Natalie nods her head. “Call if you need anything,” she murmurs, and closes the door behind her. As I glance around, getting my bearings, I realize I recognize his music.
Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto in una smorfia il singhiozzo e ‘l dolor, Ah!
“You like Pagliacci?” I ask before I know the words are coming, surprised that someone else loves my favorite song.
He raises his eyebrows. “You do?”
“I love opera. This is a dark song, though. Pavarotti really hits it. I usually only listen to this when I want to embrace some kind of immense sadness.” As the voice rolls over us, somehow turning into something three-dimensional and alive in the room, vibrating our bodies with reverberations of loss and beauty, I feel like it’s something nearly too intimate to share.
“What do you know about immense sadness?” His voice is taut.
I shrug. “Everyone has bad days. Sometimes you have to let it grow and swell to its maximum to let it burst and disappear. The music can help.” A memory starts to swell in my mind with the music and I hastily push it back and blank it out. My eye twitches and I finger my scar.
“Some sadnesses are too big for music to touch.” His voice is sharp, his eyes following my finger, and I put my hand back down. He touches a button on the sleek stereo system and silence pours out, just before the resolution, and I wince at the unfulfilled notes lingering in the air.
I nod. “Yeah.” And what I don’t tell him, but what I know for myself, is this: Some sadnesses are so powerful that you simply can’t release them; you have to push them down hard, lock them away, and never let them out. Radioactive poison in drums buried deep in your mind, and if you build the barrels right, they don’t leak. This is against everything you learn and teach in therapy, but it’s how I survive. I don’t tell people I’m a hypocrite; it doesn’t matter, in the end, as long as I help them get better.
I take a breath to refocus. “I’m excited to work with Michael. You said a temporary hire. Let’s talk about what that means. I brought a printout of my email, and you can recommend changes.”
“Sit down.” He nods at a chair opposite his desk. “Please,” he adds, when I hesitate, and puts his hands up. “Let’s review your proposal.”
I take out a neatly stapled packet and a folder. “I’ve included my resume and letters of recommendation from previous clients and from Allison.” He makes a noise of impatience and I continue, “Just so you have them, for your records.”
He cuts in. “I already have those and I reviewed them last week before we spoke. I would never have offered you anything if I didn’t check your credentials. I admire Allison. She and Michael’s surgeon recommended you specifically. Dr. Avery Chandler.”
“She’s the best.” I hear the admiration in my voice. “Dr. Chandler is one of Chicago’s best peds cancer specialists. I’ve worked with several of her patients.” Of course Gabriel has the best doctor for his son. Clearly, with his wealth and influence—although Dr. Chandler only takes specific cases, and she never bases it on anything financial. If she took Michael on as a patient, then it means she believed she could help him.
“I’m only hiring you because I’m at the end of my options.” His voice is bitter. “I don’t think therapy works—how could it? I mean, it’s like blowing on a broken arm. Here, feel better.”
“Then, why?” I’m so curious. I lean in, wanting to understand more, to unlock the hurt in his eyes and find out how to make it better.
“My son is struggling, he doesn’t want to even talk to me these days. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, but he’s squandering that gift. So—I don’t even know where to start.”
I keep my voice low and melodious. “Tell me a little about his history. I read the documents, but just to clarify—he’s in remission, yes?”
“Yes.” This makes Gabriel relax, at least a little; some of the tension drains from his shoulders and his smile is genuine. “Yes. The first surgery removed the tumor from his lungs, and he was cancer-free for three years. His last surgery was a rough one. He had a distant recurrence; another tumor grew in his brain. They got it all, but he had some doses of chemo afterwards. He’s still on several medications, but he’s weaning off steroids right now.”
“And do they think, do they know how long his current remission will last?” It’s a scary question, but I need to know.
“You never really know, of course. But at this point she doesn’t think it will recur. Dr. Chandler has him come in for regular scans and tests, but he’s completely cancer-free right now. NED—that’s No Evidence of Disease.”
