by Jenni Ogden
In our fourth session Sarah went straight for the jugular. “Tell me everything about you and Danny.” She settled back in her chair and waited.
“What’s the point? I see the connection. Lara needed to find out about Danny and I couldn’t help her. Then Alfie turned up with his Danny hair and I stuffed up and he died too. No wonder I went to pieces.”
“Humor me. Where did you and Danny meet?”
“How on earth can that help? I simply want to learn how to stop these damn panic attacks and get back to surgery.”
“Have you some sort of plan on how to go about that?”
I glanced at Sarah, but she remained tranquil. “You’re meant to be the expert. That’s why I’m here.”
“I can’t promise any miracles, Georgia, but I suspect you’ll get nowhere until you can talk about Danny. I know it’s hard, but aren’t we comfortable enough with each other for you to give it a try?”
“What’s the point? Heavens Sarah, it was sixteen, seventeen years ago. Could you remember everything about a relationship you had when you were in your twenties? ”
“It would depend on how important the relationship had been to me. Tell me honestly, have you thought about Danny since our last session?”
“Mmm. I wondered when you’d revert to that old line. Have you ever had a client who did nothing between sessions? What happened then?”
“Their therapy took much longer. If you haven’t thought about Danny over the last few days, have you any idea how you avoided it?”
I shook my head.
“Tell me about him. When did you meet?”
I groaned. I was catching on to Sarah’s pitbull side. “In 1988. I was twenty-nine and near the end of a two-year stint as a neurosurgery resident at Massachusetts General Hospital. I was with Harry, a friend of mine—he was an orthopedic resident there. We had a three-day break and decided to go to New Orleans. I hadn’t been before.”
“So how did you meet Danny? By chance?”
“No. When I knew I was going to New Orleans I phoned an old school friend of mine in New Zealand. Judy had been full of New Orleans after she’d been there for a holiday a couple of years before, so I thought she might have some good recommendations for restaurants and music. She told me I had to meet Danny. He’d stayed for a few days on Great Barrier Island with Judy’s grandmother when he was a teenager, and they’d kept in touch. I think knowing him was one of the main reasons she went to New Orleans on her big American trip.”
“Ah, so by the look on your face, Danny was a good recommendation. ”
I wiped away my goofy smile. “Well, that’s what I thought back then. Judy was convinced we’d like each other. She gave me the name of the club he sang at and instructed me to show up there unannounced and introduce myself.”
“Georgia, I think it will help you to go back there—experience it again—if I take you through that relaxation exercise we’ve been practicing. Are you game?”
“I suppose so.”
“Good. Now make yourself comfortable on the couch, feet up, and close your eyes.”
Usually we ended our sessions with relaxation and I’d become a dab hand at following Sarah’s voice and relaxing my muscle groups one by one. It was the only part of therapy I actually looked forward to, welcoming the warmth as it filled my body and emptied my mind.
Sarah’s voice was warm and low. “New Orleans. Feel it on your skin—hot, steamy. Look around you. What do you see? Colors? Is it day or night? Can you smell the muddy Mississippi? Can you see it, hear it, hear the riverboats, hear people laughing? Perhaps you can hear music. Is it jazz, blues? Listen.”
I’m hot, so hot. From my shelter in the dense shade of the verandah, Bourbon Street is blindingly bright. Wonderful old buildings with their high balconies strung with hanging baskets, overflowing with brilliant colors and long dangling greenery. I want to stop on every corner and absorb the musicians and dancers and clowns and jugglers and pavement artists. I take another gulp of the icy-cold drink from a giant-sized paper cup. A Hurricane minus the rum. Too early for the real thing.
Peering into dark shops filled with color and shiny junk, I’m jostled down the street with happy people of every shape, hue, and age, all in love with New Orleans. I take in a deep breath of the muddy, fishy, slightly oily smell that wafts through the humid air. I can’t yet see the great river slithering and sliding, hidden behind the buildings, but I can sense it.
“Georgia, is Danny there?” Sarah’s words floated through my head.
