Please... Tell Me More

By Patti Gaustad Procopi

This heartfelt story about sisters, family and the tenuous connections we forge in life will stay with you long after you turn the last page.

Rose was a child when the worst possible thing happened-her sister Lily drowned. While Rose was supposed to be watching her. From that moment, Rose knew it was all her fault. After all, that's what

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Fortune Enterprises LLC
• Release date: Nov 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781948979504

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Please...

Tell Me More

Patti Gaustad Procopi

Lavender Press

an imprint of Blue Fortune Enterprises, LLC

PLEASE... TELL ME MORE

Copyright © 2020 by Patti Gaustad Procopi

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact :

Blue Fortune Enterprises, LLC

Lavender Press

P.O. Box 554

Yorktown, VA 23690

http://blue-fortune.com

Cover design by Wesley Miller, WAMCreate, [e-mail]

Cover Artwork by Joan Loren Gaustad

ISBN: 978-1-948979-50-4

First Edition: November 2020

Dedication

For

My sister Joan

My brother John

And

Our sister Janet

Our Lily

You can’t go back and change the beginning,

But you can start where you are and change the ending.

Chapter One

MY SISTER CALLED TO GET my advice about some issue with her current boyfriend. I am not sure why she calls me. I am not the most sympathetic person, nor do I have any advice to give. Or at least any she wants to take. Like most people, she’s only interested in hearing what she wants to hear, but she has always claimed that I am brilliant when it comes to giving her advice.

I think she bases that on the fact I am a therapist. Since I have a framed certificate stating I am a professional advice giver, in her mind I must be brilliant. Ergo, all of my advice must be brilliant.

As I listened to her going on and on about the numerous issues with her current relationship, I wondered if this was going to be a two-glass wine call or possibly three. Better pace myself, I thought, taking a sip.

I don’t understand him, Rose, Ivy said. When we first started dating, he was so sweet, and the sex was awesome!

Too much information, I muttered to myself. For some reason, my sister thinks I am endlessly fascinated by her sex life. Maybe because I don’t have one?

"Now he barely touches me. And we hardly even talk. He spends all his time staring at his phone, ignoring me. I’ll try to start a conversation, and he continues to stare at the phone. If I manage to get his attention, he just appears annoyed. I try to engage him by asking what’s so fascinating on the phone. He just mumbles ‘nothing’ and stares back down.

Nothing? If it’s ‘nothing,’ why does he keep looking at it? Why does he prefer to look at ‘nothing’ instead of at me? I keep trying. I’ll give him a big bright smile, and he doesn’t even smile back. Who does that? Who doesn’t return someone’s smile? Especially someone they’re dating and supposedly in love with.

Sounds like an asshole to me, I replied, taking a big swig of wine.

I’m worried about him, she continued. I wondering if something is psychologically wrong with him. Maybe he’s depressed or bi-polar, or maybe he has Asperger’s, that thing where people can’t relate to others.

I know that thing. I am a trained therapist after all, but I don’t say that. Instead, I said, Seriously? This is what has you so worked up? Trying to figure out this guy’s possible clinical diagnosis?

Yes! she exclaimed. I’m sure you can tell me.

I think there is probably some ethical restriction concerning diagnosing people over the phone, especially after a brief acquaintanceship. A three-glass call, then. I took a big gulp.

Don’t go all ethical on me. It’s not like I’m asking you to have the guy committed. And what do you mean by a brief acquaintanceship? Steve and I have been dating for almost two years.

"Yes. True. You have been dating him. I, however, have tried to keep my contact with him to a minimum. Didn’t like him from the instant we met."

Really? Ivy sounded hurt and confused.

Oh, come on. You must have noticed I spend as little time as possible with the two of you. I headed to the kitchen to refill my glass.

Why don’t you like him?

I almost choked laughing. Ivy, you are calling me to tell me what a jerk he is and how badly he treats you, and then you ask me why I don’t like him? Seriously?

You certainly didn’t know all that about him when you met him. I could hear her pouting through the phone.

True. But it was obvious he was a pompous ass. I was baffled by what you could possibly see in him.

I was lonely! she wailed. And the sex was great. It blinded me to his other faults.

Even though she couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes. Sex isn’t everything, Ivy.

