“On the way into the auditorium, we met Patrice, a friend of my parents’ from graduate school, and her husband,” I said. “I just saw them last night.” They’d had their son, Leroy, with them, the one who had been skipping dinners for a long time. Telling Freud, I realized it had been years, at least, since I’d conjured the image of our mothers standing behind us, their hands on our shoulders. Patrice was composed, tall and thin in a sleek knee-length red dress, but nothing like my mother, whose simple floor-length black gown only highlighted the beauty of her face, her blue-green eyes.

“It smells here,” Leroy whispered to me as our parents’ voices arced over us.

I sniffed and scrunched up my nose, then flapped my hand in front of my face to make him laugh. He did, so I flapped harder. My mother’s fingers tightened around my collarbones.

“We’re joking,” I said.

She leaned down, her soft cheek brushing mine. I could smell her face cream, a sweet green scent. Her necklace, a delicate chain, grazed the crook of my neck, making me shiver.

“Strike one,” she whispered.

Leroy was still watching me. I couldn’t tell if he had heard. I tried to smile at him, as though everything were still fine, but my mouth must have done something else, because he was looking at me with fear.

My mother’s hands loosened their grip, then released me. The shoulders of my dress were two cold spots from the moisture her palms had left behind. She touched Patrice’s arm and they all turned to go inside. I followed. I was cold and small in the drafty expanse, and crossed my arms tight.

“Strike one,” Freud echoed.

“Yes,” I said.

“Did she say that often?”

“Yes.”

“How many strikes were there?”

“Three.”

“And then?”

“I never got to three.”

I had never asked what would happen if I did. With my father, the punishment was immediate and swift, with no warning. With my mother, it was a threat. I didn’t know which I preferred: the unanticipated shock, or the looming possibility of unknown disaster.

“Immediate and swift,” said Freud, “such as—”

“Stop pushing me!” I said, too loudly, shocking myself. My throat had gone tight, my mind cloudy.

Freud didn’t respond.

I had the urge to grab his wrist, dig my nails into his arm—Jojo, her scared, fierce face—my eyes grew hot and wet and I reached up toward Freud’s hands but I didn’t grab him, I didn’t claw him, I laced my fingers between his and lifted his hands off my scalp and just held them, held his hands.

“You need to let go,” he said, and gently released my hands, then placed his palms on my forehead once more.

“Hold me,” I whimpered.

“You want me to take away your discomfort.”

“Yes!” I said.

“But discomfort is where we begin.”