In Ruth Leslie Wright’s office, Berry Knotwell took her first semi-normal breath since opening her mail. The Arts and Crafts furniture calmed her, heavy oak and chestnut, polished dark. Berry plunked herself down in a handsome chair, so sturdy in her delicate world. She sat forward, her face in her hands as Ruth Leslie spoke to her.
“OK—you feel surprised, besieged, crazy.” So here’s what I want you to do, Berry: make a list of your favorite things.”
“Are you kidding? I hate that Chicken Soup for the Soul shit.”
“It doesn’t matter if you hate it or not. Do it.” Ruth Leslie had her courtroom voice on.
“It won’t make me feel better. It’ll make me worse. It would be a lie,” Berry shouted.
“Stop resisting. You have nothing to lose.”
Berry put her hands in her pockets and started to cry. Ruth Leslie didn’t change her tone or her vampire insistence. Her voice was piercing: “Berry, I know you think you know what to do. But you don’t. That’s one thing you’ve got to get clear about right now if I’m going to help you. And of course I’m going to help you. But like the sign says: “LEGAL ADVISOR.” You come to me for ADVICE. And that’s what I give you. ADVICE. So listen to it.
And follow the ADVICE I give you. A lot of smart people like you would rather do it their own way. Don’t. I repeat: Do it like I tell you. You’re the type to mess with the recipe.”
“OK. I won’t,” said Berry, pulling off the pills on her big, sloppy sweater. “I’ll go home and write the damn list.” But Ruth Leslie knew Berry was lying; “Do it right here, right now. Write twenty of your favorite things. Then you can go,” Ruth Leslie said, hands on hips.
“Fine. Give me some damn paper.”
Berry’s List of Favorite Things
- old fashioned theater ushers who actually kick people out for texting during the movie
- the abrupt speed change when police cars appear on a crowded Interstate
- a good emergency break, one that doesn’t stick
- somebody handing me a magic 8 ball at a moment of indecision
- grandkids playing in my jewelry box, a ring on every finger
- washing the jam from between a baby’s toes
- a vacuum I can’t afford–one that actually picks up animal hair
- jiggling a mobile to distract a baby on a changing table
- watching my buddies, the crows, eat animal crackers
- getting another animal at the Transylvania shelter
- a vacuum I can’t afford–one that actually picks up animal hair
- getting another animal at the Transylvania shelter (I know I’m repeating myself)
- ignoring my neighbors’ complaints about my animals
- black gel pens and broken-hearted poems
- using the shredder on poems
- using the shredded poems for bedding in the gerbil cage
- getting an animal-shelter gerbil to take to the grandkids
- ok, ok— grandkids!! everything about them
- and you, dear Ruth Leslie Wright, I’m grateful for you and your free advice
- free choice—not to do #20. So there. Done!