Not everything, she sniffed, however, it’s an important thing.

I just couldn’t see how, after having such a great guy as Terry, you’d settle for someone like Steve.

No one will ever be like Terry, she said quietly.

That was true. There was only one Terry. And he was gone. I fingered the locket on my neck. A constant reminder of someone else gone. Gone too soon.

I didn’t realize I hadn’t spoken until Ivy shouted into the phone, Hello! Hello! Did you fall asleep? I’m still waiting for your expert opinion on what might be wrong with Steve.

My professional opinion is the guy is an asshole, I replied, thinking, like most of the men you have dated or married, with the one exception.

That goes without saying. Yes. He’s an asshole, but is something else going on? Sometimes I convince myself he is suffering from some sort of mental disorder, and then I feel sorry for him. You know what an empath I am. I am so sensitive to the needs of others.

I gagged and spit my wine back into my glass. An empath? I thought. If that were true, she might occasionally feel my pain, since I am her sister and supposedly the closest person to her. I said nothing. I have tried to refrain from labeling or analyzing my sister. Though it is tempting.

I will give you the best advice I can give, which I have learned after many years of talking to crazy people. Oh, excuse me, I’m not supposed to use terms like ‘crazy.’ It’s unprofessional.

Ivy laughed. "They are crazy!"

No. Not really. For the most part, they’re just sad and damaged and need someone to care. And, let’s remember, we all have our issues.

We should all be like you, Rose. So calm, so rational.

Right, I thought, just like me. Probably the most damaged person I know. But this wasn’t about me. Actually, it is never about me when talking to my sister.

So, starting over, I will give you the best advice I can give after years of dealing with people of all ages, shapes, sizes, neuroses, etcetera. Dump him and move on. Who cares what his issues are? You two are not compatible, and he behaves badly. He’s not meeting your needs. For whatever reason. And it doesn’t matter if he chooses to behave badly, or if he can’t help himself due to some mental or emotional disorder. You have invested enough time. You can’t fix him. Lesson learned. Find someone better next time. Someone who gives you what you want and need. This guy is not that guy.

Oh Rose, she laughed, you should really write an advice column. You are so insightful. So wise.

Wise? Insightful? I rolled my eyes again. Not sure any advice column I write would be a big hit. In most cases, my advice is the same, ‘forget that asshole or those assholes and move on.’ People, for the most part, just can’t let go. They get stuck in the past, or in a bad relationship, and keep holding on. Move on, Ivy. Forget this guy. You have a lot to offer. This guy doesn’t deserve you.

I almost added that since Ivy was almost fifty, twice married, and had been involved in dozens of relationships, she should have learned something about men by now. However, I knew Ivy was extremely sensitive about the impending approach of the half-century mark, so I bit my tongue. Again.

I love you, Rose. You are brilliant!

I must get Ivy a thesaurus.

I poured myself another glass of wine.

Chapter Two

I AM A FRAUD.

My sister thinks I’m brilliant. My patients, since they keep coming back, must think I am at least minimally competent.

I listen to my patients, day in and day out, year in and year out, until I want to scream, What the hell is the matter with you? What is the point of coming to see me if you won’t take any of my advice and try to change? I have said to you a million times: let go, move on! The past is the past, and you can’t change it. No matter how many times you talk about it, nothing is going to change. You have vented. Now get over it. You have to learn from your mistakes, live what’s left of your life, and hope you don’t make the same mistakes again.

But I don’t scream at them. I don’t even tell them what to do. I make suggestions. I nod and make comforting sounds and occasionally say, Tell me more. Or I ask, And how did that make you feel? and nod again while they answer.

They are not fixable. Maybe none of us are fixable. I laugh, because I can’t even take my own advice.

Let go.

Move on.

The past is the past.

I say these words each day, still I’m unable to apply them to myself. I am stuck just as much as they are. I studied psychology with some hope of helping myself. It hasn’t worked. I have accepted I will never be fixed.

I’m not sure why no one in my family has ever noticed how messed up I am. I guess because, like all of us, they have their own problems and I seem so together in comparison. Also, they are totally self-absorbed and call me to talk about themselves and their problems, not to ask about mine.

