text: “Olive, maybe we could brainstorm about some normal activities you can participate in. I think you are probably ready. How do you feel about that?’ I am fairly confident she is not supposed to use the word normal in her sessions but I let it slide. Today is our twenty-sixth meeting. I have shown up at her office for half a year. Of course, I did not have much of a choice but I still made the effort to be here on time and never laughed at her ridiculous questions. I had only rescheduled one appointment over the past six months and that was because I had to take my fish to the local veterinarian. In hindsight, I should have just gone to the appointment. The inept vet refused to treat my fish. It died the next day so now the vet was to be blamed for Goldie Hawn's death (the fish, not the person) and my perfect appointment streak. At any rate, I thought Therapist Morgan may do something special for our half-a-year anniversary but there was no sign of a celebration. Maybe she forgot. I need to remember that not everyone is as thoughtful as me. I glance around the office. I take a moment to examine the diplomas on the wall. The writing is overly aggressive swirly letters so I can not tell what school is listed. Looking at the ratty office furniture strategically placed in the small office on the wrong part of town, I am fairly confident those diplomas had been printed off the internet. Not that it mattered. I did not choose this office, I was assigned to go here. But over the last twenty-six weeks, there was a familiarity that had developed. I even began to look forward to seeing Therapist Morgan each week. Each week, she said to just call her Morgan without the Therapist but I still preferred to keep it professional. I realized just how familiar this place had become eleven weeks ago. I walked into that old bookstore on 84th. As soon as I stepped foot inside, it hit me. “Excuse me..” The lady behind the desk had glanced up. She had a red bow in her hair. She was too old to wear a red bow in her hair like that but I did not tell her. I remembered what Therapist Morgan had said. Some people would not appreciate my help. “Yes?” “Your bookstore smells exactly like my therapist’s office.” She had just stared at me. Some people can not take a compliment. Therapist Morgan taught me that too. “Olive?” “Hmmm” “Did you hear me? What do you think of participating in some sort of event? Maybe inviting some people from work? The holidays are coming up. I think this may be a good opportunity to tiptoe back...socially.” I nodded. She was making such an effort so I smiled at her. I have been practicing my smile in the mirror every day. Smiling is probably the most complicated thing we do and most people do not even practice. Of course, it was typical of me to take on more responsibility than most. So, for at least twenty minutes each day, I stand in front of my mirror and work on my different smiles. There is the pity smile, the happy smile, the giving smile, the seductive smile (not that I have any plan to use this one), and the interested smile. I make sure never to show my teeth when I smile. A dog had growled at me when I was seven. It snarled and snapped and chased me half a mile back to my house. Since I do not want to look like a snarling dog, I only smile with my lips closed, as it was intended. I gave Therapist Morgan the giving smile. It seemed appropriate here. “I will think about it.” And then I was quiet. Most people say they will think about things but do not really mean it. They use the words as a way to end a conversation. I have learned this through many of my own encounters. When I say I will think about something, I do it right then. There is no reason to be rude and keep people waiting. Therapist Morgan understood this about me so she was quiet too. Bless that woman. She may not understand anything about the actual art of psychology, but she was trying. “Okay. I think I would like to try it. What normal activity do you recommend?” Therapist Morgan flinched slightly when I said “normal”. I think she realized she should not have used that word. Truly, she learns just as much from me in these sessions. I wonder if she ever goes home and considers how much I have helped her over the past twenty-six weeks. “Umm...well, let’s see. Christmas is right around the corner. What about a gift exchange?” I shook my head aggressively. A gift exchange? Oh, this woman. Just when I think she is making progress. The last gift I gave was to Amelia and that landed me here. It had all been a misunderstanding, an overreaction, really. Amelia was my first friend. Well, I knew a girl named Barbara in grade school but we weren’t really friends. The teacher made her sit next to me. She smelled of peppermint and pencil shavings and had a nose that reminded me of a penguin. Amelia was different. I was working at Mercer’s Grocery in the produce section. The produce section was my favorite because I always