This is a short play that I recently wrote as part of a local writer’s project. Can you spot the writer’s prompt or phrase that was mandated to be used in the script? Leave a comment below with your guess.
Roles
A short play by Sara Zavacki-Moore
(Narrator -please read bold printed notes out loud) A young woman in her mid-30’s is staring at a large painting on the wall in front of her. A therapist sits behind a large oak desk. He is meticulously dressed and is significantly older than her.
Irene: “The first time I came here I thought there was special meaning in this. Ya know? Like the images symbolized something meaningful.” (She pauses.) “But now, I’m not so sure.”
Therapist: “Oh? What did you think it symbolized?”
(Irene stares at it more closely)
Irene: “I dunno, something profound. Enlightened. Something I could learn from.”
Therapist: “What do you see there?”
(Irene gives him a look of annoyance, but is willing to humor him.)
Irene: “When I started coming here I thought I knew so much about life, but I didn’t… I still don’t.”
Therapist: “But you’d like to?”
Irene:(Nearly overlapping him) “I’d like to.”
Therapist: “What is it you’d like to know? I mean, is there something specific? Or are you referring to the bigger questions in life? Like the, ‘What does it all mean- kind of questions’?”
Irene: (She turns her chair slightly away from the painting and leans in towards the therapist.)
“I want to know about you.”
Therapist: “About me? What about me?” ( He is becoming increasingly uncomfortable) “These sessions are about you. Why do you feel the need to know about me?”
(Irene stands and begins to pace the room. She picks up items from around the office, framed photos, knick knacks…She pauses to look at the degrees on the wall.)
Therapist: “Why not come and sit back down? We can talk about why you feel the need to know more about me.”
(She ignores him)
Irene: “For example, how do I KNOW that you graduated from here?” (Pointing to his wall.) “What if you are a fraud? I mean, what if you’re just some guy who poses as a therapist, but in reality you really just want to hear all of our secrets?”
Therapist: “All of our? Are you referring to all of my patients?”
Irene: “Well, yes. I’m assuming I’m not the only one. What do they come to you for? Anxiety? Depression? Given the past two years, don’t we all have that?”
Therapist: “You know I’m not at liberty to discuss my other patients with you.”
Irene: “I know. I get that. So,what about them then?” (She points to a framed photo on the desk.) “Are they… your nephews?… Children? … Grandchildren? Are you married? I know nothing about you.”
Therapist: “I’m wondering why you feel the need to…”
(She interrupts him.)
Irene: “It doesn’t seem fair, you know? I mean you know all sorts of things about me, and I know next to nothing about you. Why did you even get into this field? All I know is that you moved here from Wyoming years ago. But, why did you leave? For school? For this job?
Therapist: “Well, I…”
(She interrupts him.)
Irene: “I read an article on Reddit that said all therapists are really messed up. They called them ‘wounded healers” Is that an accurate description? Are you really just trying to work out your childhood stuff through us? Your patients?”
Therapist: “I don’t think that…”
(She interrupts him.)
Irene: “This painting for example. It’s all over the place. You said you painted it. Right? But why? What does it mean? It doesn’t seem to fit in with the decor here. What made you choose to hang it up? Does it elicit something specific in you? Or, are you hoping it will resonate with your patients in some meaningful way?”
Therapist: “I am a painter of paintings.”
(She ignores him and continues to rant.)
Irene: “And this pie. Why is the pie on top of a cow? And why are the cows’ spots red? Does it signify blood? Did you grow up on a farm? Is this a tribute to Bessie or something, the family cow? Did your mom raise cows? Was she nicer to them than she was to you? Why this painting?”
Therapist: (Becoming increasingly uncomfortable, mumbles, staring out into space.) “The butter wouldn’t melt, so we put it in a pie.”
Irene: (Becoming a bit manic) “Who did? You did? Did you make this pie with your mother? Tell me about that day. I think there’s a part of you that wants to, that needs to. What happened the day that you made this pie? Is this why you went into therapy? Do you have mommy issues?” (She pauses to watch for his reaction, then continues.)
“I’m sorry. Is this too much? Do you need to stop?”
Therapist: (He shrugs and looks down towards his lap.) “ I don’t see what..”
Irene: “Does the pie remind you of her? Well? (pauses) I’ve been waiting for years to hear the answer to this question. I’ve been looking at this painting for years. Years. Not to say that our time here is wasted. But, is it still beneficial? You say you feel stuck. Maybe if you talk about it…maybe you would feel better. Maybe if….”
Therapist: (He interrupts her.) “She died, ok? Is that what you want to hear? That she died? Cuz she did. We made this pie together. She seemed happy. I thought she was happy. But we made this pie together. I thought it was a good day. I thought she was happy. ( He is becoming increasingly emotional.) But then I found her. Later that day, I found her in the barn. It was so cold and dark. I found her. I was just a kid. (Crying/Covering face) I thought she was happy.”
They sit in silence for a moment. He begins to compose himself. He checks his watch. She hands him a box of tissues and waits. They both look up at the painting.
Slowly, he pushes himself out from behind the desk. He pulls his shoes out from under the desk chair and puts them on, taking his time lacing them. They make eye contact and then he stands.
Irene follows him to the door, and opens it. Placing her hand on his shoulder.
Irene: “Good work today. Thanks for being willing to try something different. Same time next week?”
Therapist: “Same time next week.”
End of play.
Sara Zavacki-Moore 