When I say they, I am really only talking about my sister Ivy. She’s the only family member I really talk to. Other than my Mom, the rest of the family is gone now. I call my Mom weekly out of a sense of duty, which is crap because she never seemed to feel a sense of duty to me. And we talk about the weather or Ivy. She doesn’t seem to think there is anything interesting in my life to talk about. Which is true.

Unlike Ivy, with her numerous relationships, I haven’t had any apparent emotional upheavals in my life. I haven’t had any breakdowns or screaming fits or even numerous failed relationships. Did they not ever wonder why there were no failed relationships? Actually, no relationships at all? Does my lack of a love life not raise any questions?

I assume it’s because they think I am married to my work. I am not married to my work. As I said, I became a therapist for the sole purpose of fixing myself, which has not worked as planned. I haven’t been able to take my own basic advice, which is move on. The past is the past. It can’t be changed. Let it go.

My life pretty much ended, or at least failed to progress, when I was six years old. That was when my little sister, Lily, drowned. She drowned because none of us were paying any attention to her.

It happened on Labor Day weekend at the neighborhood pool. The last big party of the summer. Tuesday was the first day of the new school year. I was starting first grade and would be riding the school bus with my big sister, Ivy. I loved my baby sister Lily, but I had begun to dismiss her as a baby. I was a big girl. I was going to school with Ivy and the other big girls. Lily was just a toddler who still sucked her pacifier. I was moving up. She was barely out of diapers.

It began as a typical day at the pool. Mom was drunk, as usual. Or at least working her way to that state. Dad was flirting, which was the reason my mother was working on getting drunk. Just our normal family scenario. My mother and father were stuck in this endless psychodrama where he flirted, and she drank.

The seeds of their demented relationship were sown when they first met. My mother was the most beautiful girl on campus, and the first time my father saw her, he declared he would marry her.

All of his friends sneered. Man, you aren’t even in her league.

He replied, You’ll see. And the pursuit began.

He wooed her with poems, with flowers, with songs. He was almost arrested by the campus police one night because someone complained about his singing outside her dorm. He devoted so much of his time to showing her how much he adored her, it was a wonder he even graduated.

And one day it happened. She turned around and smiled at him and said, How can a girl ignore you?

I always imagined her saying Fiddle-dee-dee and batting her eyelashes while twirling a parasol when she spoke to him. She was such a Southern Belle.

They knew nothing about each other, still they got married right after he graduated. She didn’t bother to finish college. She went to school at a time when girls weren’t looking for careers. They went to find husbands. And if that didn’t work out, they became school teachers.

This story of their courtship was family legend. It was so romantic, and I think for the first years of their marriage they had their happily ever after. I have these fuzzy memories of Dad coming home from work and all of us lining up by the door, and he would kiss each of us and tickle our bellies and ask how his garden of flowers grew.

We all had botanical names, starting with Mom, whose name was Dahlia. He would say jokingly, "Is that Da-lee-ah or Dhal-e-ah, and they’d both laugh. He never actually called her Dahlia. He called her Dahlie which always sounded like Dolly" to me.

Then for some reason, it all changed. We stopped lining up at the door. He stopped kissing us all on his way in. They fought and argued more. She drank, and he flirted. And she drank more.

Back to the worst day of my life, when everything changed forever. The day when we went from being a typical family to a tragical family in an instant.

Mom was drinking, Dad was flirting, and Ivy and I were fighting over something stupid. I think it started over who was going to get to use the flippers and mask. We both thought it was our turn. Little Lily was in her inflatable ring waiting for me by the steps of the pool. My Mom seemed to think if we were in floats we were safe, even though all you had to do was lift up your arms and you could slip right through, especially if you were a tiny three-year-old who didn’t understand the dangers of sliding into the water.

I usually stayed with Lily when she was in the pool, because I knew no one else watched her. Mom worked on her tan and her buzz and watched Dad. Dad worked on his tan and his seduction skills while chatting up the ladies, picking out his next conquest. Ivy usually hung out with her friends. I hung out with Lily.

I loved Lily with a passion. From the moment she was born, even though I was only three, Mom said I was completely enchanted with her. I would sit quietly and watch her for hours while she slept, and at night, I’d climb into her crib so I could sleep with her. At first, Mom attempted to stop me. Dad worried I might suffocate her, but after a while it was easier to let me sleep with her in the crib. Mom always did what was easiest. At least easiest for her.

