on these past few months?’ Lesley asked next.

‘Ehh, I don’t really “lean,” per se. I’m just plugging along, working a lot, mostly pretending it all didn’t happen.’

‘Pretending?’

Shizzles, shouldn’t have said that. Now she probably thought I was schizo.

‘Well, yeah, like of course I know she’s dead. I can say that, just like I can say my brother’s new girlfriend is pretty even though I think she looks like a blobfish. I just don’t like to dwell on things. I keep myself busy. I’ve always liked being busy, anyway.’

Lesley set her clipboard and pen on the side table, took off her glasses once and for all, and sighed like a doctor who’s just read her patient's test results and is ready to give them the low-down: cancer. Stage four.

‘A lot of this, Merry, sounds like avoidance and denial,’ she said, ‘and it’s not really where we want to be. It can be helpful at first, in order to cope, but eventually you’re going to have to reach some kind of acceptance. I don’t think you booked this appointment for no reason, just to check it off your to-do list. Especially if this isn’t your first attempt at one-on-one therapy, and if you’re already attending group therapy, too. I think, deep down, you want to find some answers, some relief, some validation, a plan. You want to talk things through – you’re just having trouble finding the right person for the receiving end. You’re stubborn, but I’m more stubborn, believe me. I also think you have a tendency to over-intellectualize, and that combined with your excessive use of humour helps you mask your true feelings and avoid confronting raw, unpleasant memories. These are all things I can help you with, and I do hope you come again. You’ve already made some progress today, believe it or not.’ She looked up at the cat-shaped clock on the wall. ‘But for now, our time’s up.’

It was a prickly, uneasy feeling being dissected like that in one breath. Her words flowed effortlessly, like a fortune teller or mentalist, someone who acts like they know you but is really just grasping at straws, spewing well-worded assumptions, hoping they land. Part of me wanted to take the easy way out and ghost again. Maybe Lesley’s name would be added to the file in my journal under ‘one-session-stands’, right next to Diane’s. 

The other part of me felt so intrigued and befuddled, even challenged. I’d never experienced anything like it.

Lesley would be seeing me again.

London – December, 2024

One year and four months after Ada’s death, and four months after moving back to London. 

As I boiled a pot of spaghetti on my stove, I began reminiscing on a past love. A man I’d met in London my first time around. 

You know when you meet someone, and within five minutes you want to rip their clothes off with your teeth? And there’s a glint in their eye that suggests they’re thinking the same thing? And there’s some sparkling magnetic field orbiting you both, and conversation flows like sweet maple syrup, and your back and forth banter is straight out of an Aaron Sorkin film, and something about their presence makes you lose track of what dimension you’re in, and your southern region does a backflip, but you also feel weirdly zen, like a happy, doped up little bunny rabbit being stroked softly whilst nibbling through a bundle of fresh leafy greens? 

I thought so.

And that was life with Fabio MD.

I did a double take when I first saw him during a band audition. The band was searching for keys and vocals. Fabio showed up late and frazzled and with a French horn. I already knew I liked him. We spent the next six months practically inseparable. I was whipped to stiff peaks – incidentally, so was he. I’d always catch him staring at me. Was there sauce on my face? I wasn’t used to male attention like this. (Clearly, American men have no taste).

His face would contort, wrinkle, and light up when he’d speak – my favourite thing about him. In true Italian fashion, his hands were like weapons, flailing about with passion whether he was talking about the history of the Sicilian Mafia, or how much he loved carrots. I liked how he was a bottomless pit of knowledge and stories, and he liked my humour and zest for life. A right pair.

The band hired us. I guess my voice was decent and his French horn trills added real character to the setlist. After one of our first rehearsals, we all grabbed some pints at a nearby pub, along with some other people from the London music circuit who I didn’t know, and Fabio and I didn’t sit together. We got shoved and nudged apart by the rest of the rowdy group. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, like a toddler throwing a tantrum after not getting a cookie before dinner, but if I didn’t get to talk to him, it would’ve felt like a wasted outing. No cookie for Merry. He sat 6 seats away (I counted) and we kept finding each other’s eyes amidst our own mediocre conversations with the people beside us. My seat-mate – our drummer’s dingy roommate – finally got up to pee, and Fabio acted swiftly, inserting himself in the vacant spot before slurring in my ear, ‘Well, that was a nightmare. How are you?’

When we weren’t performing together, we were enjoying long, slow walks through Victoria Park, which usually involved some kind of in-depth anatomy lesson from Fabio. He loved talking about medicine more than I loved a cream puff. He’d foam at the mouth whilst filling me in on the latest medical discoveries and his patients’ absurd problems during his rotation at the hospital that day. Like some dude who presented with severe abdominal pain from sticking a candle up his ass and losing it. 

At some point along our walk, we’d pause to make out behind a tree like it was the last time we’d get to taste each other, and he’d feel me up under my blouse before racing home with me to finish the deal in his flat. At the time, I thought sex couldn’t possibly get any better than sex with Fabio. But now that it’s been a few years, and I’ve been around the block a few more times, I can confirm that I was correct. He set a real bar in the bedroom that no one can seem to surpass. Dick.

With certain people, time just doesn’t function like usual. In the six months I spent with him, we may as well have bought a dog, gotten married, had kids, travelled the world, and died together. During my final week in London, we each wrote two lists of things we wanted to do together. The first list was wholesome – brunch at Bill’s, canoeing on the Thames, a night out at a jazz bar. The second list was chock-full of wild, kinky shit we’d been dying to try. ‘Just one condition,’ he said, shaking a finger in my face. ‘No candles up the bum.’ 

I laughed. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ 

My mom – who’s usually the first person to cruelly inform me that the men I’m seeing don’t like me – thought he was going to propose. Instead, rather anticlimactically, we agreed to go our separate ways, since I had to finish my degree in the US and he had to finish his in the UK. He cried, I cried, we hugged for so long that an artist could’ve painted us, he walked me and my bags to the tube station, said, ‘Take care of yourself,’ kissed my cheek, and stood and watched me as I tapped my card and strolled through the gates.

Before I disappeared down the steps, he shouted, ‘IF YOU’RE EVER BACK IN LONDON!’ His deep voice bounced off the walls, causing a few strangers to pause and look up.

I turned around. ‘I’LL CALL!’ I yelled back, laughing with makeup running down my face.

Lovers torn apart by the Atlantic. 

And three years later, I was, indeed, back. 

Back across the Atlantic. Back in London. Back at the crime scene. 

I’d been accused of moving back for Fabio, just like I’d been accused of moving back to escape my new grief and distract myself with travel and adventure. Maybe both were true; maybe neither. Did it matter? 

I didn’t call. We hadn’t kept in touch. He knew about Ada, but not about her death, and I didn’t want that news to be what broke our silent streak. ‘Hey! Merry here. The American girl from a few years ago. I’m back in London and my sister died and I’m distraught and horny…coffee?’ I mean, come on! I was also afraid he’d be with someone else, or that he’d forgotten about me altogether, or that we’d meet up and I wouldn’t find him attractive or interesting anymore, or worse, I’d fall back in love. I also didn’t want to spoil our sweet fling of the past by introducing him to this new traumatized version of myself. He might’ve understood, taken care of me, and loved me despite my wounds, or he might’ve quietly slipped away during dinner while I was in the bathroom. 

It was a risk I didn’t feel like taking.

But I still wanted to get laid. 

So, I did what any normal person in this situation does, and on this particular night I attended a dating event for singles at an underground bar in Notting Hill. It had been advertised on my Instagram feed. Could’ve been a trafficking situation, but that was a risk I apparently did feel like taking.