Attachment Theory

One could glean that the mansion had once had its heyday with its grand, white pillars, now dull and chipped, and floor-to-ceiling windows peppered with random ornate, cast iron Juliet balconies that no tenant dared to step out onto due to the alarming rust and overall lack of maintenance from the absentee landlord, who inherited the monstrosity from an elderly aunt who’d pass away a decade prior in the Banks’ very own apartment. Her body was found at the bottom of a hoarded-heap of dirty clothes, stuffed animals, occasional trash, and vintage Precious Moments collectables.

By watching the continuous comings and goings of the tenants for close to a decade, Andrew would observe that The Petticoat Mansion Apartments, on 1567 Petticoat Drive, was where the forgotten came to live, a sort of beacon for black sheep and castaways, the isolated and the recovering addicts, who’d burnt every single bridge before getting out of Dodge. The Petticoat Mansion was a real heartbreak hotel.

The Banks moved into their apartment when Andrew was nine, shortly after Doris had filed for divorce from her second husband, a man he despised for his loud, obnoxious chewing and the way his Nordic nose would sometimes whistle. Andrew had a total of four stepfathers by the time he’d reach his nineteenth birthday. The only husband he could stand, out of the four, was Karl Jinkus, husband number three, who everyone called Jinx, a gregarious, overweight, retired FBI agent, who’d take an interest in Andrew’s hypervigilance to the point of administering the quiet, prepubescent boy hardcopy FBI tests that were designed to quiz recruits on their level of observation and memory. Excellent observation was a coveted FBI trait, and Andrew scored a near perfect score, every time.

 

Impressed, Jinx had a replica of his FBI badge made with Andrew’s full name etched across it as a Christmas gift one year. Andrew kept the shiny, gold-plated faux badge on his bookshelf, right next to his favorite novel, Catch-22 by Joseph Heller, a parting gift from Jinx that tells a riveting story of Captain John Yossarian, a military man on a Mediterranean island during World War II who fights to stay alive.

On the day Jinx left Doris, he’d reach down and whisper in young Andrew’s ear out of earshot of his mother, who was in the middle of one of her one-sided rants, where her bruised ego would find comfort in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors at random. 

“Remember kid,” Jinx would say in his Bostonian, Southie accent over Doris’ banshee-like screaming, “You’re a contender, a real contender. You got promise.”

Jinx’s fatherly talk, albeit brief, would echo to Andrew on his bleakest days, giving him hope of a future. In the meantime, he worked the night shift at Walmart where he would stock shelves and take inventory from 10pm to 7am. The only bright spot during the tedious graveyard shift was when he got to work with Hannah Grossman, a high school friend of a friend, whom he knew from afar; someone between a stranger and an acquaintance.

Andrew admired Hannah’s unique style, and how she once paired black combat boots with a pink ballet tutu to go to their senior prom. He liked how totally free she was. When he’d see her across the aisle from him, in the middle of restocking rows of lipstick, he’d see absolute freedom. Andrew thought of a Charles Bukowski quote that seemed to sum up Hannah Grossman perfectly: “The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it. Basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near, or with them.”

“Hey Banks, a few of us are going to walk over to Denny’s after our shift. Interested in going?

Hannah had a habit of calling everyone by their last name: Lopez, Goodman, Esposito, Jones, Russo.

 

“Yeah,” replied Andrew, nodding his head. Normally, he’d be going grocery shopping, or running some errands for Doris after his shift. Hannah could have asked him to walk over hot coals in his bare feet, or enter a hot dog eating contest, even though he was a vegetarian, and his answer would still be “Yeah.”

“Cool,” she said, adding a wink and pop of her gum.

After Hannah turned and walked away, Andrew, by almost instinct, would reach down into his pocket to feel for Doris’ grocery list as if her list of wants was some kind of religious relic that he must carry around with him at all times. The side of his index finger would eclipse the sharp edge of the paper, causing a slight paper cut near the base of his knuckle. Ignoring the unpleasant sting, Andrew continued restocking bottles of antiperspirant and body wash during the last forty-five minutes of his shift. His thoughts would linger back to Hannah while lining up bottles of Old Spice body spray, sneaking a few sprays in for himself while no one was looking. He kept telling himself to play it cool, to be nonchalant. But in between his internal pep talks, Doris’ disappointed face would randomly appear in his mind like an apparition. He’d find that whenever he squinted his eyes really hard, he could make her disappear, picking up the annoying facial tic over time. He was doing just that when he heard a feminine voice shout his name from the bedding department. “Banks!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hannah continued, “You always had your head in some book. I wanted to know what you were reading, and why you were reading it.” 

 

 

 

 

“And I’ll have the same but hold the bacon,” replied Andrew before adding, “I’m a vegetarian.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew took a sip of his coffee.

 

“It sounds like your mother may have a Cluster B personality disorder, which falls under narcissism, antisocial, histrionic, and borderline. You know, the more toxic and dramatic of personalities. They rarely seek help because they never see themselves as a problem.The people who come to see my dad are usually their victims. I can give you some of my dad’s books to read, if you’d like,” offered Hannah. 

 

Just then, Liz arrived with two plates of blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon for Hannah. They both thanked her before they continued on with their conversation.

 

“Jinx left a few of his books behind on criminal psychology that covers personality disorders, primarily psychopathy. I thought only criminals had personality disorders. You know, the Ted Bundies and the Jeffrey Dahmers of the world. But never mothers, especially my mother.”

 

“How does she feel about your plans?” asked Hannah as she cut into her warm stack of blueberry pancakes. 

 

“I don’t know. My mother never talks about the future. I think on some level, she believes I will never leave her. I mean how could I if she has a disability.” 

 

“Is that a question, or a statement?” 

 

Hannah paused before clarifying. 

 

“I mean does she really have a disability? Has she ever been properly diagnosed? Sounds to me like she may have Munchausen Syndrome, now recognised by the DSM as Factitious Disorder.”

 

Andrew turned his head to look out the window, where he spotted a small boy walking between his adoring parents, the three of them hand-in-hand-in-hand. Every few feet, the mother and father would stop to swing their laughing, blonde-haired boy up in the air before coming back down again, landing solid on two small feet. Lucky kid, he thought to himself before turning his attention back to Hannah. 

 

“My mother is secretive about everything so there’s really no way of knowing what she has for sure. I know she got on disability for a severe panic disorder when I was a kid. Growing up, she never once came to a parent-teacher conference, or even attended my high school graduation. I thought her drama and chaos was normal until I met the mothers of my friends.”

 

“Attachment Theory,” quipped Hannah.

 

“Huh,” muttered Andrew as he took a generous bite of pancake. 

 

“Attachment Theory is a psychological theory concerning bonds between humans, primarily young children in relationship with at least one primary caregiver. The theory was developed by psychiatrist John Bowlby.”

 

Andrew began to squint his eyes again, envisioning Doris in one of her bitter rages.

 

“I think your dad is right, you should be a psychologist. I mean you sound like one anyway.”