Spin Doctor by Leslie Carroll Read Free Book Online

you?”
    â€œEleven,” Ian replied.
    â€œHe’s a really good kid,” I said, realizing that I couldn’t make the same boastful claim about Molly, and counting my blessings that fifty percent of my children had turned out terrific.
    â€œI’ve never gone for younger men, but I think in your case I might make an exception. Do you mind waiting until you’ve graduated from college so we can get married?”
    Ian blushed and coyly turned his head away. “Mom, I have to go to school now.”
    I checked my watch. His first class started in twenty-one minutes. “Okay. I’ll walk you over there.”
    â€œYou’re so protective. I can do it myself. It’s only two blocks.”
    â€œI like to think of it as cautious. It’s only two blocks but it’s still Manhattan and you’re only in sixth grade. Besides, there was an almost kidnapping on Sixty-fourth Street last week.”
    â€œAn almost kidnapping, Mom. You worry too much.”
    â€œI’m a mother; it’s part of the job description. If I didn’tworry, you’d be taken away by Social Services. And I’d prefer that you got to school this morning safely, rather than almost got there. So suck it up: you’re getting a chaperone.”
    I turned to Alice, who was watching the row of machines launder her grandmother’s garments for the final time. Her face was a mask of sorrow. “Hey,” I murmured, placing my hands gently on her shoulders, “if you want to make an appointment to talk to me, to set up some counseling sessions, I’m here. You shouldn’t have to go through the grieving process alone.”
    â€œThanks,” Alice said, blinking back tears. “My parents are in Florida, I don’t even have a boyfriend—although a while back I did meet a really cute guy who paid a house call to repair a piece of old furniture—and it’s not right to dump on my two best friends all the time. They have enough of their own problems. But I’m not making a lot of money Off-Broadway, you know. ‘Heigh-ho the glamorous life’ and all that, but my paycheck doesn’t leave me with much in the way of disposable income.”
    â€œI don’t charge anything for my laundry room sessions. And they’re very unintimidating; just think of them as a weekly fifty-minute gabfest with a girlfriend who happens to have a psych Ph.D. I hold private counseling sessions down here every morning except Sunday from seven to eight A.M ., and I’ve got one day open, so if you feel that you need some help getting through this bump in your road, I’m here to listen.”
    â€œWow.” Alice blinked back a grateful tear and surveyed the row of aging washing machines. “Who knew I could come down here and shrink my clothes and my head at the same time!”
    AMY
    I can’t remember when I’ve ever seen a young woman so angry. Amy walked in with such a chip on her shoulder that I admit I found it hard to like her—something I’ve never experienced with a laundry room client. In situations like that, I have to focus even harder so as not to betray my bias through my body language or nonverbal responses.
    Amy was pissed off that she hadn’t lost her baby weight six months after giving birth, particularly since her two older sisters had done so after only forty-five days postpartum; she was frustrated that her newly altered lifestyle often lacked the rosy optimistic glow of an infomercial for motherhood; she was perennially livid with her lawyer husband for never being around to help her with their new son, apart from holding him aloft right after his bris for the entire congregation of Temple Beth Israel to sigh approvingly over, and for retreating into their guest room for lengthy phone calls with colleagues and clients every time she asked for his assistance, even if it was only to hold a fretting Isaac while she took a