Still hot, but dark now. Danny's Piano Bar. I follow Harry through the blue door with the poster advertising Danny Leaumont into the dim, steamy, smoky club. We sit at a table right by the dais. The three-man-band begin to play, their voices smooth and melting, almost seeming out of place in a blues club. Then from the side, a flash of green as a man in a billowing sea-green shirt steps onto the dais and pads across the boards in his bare feet. He sits down at the battered baby grand, his dark red hair blazing in the spotlight—a thick messy halo around his arresting face. I catch a sudden movement in his throat as he swallows, and then the tip of his tongue glistens as he moistens his lips. Pulling the microphone attached to the piano to his mouth, he closes his eyes, slides his hands across the keys in a bluesy contrast to his band, and begins to sing.
“Listen Georgia, listen to his song, hear the words.” Sarah’s voice might have been a dream.
‘Georgia, Georgia.…’ I shiver as his gritty voice reaches inside me. ‘Georgia on my mind’—Danny's hand is drawing me towards him. I can see the sheen on his skin, feel his heat as he comes closer.
We’re holding hands, walking along by the dark river, spangled with the reflected lights from the silent paddle steamers and riverboats. We sit on a bench on the paved pedestrian walkway. I can feel the slight breeze coming off the water and whispering over my hot body, and Danny's gentle hand stroking my back, exposed by my summer dress.
My thighs tensed against the heat in my groin and a shiver scurried through me. I was back there, in Danny’s arms. He was teasing me about my blue eyes and I was flirting back at him like a sixteen-year-old.
“You can talk. I’ve never seen eyes as green as yours.” I smooth the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his skin feeling hot under my cool fingertips.
“Cat’s eyes,” Danny says, enclosing my hands with his.
“Judy said I’d fall for you, Cat’s Eyes,” I murmur. ‘“Fancy you meeting her on Great Barrier Island. What are the chances?”
Danny slides my right hand to his mouth and kisses my palm. “What? That you were at school on the island when you were small and I spent five days there years later? I don’t suppose it’s that unusual for surf-crazy guys traveling around New Zealand to go to Great Barrier. Especially as I was about to come back to New Orleans where finding surf would be pretty much a non-event.”
“But to stay with Judy’s grandmother. How come? Most surfers stay in the backpackers.”
“Rachel was some distant cousin of Mom’s. She came to stay with us once when we lived in New Zealand, not long after we shifted there. I must have been about thirteen. I thought she was seriously cool with her dreadlocks and no shoes, even in Queenstown in the winter.”
I grin. “I remember her. She ran the shop in Tryphena, and always had those dreadlocks and bare feet. Not that that’s anything out of the ordinary for the Barrier.”
“Mmm.” He weaves a hank of my hair through his fingers. “Glad you didn’t torture these gorgeous tresses with dread locking.” He kisses me again.
After some time I manage to pull away. “I haven’t snogged in a public place like this since I was a teenager. Thank goodness no one here knows me. Hardly appropriate behavior for a neurosurgeon.”
Danny’s eyebrows zip skywards. “Really? Aren’t the best neurosurgeons risk-takers?”
“Definitely not. So, how long did you live in New Zealand? You don’t have much of a Kiwi accent. In fact you don’t have any Kiwi accent.�
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“Nope. ‘Fraid not Ma’am. I’m a Mississippi boy, born and raised. But Mom came from New Zealand and we went back there when her dad got sick. I went to high school in Queenstown.”
“Lucky you. I love Queenstown. It must be one of the most beautiful places on earth.”
“Sleepy though, back then, once the tourists left. As soon as I finished school I came back home to New Orleans. Mainly because I wanted a music career. I’ve never wanted to do anything but bang the ivories and wail, and I figured I could wind my grandmother around my pinky.” He grinned. “Actually, that’s when I went to Great Barrier, on my way back here. Thank the good Lord for that!”
My whole body was throbbing.
Pulling my hand to his chest he holds it there. I can feel his heart beating and the heat in my face as he smiles at me and then carries on talking as if I haven’t just melted in a puddle in his lap.
“Gran— Dad’s mother—owns a few nightclubs here so I got a head start. She bought ‘Danny’s Piano Bar’ as soon as I got back, and for some crazy reason, named it for me.”