enjoyed when the vegetables were watered. It was like a small celebration every thirty minutes which was something that never happened in the meat department or bakery. Since I had been unfairly barred from working in either of those anyway, I now spent most of my days in produce. It was a Thursday at 2:12p.m. when Amelia walked up to me. I like to check my watch when important things happen. I think knowing the exact time of life-changing events is crucial in the scheme of things. “Hey. I’m Amelia. I just started here yesterday and Bob said you could show me the ropes in produce?” Bob. The manager. He had been kind enough. He had not fired me when I threw a steak at that woman (she deserved it) or messed up on the same cake decoration six times (Happy 12th Birthday Samantha is almost impossible to fit on a ten inch round cake). Now, he sent me Amelia so I decided to officially like him. I smiled at her. Happy smile. No teeth. “Okay, well, we do not have any ropes here that I know of but the watering is much more interesting than a rope could be anyway. It should start up in...” I checked my watch, “1 minute and 14 seconds.” She had laughed. I am not sure why but I liked the sound of it so I laughed too. I had not spent enough time working on my laugh since I rarely used it but I barely worried about those details with Amelia. After that, we talked each time we shared a shift. I had to work very hard to make sure I shared all of her shifts. One week, I worked 54 hours to the delight of my co-workers. They were always looking to get out of their responsibilities. But, on top of picking up shifts, I then had to determine which section Amelia was working in and switch with that person. Just convincing Bob I could handle the meat and bakery departments again took hours. Of course, I never told Amelia all of this. I did not want her to feel guilty that I was working so hard for our relationship. We had coffee one time. It was from Mercer’s but we took our cups outside and sat on the employee benches. I had never done that before but I acted like I had so Amelia would feel comfortable. I had felt her becoming more distant lately. She had been giving Pity Smile more than Happy Smile when I saw her. I had wondered if she found out about all the work I was doing to see her and felt bad about it. So, I had decided to cheer her up. “I got you something.” I pulled the package from my apron and thrust it her way. At first, she didn’t take it. The sweet girl was worried she did not get me something. I edged it toward her again. Slowly, she picked it up and held it in her delicate, perfect hands. “Oh, Olive, You shouldn’t have. I mean, really, I don’t...umm....” I laughed. By now I had been practicing and had gotten very good at it. “Just open it.” She had gasped when she opened it. That is how I knew it was the perfect gift. A diamond tennis bracelet. The guy at the jewelry store had told me it was the best way to show someone how you feel about them. I had drained my savings but it was worth it. “I can’t not accept this.” She had pushed the bracelet back across the table. She stared at me for a moment, her mouth slightly open. No smile. And then she left. I had to break into Bob’s office to get her phone number and address. It had begun to feel like I was doing all the work in this relationship but I still persisted. I remembered Mother’s words “Some people just can not accept love right away”. She had said that after she burnt a man’s house down. I think he was the 'some people'. I was sixteen and had not seen her for 8 months after that. She said she was in a place with others learning the same lesson. Some people, the good people, can love right out loud, Some people, the bad people, can not accept love. Of course, I did not think Amelia was bad. She just needed my help to face her feelings. I called a few times to help her. My fingers had hurt from dialing but I kept going. She had been worth it. I went to her home but she must have been out, which is strange for 3:30a.m., but I did not know her schedule very well. She stopped coming to Mercer’s. Bob told me she quit and I needed to leave her alone. This from unmarried Bob! Can you imagine? But, maybe it was time to let her go. I am not one to hold people somewhere they are not ready to be. I am way more civilized than that. Having good manners, I went to her house one last time to say good-bye appropriately. She didn’t answer. Mother had taught me how to pick a lock when I was four, just for a situation like this one. So, I let myself in so I could leave a note. Turns out, she was home and had called the police. I still do not really understand why. She could have just opened the door. After that, I had to enter some sort of plea arrangement. I had an incompetent lawyer that needed more help than he gave. In the end, I wound up with Therapist Morgan for a year, Bob fired me from the grocery store, and I never saw Amelia again. Mother was right, some