As we both got older, she became my doll baby. I pushed her around in her stroller. Sat on the couch with her and gave her a bottle. Played with her. I just wanted to be with her.

Lily was the sweetest, most beautiful child ever. A quiet child who, even at three, didn’t talk much. Still, I always knew what she wanted. She had big green eyes and the softest, curliest light-brown hair that covered her head like a fairy cap. That was what she was like—a fairy child. When I was older, I read a story about how the fairies would take human babies and leave a replacement. Usually the replacement was something awful, like a troll baby, or something made out of mud. I believed in Lily’s case, the fairies had made a mistake and left a fairy baby when they took Mom’s human baby.

Wherever we went, people gushed over her. Oh, my goodness, they exclaimed. That is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. Then they would notice Ivy and say, Oh what a beauty she is too. What lovely children you have. After glancing at me, they quickly looked away and kept talking to Mom. I’m not hideous, but somehow my features are not aligned in such a way to create the image of what is defined as beauty.

There was also a rather adult quality about Lily. I’m not sure if I can explain it exactly, sometimes she would give me a look with this knowing expression, especially when adults were around, as if to say "goodness, these people are silly," like she was winking at me and laughing at them.

Getting back to that day—that terrible day. Ivy and I argued, and then I thought I heard something, and I remembered Lily was in the pool waiting for me. I turned to look for her, but only saw her bright pink float, empty, in the middle of the pool. She was supposed to wait for me by the steps. I pointed and screamed, Lily!

In a movie, the scene would show the empty ring in the pool. The audience would gasp in horror. Then the scene would change as the camera would slowly pan sideways and someone would be holding the baby, saying, I saw her slip into the water and grabbed her. The audience would sigh in relief.

Life isn’t like the movies. Bad things happen. There are no re-shoots or do-overs.

The rest of my memory is a jumble. Dad dove into the pool and found her on the bottom. Later, I overheard him tell someone she looked so peaceful, like a mermaid baby asleep in the water.

On the surface, it was complete chaos. Women and children crying. Men running around shouting instructions. When Dad came out of the pool with Lily, the other men crowded around while he tried to get her to breathe. Water poured from her mouth. Someone yelled for someone else to call for an ambulance. Mom passed out, and women flocked around her, fanning her, trying to revive her. Ivy was frozen in place next to me.

I tried to get to Lily. I needed to help. To hold her hand and hug her and tell her I was sorry, that it would be all right, but people were clutching us, and even though I screamed and struggled, they wouldn’t let go. The crowd around her blocked me. After the ambulance had come and gone with Dad, Mom, and Lily, everyone started to pack up and leave.

Oh my God. Those poor children. I think they saw it all, someone said. Numb with shock, I had stopped crying. Ivy gripped my hand, still as a stone, not crying or speaking.

Our neighbors took us home. To their home. We stayed there all night. Dad came the next day. He looked stricken. He had aged ten years in a night. He thanked the neighbors, and we walked over to our house. He sat us down in the living room and explained Mom was still at the hospital. She had been so overcome they had to medicate her. I doubt he used those words, but we understood Mom was not home. He also managed to convey Lily was gone forever.

I didn’t, couldn’t, believe it. How could she be gone? How could I live without ever seeing her again?

Dad put his arms around us, and we cried and cried.

Chapter Three

THE PHONE RANG. CALLER ID showed Ivy’s name. What a wonderful invention—Caller ID. When I was growing up, we actually had to pick up the phone to find out who was on the other end. And if it turned out to be someone we really didn’t want to talk to, we had to figure out some clever way to get off the phone without being rude. Being rude was never an option.

My mother always had one of us answer the phone to run interference. I remember quite clearly holding the phone to my ear and saying, My mom? Who is this please? Mrs. XYZ? This was all said while staring at Mom, who would be standing two feet away, making all kinds of wild hand motions to indicate whether she did or did not want to talk to Mrs. XYZ.

I closed my eyes and debated whether I had the strength to talk to Ivy. Was she still on a tear about Steve, her asshole boyfriend? Had he improved? Started smiling? Stopped staring at his phone? Was the sex good again? No details, please!