“Your own nightclub! Danny Leaumont, you’re disgustingly spoilt!”
“Guilty.” A white tooth flashes, and I catch the twinkle in his eyes.
“Gran bought it because she didn’t want her innocent eighteen year old grandson singing in her real clubs full of drug dealers and loose women.”
“I’d like to meet your Gran.”
“Tomorrow you shall. Savannah Leaumont, the doyenne of jazz dives; she’s something else. For my sins I still live with her in the Garden District.”
“Did you meet his grandmother, Georgia? Can you see her? Does she look like her grandson?” Sarah’s voice was in my head, taking me deeper.
I stand at the end of a short wide path lined on each side by a waist-high clipped hedge and gaze at the white, two-story house raised on low brick piles. Four white columns span both floors, each with a covered gallery fronted by a black iron balustrade. The twin double doors opening off each gallery are framed with green shutters.
Danny is standing beside me. His faded denim jeans have been replaced with faded denim shorts, cut off just above his knees and revealing muscular legs, surprisingly brown, given his red hair. With one arm he pulls me close to his washed-out pink T-shirt, its New Orleans Jazz Fest banner barely visible. In his bare feet he is only a few inches taller than me, and I can feel his grin as our lips meet. I lean back and smile into his wicked green eyes.
“’Morning gorgeous,” he murmurs and kisses me again. “Come and meet Gran.” He takes my hand and leads me up the path and into the cool dim entrance hall.
“Hey Gran, my New Zealander is here,” he hollers.
Savannah Leaumont sweeps down the grand staircase, a tall and elegant woman, her thick black hair streaked with silver and arranged in a coil on the top of her aristocratic head. Her smooth skin is the color of milky coffee, and her eyes, under straight dark brows, are so dark they’re almost black. She wears a knee-length denim skirt and a soft white shirt, and her long shapely legs are those of a young woman. She smiles and holds out a slim hand sparkling with rings. Her handshake is firm.
“It’s always lovely to meet New Zealanders. My son, Leroy, loves New Zealand, and he’s forever trying to get me to visit.”
“Yes, Gran, and you should go. You’d love it,” Danny said.
“One thing at a time, my boy. First you have to get yourself properly established here as a musician and then perhaps we can take time off for world tours.”
Sarah’s voice washed over Savannah’s cultured Southern drawl. “And soon, Georgia, you must return to your hospital in Boston. Did you see Danny again?”
I smiled, lying on the couch in Sarah’s room. Moistening my dry lips I taste the sea. And now I could smell it; crisp, sea-saturated air—late October on Cape Cod. Harry's thirtieth birthday, and Danny and his trio were singing. They’d all kept it from me. My surprise. I was back there, standing on the verandah of the big house, Danny’s gravelly voice throbbing through the cool air, drawing me back into the room, hot with entangled bodies swaying to the sultry rhythm in the semi-darkness.
Bathed in the soft lights left burning at the far end of the large room, Danny stands, his head on one side, his eyes closed, the microphone in one hand. The guitarist and bass player on either side of him disappear in his glow and I can see only him. I shiver as he opens his eyes and looks across the room into my very soul. Singing the last words of ‘Georgia On My Mind,’ he moves across the room towards me and the dancing couples make a corridor for him. Still singing, he takes my hand and keeps moving, outside and down the steps. I pause to slip off my sandals and they dangle from my free hand as we walk into the sand dunes. In the distance I can hear new music beginning, and as it grows fainter Danny stops, takes my sandals from me, and drops them in the sand.
There was something heavy pressing on my chest and I desperately pushed it away. I tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound.
“It’s OK, it’s OK. Georgia, look at me.”
My heart pounding I cracked open my eyes. Sarah’s face filled my vision. Swiping at the clammy sweat on my face I struggled to sit up, but fell back, my breath rasping in my throat.
“Think about your breathing; slow it down.” Sarah leaned over and pressed her hand against my chest. “You’re starting to hyperventilate. Breathe from your diaphragm, not using your chest muscles.” Her voice was soothing.