“I’m so glad.” It makes me happy, ecstatic, to hear that Michael’s recovery is going so well. “He’s having trouble right now, emotionally?”
Gabriel sighs. “He’s morbid and inappropriate, and he offends everyone. He refuses to return to school. He never wants to leave the house. And he is chronically rude to my—to Arielle. He’s can’t handle the fact that I’m with someone other than his mother. Obviously I want him to be… happy again. And to be able to fit back into life, you know? I never thought therapy was much use, but it’s worth a try.” He gives a small chuckle. “We got family counseling many times over the past few years and he hated it, even though I tried so many experts. But…”
“But?” I raise my eyebrows.
He smiles. “I’m willing to try again. With you. At least you can help him get his homework done. You seemed to have some kind of magic touch the other night. I can’t even seem to manage that.”
He looks me in the eyes, and I feel the force of his personality, and his sexuality as well. This man is literally one of the most handsome people I’ve ever come across, and it’s not just his physique and his chiseled cheeks, his lashes, his lips—it’s his confidence. His intellect. It shows in his gaze, in the way he narrows his eyes. It sounds out in his words. It comes through his skin, I think, and wafts to me on the invisible currents in the room.
There’s a divot in his chin and I want to put my finger there. His lips are expressive and I want to touch them, too. His shirt is just tight enough, just loose enough to show muscles under the crisp white starch, and I want to run my palms over his biceps, squeeze, lean in.
As we look at each other, I see the expression in his face turn from professional to calculating, and a gleam appears in his eye. He’s suddenly a predator, and when his eyes peruse me, moving over my curves, I feel hot, weak, silly. I’m letting my imagination get overactive because I have a crush on him—well, not him; I don’t know him. But I have a crush on what I think he might be; a crush on how he looks and acts; a crush on the person I want as my secret lover in my mind, the lover who looks just. Like. This.
I blink and focus. “Magic touch?” I try not to think about his touch, how that would feel on my skin. Stop. I’m not here for that, and neither is he. Focus.
He nods. “When you talked to him about the essay. He actually wrote it that night, and do you know, it was one of the most fantastic things—” He breaks off, and I watch, mesmerized, as he swallows, my eyes tracking the movements of his tendons.
I look back at his eyes. “I’m glad I was able to help. I think he’s got a lot of anger built up, and I can help him find the right ways to express that as we work it off.”
“Anger. Yes, I suppose he does.” Gabriel sighs, then looks down, flips a pen in his fingers. It’s expensive looking, silver. I wonder if it’s a Mont Blanc. I read a book once where the rich main character used Mont Blanc pens, and ever since then—even though I have no idea what a real Mont Blanc pen looks like—rich-looking pens summon that word, along with images of Swiss mountains and chalets and sexy Bond men in suits. “He is angry, Shai. At me, at the universe. It started when his mother died, and got worse since…”
I pull my mind back. “How long has it been since…”
“Michael’s mother died three years ago. It was a car accident, a drunk driver.” He shuffles my papers, waits a second before looking back up
at me. “He’s almost ten now. He’s forgotten so much about her. I think that makes him… scared.” His lips are tight, and I imagine how that must feel, that the woman he loved—the mother of his child—is nothing but a pale shadow in his son’s mind.
I keep my voice soft. “That’s something I can work on with him. But Gabriel, for this to be successful, I’ll need to work with you, too. Usually? When a child feels this much fear, anger and resentment, the behavior of the parent is just as critical. There may be signals that you put out inadvertently that cue Michael into this behavior. It’s hard for any child to accept a parent dating, and if he’s recovering from illness and struggling to remember his mom, that makes it harder. You may need some different techniques and tactics to talk to him about this and help him understand that you’re not disrespecting his mother, you’re not asking him to become something he’s not, and you’re not telling him he’s not enough for you. I can provide advice on how to recognize his triggers so you can adjust your own behavior.”