I love my sister more than anyone in this world, but sometimes after a day of listening to other people’s problems I don’t have the strength to listen to her. I took a deep breath. Maybe it’s good news.

I am as incapable of ignoring my sister as I am incapable of shouting abuse at my patients, who stare at me uncomprehendingly when I mildly suggest they need to change themselves if they want things to change in their lives. For some reason, people continue to believe that what they need to improve their lives is to get other people to change.

I can’t ignore Ivy, because I owe her too much. She is virtually my only friend. After our family disintegrated, we were all alone in the world. Just the two of us. Holding on to each other like rats on a life raft being sucked into a whirlpool.

I picked up the phone while heading to the cupboard to get out my largest wine glass.

Rose? Thank goodness you’re home! Ivy exclaimed. "I need to talk to someone. I keep asking myself why I stuck it out with Steve for almost two years. I have wasted two years of my life on this jerk. What is the matter with me?"

Good question. But I am not here to judge. I’m here to listen.

I reached for the wine bottle while holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, pleased with my ability to use a corkscrew without dropping the phone. I did not try to speak. When Ivy gets this way, it’s like the bullet train leaving the station. She had a full head of steam and was reaching maximum acceleration.

What happened? I managed to squeeze in before she started her tirade.

"He broke up with me. He broke up with me! I was trying to be all sympathetic and supportive, and he writes me a letter dumping me. Who does that? Who even writes letters anymore? He couldn’t have at least taken me out to dinner and let me down easy—the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’—which in this case is completely accurate.

Two weeks ago, we took that trip to New York. Remember I told you I was trying to revive our relationship with a little romantic one-on-one time? I thought we needed to get away and reconnect.

I mumbled an um, yes while pouring an extra-large glass of Merlot. This was going to be a long call.

That trip should have been my wake-up call. I didn’t tell you everything that happened because I was kind of embarrassed about how he behaved and how I didn’t even stand up for myself. I kept making excuses for his behavior. Ha! What a narcissistic pig he is.

Really? I sat on the recliner, pulled up the lever, and settled in. I’d better get comfortable, I thought. Thank God for reclining chairs.

I wanted to take him to New York to show him the city I love and do some of the things with him that Terry and I had shared and enjoyed doing together.

First mistake. No guy wants to walk in the footsteps of his predecessor, especially if the predecessor has been placed on the highest of pedestals. Terry was a great guy, and I was devastated when he died. He had been Ivy’s savior. Marrying him was the only smart thing she had ever done relationship-wise. It was the only smart thing she had ever done. Sadly, his death threw her back into the dating pool, which was proving to be a disaster.

I didn’t quite understand why she couldn’t be happy with the memories of Terry—of having that one great love. The perfect guy. It would have been enough for me. Terry would have been enough for me. However, when it comes to men and love, Ivy and I are light years apart.

…don’t know if I told you I had re-injured my back right before we left, but we’d decided to go since we had already made the arrangements. I didn’t want to lose all the money I’d paid for the train tickets, hotel, and shows.

I sat bolt upright, almost spilling my wine. I’m sorry. Wait. Excuse me! Ivy! I managed to break into her tirade. "Quick question—you didn’t want to lose the money? Didn’t he pitch in for this trip?"

Ivy laughed nervously. His finances are in a bit of a mess. After his wife threw him out, he had to get an apartment and start paying bills on his own, and so he ended up being a little strapped for cash.

Oh my God, Ivy. Seriously? I wish you had told me this earlier. You’ve been supporting this guy?

No, not supporting, she mumbled quietly, obviously not wanting to talk about it. Just helping a bit. You know Terry left me in great financial shape.

Yes, though I doubt he planned for you to spend it on other men. Maybe you should spend it on your children or a charity if you want to throw money away.

The children are fine. They don’t need any money.

I was surprised to find myself agreeing with Ivy’s assessment. The children were fine. Lord knows, I didn’t believe they’d ever turn out all right. Another one of Terry’s triumphs.

When the kids were little they were spoiled, self-centered brats with all the manners of wild animals. Actually, that’s an insult to wild animals everywhere. I think wild animals raise their young with more discipline and care than Ivy did. It’s not really a surprise, given how we were raised. Some people look at their terrible childhoods and say, Damn, I’m going to do better with my kids, and others say, "oh, it wasn’t so