Therapy In Absentia
The webpage clicked open and I sat there with the login prompt flickering, blinking on/off/on/off as it teased me with temptation. This was my webpage email – the one I hadn’t checked in over a year and a half. Only Adrian and I had the password to this but I had forgotten it – along with the best part of 18 months – in the post-apocalyptic maelstrom of grief I’d been immersed in.
But now it tempted me. I hesitated even though I knew that I would check it – especially after Adrian had told me that he had cleaned it of spam and other unwanted or outdated detritus. If he hadn’t, I would have been faced with thousands of emails and advertising scams, the bombardment of which would have been too overwhelming to contemplate – I would have simply deleted the lot and started again.
But Adrian had sorted that out for me.
He thought I was ready.
I thought I was ready.
I opened up the paper that Adrian gave me earlier and I entered the password (Tina and our wedding date) and the single email came up.
It had about 30 “FW:”s in front of it – the sender simply re-sending and adding each time.
I saw the single name in the inbox: Desiree.
I quickly scrolled to the bottom and started to read, following the woman’s train of consciousness as she wrote. Her style staccato, clipped. Not a single word was wasted. I could imagine the keys on the computer being tappy-tapped very hard, plastic clicks paused as she formed the correct wording in her head. I knew this style just through the phrasing, the vocabulary and the language.
It was my style too.
Strangely, even after this time, I could hear her voice. I could smell her scent as her seductive tones filled my mind whilst I read her notes. She knew what had happened and her remorse was genuine and sincere. She blamed herself, then she blamed me. She never once blamed Tina, or questioned her.
Desiree explained her own challenges in life, her troubles with family, then the law. She explained how she worked to get into University and how she had finally passed her Science degree. She detailed failed romances and her own self-doubts and questions that she would have unlikely confided in anyone else. She opened up in email after email, describing her life and her needs.
I realised then that I was her therapy in absentia.
I also realised that I was falling for her.
I read on and she wrote about seeing me with a woman waiting for a taxi late at night. I was totally out of it and she said she tried to say hello but I didn’t recognise her. This was three months ago – the night before another inevitable morning after. When I checked the date, I checked my half written manuscript and, sure enough, the email was sent the same day I had woken in the morning to read my subconscious scribblings from the night before. I remembered smelling her in the air, on my skin. I vaguely remembered another woman, but she had long gone leaving behind the ghost of sensuality and the taste of sex in the air.
The Desiree of my mind, the eclectic one that had emerged subliminally within the therapeutic purging of my grief-crippled subconscious, was not the same one that filled my inbox with intuition, vulnerability and compassion. The fictional Desiree was a hard-core version of the deeper individual; a façade that fulfilled none of a man’s true desires.
Her last email was only a week ago – most of them were about a week apart, as if I was a pre-arranged session that she devoted herself to. I was her diary by proxy – almost an imaginary friend that she could tell her secrets to and not ever be judged or criticised.
And now I had come to life again.
Would she want to really see me? Or would she be horrified that her musings and inner-most thoughts were now known by another living human being?
I needed to be sure about this.
Forgiveness
“Do it man!”
I knew Lee would say that. I needed to hear him say it, even though I knew what he would say. I needed his approval, I needed his permission. I needed his guidance.
For so long I had lost the true meaning of friendship with Lee. I thought that my degradation into hedonism and, ultimately, despair would bring me closer to him and the way we were in our younger years. But it forced us apart further – until he did the one thing that I would also have done for him.
He loved me.
We partied hard in our late teens and early twenties – but that was a long time ago now. Those bonds were hard to break, for sure, but I partied with lots of people over the years yet where were they when I needed them? Hell, I can’t even remember their names!
But Lee stood by me as I had stood by him. And now I needed his endorsement, his sanctioning of this.
“Look Mick, Tina’s gone and you’re always going to love her. But you can’t wallow in grief forever. If this woman you mentioned is all that you think she is, then you’re a fool to yourself and burden to others if you don’t follow this up.”
“I know, but what if she is horrified at the thought? I felt like I was her therapist or something, maybe she won’t want to see me?”
“How old are you? Come on, you sound like you’re 16 or something – we went through that shit in high school!”
I didn’t want to be reminded of the awkwardness that was the high school years.
Boys pretending to be men, growing into their bodies.
Testosterone and expanding muscles outgrowing the immature mind.
Hormones raged and self-doubt bit like a shark.
I was hopeless around girls back then and Lee was the natural – I followed in his coat tails and took what I could get.
“I’m just worried about making a dick of myself,” my newfound honesty allowed me to finally admit my true reason for hesitation. Fear.
Well, it was fear that got me into this in the first place, so it was somewhat ironic that it was fear that showed me the path to escape.
“What have you got to lose Mick? You know what I say mate: Beware the man who has nothing to lose, because he has got NOTHING to lose.”
Lee smiled with the intention of being enigmatic and profound – and almost nailed it.
“That doesn’t make any sense Lee – you’re no Dalai Lama.”
“And you’re no Mother Theresa so there we are!”