“This is not about me.” He stands up and his face twists. “It’s about my son. My behavior is not in question here. You will not be psychoanalyzing me, Shai. You will not be giving me any well-intentioned instructions on how to connect or reach out or adapt. You’re working with him and him alone. You try your best to help him be happy again. I just want him to be happy.”
“I understand.” I stop and force myself to count to three. Lots of parents vacillate between anger and fear themselves, and take it out on the therapist. You can’t take it personally, nor can you allow yourself to react. You’re there to help them as much as the child. “Let me tell you more about my proposal.” He’s silent, so I continue. “I’d like to meet with Michael three times a week for at least twelve weeks as a start.”
“So often?” He wrinkles his brow.
“In our team, we recommend an intensive program to make fast progress. What’s different about our therapy program is that we tailor ourselves to each individual. Since we know Michael prefers to stay in the house, Allison and I propose that I can meet with him here, if you prefer, until we get him past that hurdle.”
“Tailor to us,” he repeats slowly, and nods. “House calls. Not every practice does that.”
I nod. “I know. With your approval, we can even do specific sessions on location. A child who is working through animal fear, for example, may one day wish to try visiting the zoo with the therapist in a safe and controlled fashion.”
“Michael used to love the lakefront park that leads up to the beach.” He walks to the window and gazes out, his eyes far away. “Montrose. We’d spend hours there together. I’d like you to get him there again, if you can.”
“Next time I’ll bring all the appropriate information and release forms to sign.”
He comes back to his desk and sits across from me again. “Send it sooner. I want him better fast.” His voice is even, but his fingers flex on the wooden surface.
“Would you like me to schedule a time for the three of us to visit Montrose Beach Park, maybe after the first two weeks of therapy? I know he’s scared to leave the house, but we can work up to it.”
His eyes darken. “It’s not so much that he’s scared to leave. He just mostly… refuses. Especially if I ask. Sometimes Natalie takes him places, but she’s—she’s a great housekeeper and cook, but it’s not her job and she’s got enough on her plate. We’ve been through ten nannies and as many babysitters. He just doesn’t take to a lot of people, lately. I even asked Lindsay if she could help out more—you met her at the gala and Michael sort of accepts her—but she’s starting college fulltime again and can’t.”
“I see.” I think about this. “So we can wait on Montrose, then?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to make him wait any longer. You take him alone, first, if he likes you. I already ran a background check on your driver’s license and I’ll add you on my insurance as an additional driver for my Lexus SUV. You can practice with it before you take him.”
My eyes widen. “You did—okay. You did what, exactly?”
He shrugs. “Allison gave me your documents and I ran a DMV and criminal check.” He doesn’t even look guilty. “You passed.”
“Of course I did. You know I have the fingerprint card. I’ve been background checked extensively and it’s updated regularly.” It’s hard to keep the irritation from my voice. “There was no need to redo the check.”
“I like to do my own checking.” He meets my eyes, not backing down.
I breathe out. “Gabriel, I appreciate your concern for Michael’s safety, and I assure you that I share the concern as well. However, next time, please let me know before you’d like to request any information like that. Otherwise I won’t be able to work with you and Michael at all. For this to work, we need to develop trust. Okay?” I phrase it as a question, but it’s more of a flat statement.
Googling is one thing. I mean, I googled him, too! Doing your own in-depth checks is another entirely. It’s not the way I like to interact with clients. And something flutters in my chest, a sick dark bat, then relief. Obviously he didn’t do a personal background check in addition to DMV and criminal, or surely he’d at least ask about—I swallow hard and maintain my gaze.
He doesn’t look away, but something in his face shows more respect. “Understood.” His voice is low. “I apologize for overstepping, but he’s everything to me. If someone else, someone new is going to take him places… he won’t go anywhere with me right now.”