I closed my eyes and took in a long shuddering breath.
“That’s better. Remember what to do. Count your inhalations and think ‘relax’ as you exhale.”
Gradually my breathing slowed and calmed. Sarah pushed the box of tissues towards me and I mopped the cold perspiration from my face and neck. “How did that happen so quickly? Heavens, am I going to have these all the time?”
“No, you’re not. You’ve learned to recognize the early signs; as soon as you start that fast breathing you need to tell yourself to sl-o-o-o-w down, and you can take control before the panic takes hold.”
“I could feel that terror coming again, thinking I could die.”
“No one has ever died of a panic attack. But I know it feels as if you will.”
“Before I lost it, was I hypnotized? It felt like a dream, only more logical. And I can remember it all.”
“I don’t think I hypnotized you, just helped you go into a deep state of relaxation and feel safe enough to remember things that have for so long been too painful to think about.”
“Did I talk? It didn’t feel like I did. I vaguely recall your voice asking me things, but it’s all very hazy.”
“You talked enough for me to understand something of what you went through and how you felt back then. The most important thing is that you were able to re-experience it.”
“Until I got to the bad bit.”
“Your subconscious knows when it’s time to bow out. I won’t take you back there yet, but you might be able to talk about what happened next, simply as something that happened in your past, almost as if you were telling a story that happened to someone else.”
I heard a noise that sounded like a cow in the final stages of giving birth. It was coming from me. I grabbed the glass of water Sarah was holding out and took a gulp. Spluttering, I wiped my mouth and sat up properly before trying again. This time I emptied the glass before setting it on the coffee table. I felt about 80 years old.
“OK?”
I nodded.
“You and Danny, what happened?”
Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself. “I thought we were in love.” I shook my head. “Deep down I must have known our relationship was doomed to fail. Why on earth I thought that Danny could become a neurosurgeon’s husband in backwoods New Zealand is beyond me. But I was bewitched by him. He had a charisma that was more than just a stage presence. It radiated from every pore, even when he was with his family. And his voice was soul warming. Joe Cocker, Randy Newman, that sort of gutsy, sexy
sound. And for some unfathomable reason, he fell for me.”
I found myself over at the window, surprised to see the light was still bright and the traffic still zoomed back and forth below as if it were a normal day. “Perhaps it would have been different if I could have stayed in the States, but that was impossible. Danny had dual citizenship and could live in either country. We promised each other that we would be sensible, do the trial run first. If it worked out—although we both thought it was love forever—I would try and get a consultant position either in the US or even in the UK, where Danny could still have a singing career.” I stopped, my eyes suddenly stinging.
“Go on,” Sarah said, bringing me back to the room.
“I had to pass my fellowship exams first, and that was looking more unlikely by the minute. When I arrived back in New Zealand it was late November and my parents were in Australia—my brother Andrew lived there back then and he and his wife had just had twins. Mum and Dad were planning to stay with them until March. I went straight to Great Barrier Island. Our family has a holiday house there. The Barrier is wild and remote; about a hundred kilometers off the coast north of Auckland. Perfect for studying, at least until Danny joined me.”
My eyes lost focus and I was back there, hearing in the muffled traffic noise the lull of the sea. “I loved Great Barrier. It was always home to me. Both Andrew and I were born there and we didn’t move to Auckland until I was nine. Dad was a fisherman, and Mum was the island rural nurse. I was never sure why they decided to leave, but I think Mum found it pretty isolating.”
Sarah coughed behind me and I turned around. “I hated Auckland at first; I was dropped into a city school mid-way through the year. I came in for a lot of teasing; nothing too terrible really—bush baby, dumbo—that sort of thing. Our Barrier school had eighteen pupils, and the new one had about five hundred. The girls in my class were into Barbie dolls and spent most of their time changing their nail polish color, at nine years old! I never liked dolls and even at that age the very idea of sitting about painting nails bored me to tears.” I looked at my short clean nails and made an attempt at a laugh, but it came out as a snort. “Who knows, perhaps that was why I decided to become a neurosurgeon, so I’d have an excuse to leave my nails alone.”