The brief moments of incursions into the sublime nature of Lee’s inner thoughts and machinations were worth their infrequent visits. Everyone enjoys Christmas because it’s only once a year – same thing.
Lee returned to his shallow self, relating a story I’d heard a few times before of an ex-girlfriend from high school that he had caught up with only a few months ago. He continued his oration unabated and oblivious to the fact he’d told me this before. I didn’t listen, but I could hear him. I nodded and smiled when it seemed appropriate to do so, but my mind was elsewhere as I contemplated how I was going to do this.
I had started to come to terms with Tina’s death and Lee was 100% correct. I would always love her, no matter what. Her passing cemented a place in my heart for her that could never be taken away. No passage of time could weather it, no eons of emotion would ever wear it down. This was impervious to the tempest of feelings that we experience throughout our lifetime.
Tina’s memory was set and incorruptible – her death had sealed that.
And, with acceptance, came forgiveness.
I forgave myself and I felt the weight lift from me. A black cloak of guilt rose and my shoulders seemed free of the additional weight of this cancerous demon that had consumed me.
Somewhere I hoped that she forgave me too.
Deja Vu
When the reply email came back, I was stunned – air escaped me and I forgot to replace it. Desiree existed – she was real. My long-winded and overly edited reply to her volumes of confessions, inner-most-thoughts and desires was sent and I checked the laptop every few minutes for a reply.
For three hours I checked.
I was 15 again, waiting by the phone for a girl to ring me back (like And
rea McFarlane said she would but never, ever did).
The inbox gathered sporadic spam as I continued checking – hoping beyond all else that I hadn’t scared her away with my actual existence. Then, just as I had started to give up hoping that I see a response, the bold subject “RE:Contact” appeared in the inbox.
To: [email protected]
From: Desiree Jenkins
Re: Contact
Hello stranger!
OMG – I can’t believe you finally replied. All this time I didn’t think you’d ever read any of this crap and now it’s like you’re back from the dead. I have so much I want to talk about and I’m sure you do too (or maybe not?). This is actually the third draft of a reply – the first two ran into several pages but I figure we can save all that for when we meet.
Yes – that’s an answer. I’d love to catch up again. Meet at Le Figaro’s at 8 on Friday?
Cheers, D xxx
It was only a few lines but I had committed this to memory. My recovering mind, bombarded with fragments of the past that sporadically returned as my brain recovered from the poisonous cocktail of alcohol and regret, was now consumed with apprehension of this meeting.
Actually, a date. A proper date – the first one since before I was married.
Yes there had been drunken trysts and one-night-stands of hotel sex amidst altered states of consciousness, but nothing that involved the effort and concentration that an actual “date” did. I had no idea what to expect, the unknown a fear that brought back hints of a demon I had banished.
Right then was when I would have been looking for a drink – just a cheeky one to settle my nerves and provide some false courage. Since I eschewed all imbibing of an alcoholic nature, the clarity of mind was a revelation. Like the prodigal son, it was received with open arms and sincere appreciation. But that didn’t mean that its alter ego – the devil himself – disappeared entirely. He still lurked – within every doubt, behind every fear, and encouraging every regret.
Could I last the night?
As at 7.40PM I had done okay. I was driving along Stock Road, my heart pounding at 200bpm, the headlights shone through the steadily falling rain which lashed in diagonally as a typical Perth winter South Westerly cold front blew in from the Southern Indian Ocean. Leaves from the flaking eucalypts flicked across the beams of light that preceded the car, small brown flashes that whipped past me in the darkness. Even in this rain, I knew I’d be at the restaurant before her and that suited me fine.
From the darkness, a flashing vision. A movement – someone?
Instinctively I swerved away from it, the steering wheel turning, the wheels turning, but the car continued straight ahead.
The vision disappeared as soon as it had appeared – was it even there?
And now the car aquaplaned – sliding across the blacktop and out of control. I gripped the steering wheel tightly; delusions of control. Now I was a passenger.
The soft slide of the roadway gave way to bump of dirt as I left the road, the wheels dug into the moistened sand, the car’s momentum flipping it upside down.
And the world stopped.
Time froze and loose items in the car suspended in mid air, like they would in a space capsule.
Then, something new – in the car.
It was Tina.
She was sitting next to me.
“It’s okay Michael,” she said, her voice an aural elixir that shook me to the core.
“But, you’re dead,” I stammered out, incredulous yet awestruck.
“Yes, I am dead. But you’re not, are you?” She smiled that cheeky smile, one corner of her top lip more curled than the other, her smile lop-sided and so damned sexy.
“No, this can’t be happening surely?” Even I couldn’t believe how stupid that question sounded.
“You’re right it’s not,” and Tina tipped her head back and laughed, revealing her slender neck that just begged me to kiss it, to run my fingers through her hair from the base of her skull to her scalp, massaging and caressing as I kissed the nape of her neck slowly.
“But…” I couldn’t move and I could barely talk. Suspended animation had befallen everything except this apparition of beauty beside me – a vision that was tearing me up.
Then, abruptly, she stopped laughing. “You’ve got to get on with your life Michael – please don’t waste it.”