And just like that, my irritation turns to compassion and understanding. “It’s all right.” I want to hug him, to tell him everything will be okay. When kids are hurting this badly, the parents are usually also in pain. When a child feels alone, the parent is isolated, too, locked into a sad cavern of depression. And Gabriel doesn’t even have anyone to help him through it. A wife. Arielle flits through my mind and departs just as quickly as she entered. Brilliant and bright, sunny and shiny, she seems like a firework that burns out fast and leaves ash behind. She doesn’t have what it takes to help with a long, painful haul like this one.
We’re silent for a minute, and I look down at my documents. I see that he’s highlighted the place where he commented, “Three months maximum.”
I say, “I have to tell you that children do better with long-term therapy, but even in three months we should start to see some improvements in his mood and behaviors, and you can decide if you want to continue longer term.”
“I probably won’t.” His tone is flat. “I just need someone to help him through this rough patch right now. I don’t want him reliant on shrinks.”
I bite my lip. “I understand the desire to have him be self-sufficient. Believe me, that’s my goal. I just need to let you know that it may take longer than a few months. Sometimes, children who have suffered trauma may need a year to learn how to deal with their feelings. Or longer.”
His gaze is sharp. “I want him ready to re-assimilate into his mainstream classroom by January at the new session. It’s important for him to be back in school with kids his age. He spends way too much time in this house with no playmates, doing nothing but computer… stuff. It’s not normal. It’s not healthy. His surgeon said it’s safe for him to get back out there, but he refuses.” He’s hot and cold; I know it’s normal when a parent is anxious about a child, but I prefer it when we’re on the same side.
I keep my tone even. “Getting back into a classroom is an admirable goal. I agree that’s important. I’m concerned with giving any child an artificial time constraint. Many times, when a child thinks there’s a deadline, he may balk at it and push back.”
“You don’t know my son,” he snaps. “If he puts his mind to it, he can do whatever he wants.”
I let my breath out. I know I’m pressing his buttons—and he won’t see things my way right now—but I’m the expert here. “I have experience with children in the same situation, and in every situation, giving the child an open time frame has worked w
ell. It allows them to feel free to control and direct the pace of their therapy, and they usually put more effort into it once it’s their own choice. When that happens, the child makes progress faster than expected.”
“Well, you’re the one who needs to put in the effort,” he retorts. “It’s your time frame. You can feel the pressure. I expect to see improvements soon. If I don’t, it will be obvious to me that your efforts are useless. And he’s going back to that classroom no matter what.” His voice is a challenge.
I swallow back a snippy reply. If I keep pushing, he might fire me before I even start. “I will do my absolute best with Michael. Monday, Wednesday and Friday at ten a.m.?”
He nods, sits back down. “Work it with Natalie. She knows his tutor and music schedule better than I do right now. She’ll meet you in the kitchen. Ah. Thanks. For… your time.” He opens his laptop and starts typing, then looks up at me with those gorgeous green eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t walk you over. I have a bridge meeting in two minutes. You can find your way?”
He’s stern, but something about him seems lost. I want to put my hands on those chiseled cheekbones, to touch his chest, to tell him it will all be okay. That he will find his way, too.
But he puts on some kind of headset and looks at the door, and I nod. “I can.”
I find it hard to imagine that a father doesn’t know his son’s schedule as well as the housekeeper, especially if his son is everything to him. But I’ve seen this before, too—when someone is so precious, when someone is your world, it’s terrifying. People in pain distance themselves from the ones who mean the most, as if to protect themselves from a future wound that hasn’t happened yet. As if by doing so, they can get ahead of the imminent grief that lurks around each corner, rabid, salivating with death.
I stand at the door, and hesitate, not sure if I should say something else. But he’s already talking—in Chinese!—so I close the door silently behind me.
I wander back to the kitchen. Natalie is there, and to my disappointment, so is Arielle. Natalie is all motion; she’s chopping onions and a pot is heating on the stove.
A Handful of Fire Page 3