“Mary Jane.” Dr. Cone looked at me. The whites of his eyes glinted. “This is a place where everyone is honest and open. There’s nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. We share our feelings, and we don’t judge each other. We accept each other and we accept ourselves.”
I nodded at Dr. Cone, feeling even more nervous. Did I have to announce what Izzy and I had seen on the dunes?
“It’s all very frank,” Sheba said. “But you’re smart enough and grown-up enough to handle adult conversation, and to listen without freaking out about issues around sexuality, and childhood traumas we’re all still dealing with, our current relationships and all the complications there, of course.”
“Okay.” I nodded at Sheba now. Did I have to speak? The idea of talking about any of those things, especially sexuality—in light of the fact that I was a sex addict—was as terrifying a thing as I had ever imagined.
Dr. Cone said, “Let’s start by going around the circle and just checking in. Saying how we each feel. Where we are emotionally right now.”
“I’m feeling a little drunk.” Mrs. Cone tilted up the bottle and slugged down the last drops. “And maybe I smoked too much pot?”
“In light of Jimmy’s struggles, maybe we could all cool it on the weed, whites, and wine.” Dr. Cone looked directly at Mrs. Cone as he said this.
Sheba started singing, “And if you give meeeeee weed, whites, and . . .”
I had only recently learned that weed was the same thing as Mary Jane, but I had no idea what whites were. Probably something else Mrs. Cone smoked or drank.
“I’m feeling a little anxious.” Jimmy looked right at Dr. Cone. “Today was a bit of a fuckup, and I’m not feeling good about it. But I think my emotions have been pent up inside me, and instead of talking it through, I let my urges burst out in inappropriate ways. So. Uh. Yeah. I’m anxious.” Jimmy pulled a joint from one back pocket and a lighter from the other. He lit the joint, took a hit, then passed it to Sheba.
Sheba took a hit. Smoke puffed out of her mouth when she said, “I’m feeling incredible love for Jimmy. And pride, too. I mean, he’s working so hard. And I feel grateful for all of you. For this beautiful family.” Sheba and Jimmy stared at each other. They were both smiling with their mouths closed. Sheba then passed the joint to Mrs. Cone.
“Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone said.
“Uh, um.” I felt like I might throw up. Would Sheba still love Jimmy once she knew about his lovemaking in the dunes with Beanie Jones? Would the Cones fire me if they knew that I was a sex addict? “I feel very worried and nervous.”
“Why?” Sheba asked.
“Uh.” I looked from Jimmy to Dr. Cone, to Jimmy again.
“It’s cool,” Jimmy said. “You can say anything.”
Dr. Cone said, “Why don’t we let the others speak first since this is Mary Jane’s first time in therapy?”
“Okay, I’ll talk,” Sheba said. “I guess I’m a little anxious too. Jimmy and I have been incognito for weeks now and I’m finding that rather than feeling liberated by it, I sort of miss the reaction people have to me. I mean, I thought I hated it. I don’t understand why, but I miss waiters falling all over themselves and giving me the best table and I miss girls crying when they see me and I miss the gay men who tell me I’ve saved their lives.”
I wanted to ask Sheba how she’d saved gay men’s lives, but I knew it was not the right time.
“You miss your celebrity,” Dr. Cone said.
“Yeah. Isn’t that weird? I complained about it all the time. But I wonder if I’m sort of addicted to that high of being the person in the room everyone wants to look at or know.”
We all were looking at Sheba. She was so beautiful that even if she wasn’t a star, I would want to stare at her in a room. I’d want to know her too.
Dr. Cone said, “Let’s explore this further. What do you think you gain from being seen? Is it emotional? Is there a childhood interaction that is being recapitulated, or an unfufilled need that is being filled through the act of being seen?”
“Oh, Richard.” Sheba shook her head. She pulled on the tips of her bare toes. “You know my mother showed me no love. And she shamed me for my sexuality.”
“Your mom’s a bitch.” Jimmy spoke through nearly closed lips that allowed a thin sheet of smoke to slip out.
“She was. She shamed me for the very things that the public adores about me: my hair, my tits, my ass, my legs. Even my pussy . . .”