“I miss you so fucking much,” I tried, but eyes welling with emotion but unable to produce any tears.
“I miss you too baby, but I want you to be happy.” Tina reached out her thin delicate hands to my face and I could feel her soft skin brush over my newly shaved stubble, her fingernails flicking on the course hairs. I could smell her moisturizer.
“I’m supposed to be on a date but I don’t know if I can ever love her like I loved you.” I thought this was true but I didn’t really know. What do I say to my dead wife when I’m on the way to my first date?
“You don’t have to. You’ll always love me and I always loved you, but you have to move on.”
I’d heard this before, but it had more resonance now. “How? How do I do that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t have that answer.” She withdrew her hand and looked out through the windscreen at the trees hanging from the suspended earth, the rain falling slightly upwards as the stars shone below.
“It hurts so much, not having you around.”
“Please Michael – please live your life. It wasn’t your fault.” Tina’s eyes seemed colder now, more distant.
“Yes it was”.
“No it wasn’t – it was simply an accident.” I waited for elucidation, but nothing came.
“Are you okay?” I had no idea if a dead person could feel anything but I just wanted her to be free from pain.
“Yes, I’m fine. And, something else you should know, I forgive you.”
With that the roof crumpled as time restarted. The car flipped and Tina disappeared.
Sounds reflected earlier descriptions (read: premonitions) of them:
A demonic harmonic.
An elongated crunch.
A discordant rhapsody.
I had experienced this before – mentally. This was déjà vu to the extreme.
Screaming emanated from within me as the glass sliced and diced me, my arms flailing and slapping.
I was upside down again as the car continued the rollover.
Almost immediately a tree approached with supersonic force, straight into the passenger side door. As the metal wrapped around the solid trunk, the car split in two and I passed out.
My last sight was Tina’s face disappearing, mouthing the words “I forgive you” as she faded from my mind’s eye.
Beginnings
I am becoming more conscious now. A day ago – or maybe it was a week ago, I have no concept of time in here – the doctor gave me the details of the crash. Not the cause, just the consequences.
The irony of my situation did not escape me.
Just when I was regaining control of my life, I lose control again.
If there’s a God, he (or she) has a wicked sense of humour.
The hospital is institution white, the beeps and whirrs of machines punctuate the stillness in my private room – one of the benefits of private health care. Medicated air breathes into the stark impersonal room with monotonous regularity, a wheezing industrial lung that feeds the building’s occupants.
My pain is non-existent but I have been told that’s not going to last. They will wean me off this sedative as I start to heal, before I develop a tolerance to and dependence for it. Too late - I was trying to give up the altered states of consciousness when this all happened. Look how that turned out.
My eyes open again, the pink of the glare through my eyelids giving way to the brilliant white of the room and the lux amplification of fluorescent lighting. The brightness hits me violently, forcing me to blink as I adjust. In the flickering vision I can see someone leave the room – a glimp
se of black hair flowing.
The disinfectant smell of the hospital isn’t here as I expect. It has a replacement smell, an overpowering scent that I know from my dreams.
Desiree.
Her ghost haunts this room too, leaving behind a spectral trail of olfactory perfection. This aroma, addictive and sexual.
I’m so close to her but she is not to be seen.
I’m alone and I can see a dinner on the bedside table – mine and wasted. I can’t eat.
I look down the bed and see one leg suspended in plastered traction. My left leg, the one that I had an arthroscopy on many years ago, is now encased within the plaster, several names emblazoned across it in support.
I see Ryan: “Get well soon bro!”
I see Ryan’s wife Sophie: “We miss you Michael – hope you’re better soon.”
I see Adrian: “My friend – please get well soon.”
I see Lee: “Stop lounging around looking for attention! Get well buddy!”
I also see where my right leg should be.
I am lucky – a below knee amputation is much easier to deal with than above the knee, or so I am told.
The doctors say I can get a prosthetic limb.
The doctors say I will be able to do almost everything the same once I get used to the leg.
The doctors say I am one lucky bastard.
They don’t know the half of it.
I am fully aware of the irony – my crippled emotions finally gave way and resulted in a crippled body. But I guess I did get off lightly.
Tina didn’t.
The memory of her in the car that night is still vivid, it haunts me even when I’m awake. I can sense her presence; feel the soft press of her fingers as she stroked my cheek. But I can’t smell her scent anymore – only Desiree’s.
I don’t want her face to disappear from me – I don’t want her to get blurrier and more distant. I don’t want to have to wear new glasses so she can snap back into focus again. But maybe that’s what her forgiveness means? Maybe that’s just part of the deal.
If so, then I can live with that and life can go on. Yes it will go on with one leg less and a part of my heart that will forever be enshrined to Tina. But there’s still plenty left for me and, maybe, someone else.
I pick up the notebook and start writing down some questions, prompts for a story that is mulling:
“What does forgiveness mean?”
“How do you truly say goodbye?”
“When are you completely sorry?”
It’s forming and it might become something. The short story anthology, Adrian tells, me, is a goer and that will help me get through this.
So too will Desiree.
I put the notebook down as the door opens and Desiree walks in.
Writing Crash Page 20