bad people can not accept love. But apparently, the Great Therapist Morgan had forgotten all this. A gift exchange was a terrible idea. Not everyone is ready to accept the thoughtful gifts of others. Still, she kept talking. “Okay. What about a cookie exchange then?” What was going on with this woman and exchanges? Although... a cookie exchange sounded okay. Mother used to bring me a cookie from her waitressing job occasionally and I remember how happy I would become when I saw the dark blue package and smelled the sweet sugary aroma. My favorite was oatmeal raisin. I was only allowed to eat half because Mother did not want a fat Olive. Interested Smile. No teeth. “Yes, a cookie exchange would be nice.” I work at an accountant’s office now. I answer the phones, take notes at meetings, and organize papers. There is no water show every thirty minutes but I actually like my job. There is a new girl at work - Beatrice. I could invite her to my cookie exchange. My heart leapt slightly at the idea. Maybe this was not such a terrible suggestion after all. Bravo, Therapist Morgan. Bravo. After my session, I went directly back to my house to work on the invitations. I had never had anyone over to my house before. It was actually Mother’s house but only I lived here now. Mother had died four years ago, two days before my 33rd birthday. Since it was just her and I, the house now belonged to me. Not that she would have wanted it that way but poor Mother did not leave a will so this was the way it was. The house still looked as it did four years ago. An afghan thrown over the plaid couch. The dingy shag carpeting. The only thing that was different was I now slept in the four-poster instead of a mattress on the floor. Looking around, I knew what I needed to do. I went straight to the cabinet and pulled out that stupid tennis bracelet. I headed to the local jeweler and sold it for his first offer. Over the next week, I made an appointment for new carpet to be installed, I bought a new couch to be delivered in four business days, and I purchased new dishes. I printed the invitations and handed them out. They had cookies on them to symbolize the exchange. I wondered if others would realize how clever I was. I gave out fourteen invites to people at work, including Beatrice, one to the man at the bank, one to the mailman, three to the garbage men, and one to the woman that walks her dog in the neighborhood. I had also asked Therapist Morgan but she told me she could not make it. Twenty people. Perfect. The day of the exchange was very busy. I had forgotten to make any cookies in my excitement so I had to go to Mercer’s and pick up six dozen. Oatmeal raisin, of course. At exactly 1:00p.m., the doorbell rang. Right on time. I wondered if all the people would show up at the same time. Getting twenty people though the door would be difficult but I will manage. But, as I opened the door, there was only one person standing there - Beatrice. I gave her Happy Smile. However, this one was so genuine, I may have used teeth. I tried to correct the issue right away so I don’t think she felt threatened. I invited her in. She complimented the house. She placed her cookies on the table and glanced around, probably wondering where everyone else was. “Everyone else should be here shortly. Can I get you a drink? I have Hawaiian Punch and hot tea.” After a minute, she chose the punch. I know people like punch at parties. I was doing everything right. She probably thought I hosted parties all the time. At 1:30, it was still me and Beatrice. We began eating cookies. She had also brought Oatmeal Raisin - homemade, though. Out of all the cookies in the world, what were the chances we chose the same one? I knew I had made a good decision inviting her. We began talking about names. She got hers from some books by a lady named Beverly. I had never read them but I guess her mom was a fan. “Do you know how you got the name Olive?” she had asked. “Of course. Well, Olive was not my original name. It was Olivia. Olivia Marie Foster. But, after a couple of months, Mother changed it. She said I was dull like the color olive so now I am just Olive Foster. No middle name. Mother said only special people have middle names. She thought I may be special when she first named me but it turned out I was not. She had two middle names which, of course, made her incredibly unique.” Beatrice stared at me. She did not say anything for a moment. Then, she spoke. “Do you know there are over 500 different varieties of olives? Some trees take over 50 years to produce olives. There is one olive tree in the French Riviera that is 2,200 years old. The olive tree and the olive itself are some of the most unique, interesting things on earth. And you are named after them.” I saw her blush, slightly but enough. “Don’t ask me how I know that. I am a sucker for random trivia.” I studied her for a moment. Beatrice. Wow. I wonder what kind of jewelry she likes.