“Shai! Please. You’re overreacting.” His voice sounds horrified, upset… but not apologetic.
I touch my necklace to make sure it’s secure, and turn to him. “I misunderstood what we were to each other. But it’s okay. I get it now. Next time you want some easy sex without strings, though? Find yourself some other cunt to fuck.”
“No.” He grabs my hand. “That’s not what you are, and that’s not what this was.”
“Then what?” Tears roll down my face. “What, then, Gabriel? I said…” But I won’t say it again. Not now, knowing that my feeling aren’t returned.
“Shai, I never meant to hurt you.” His voice is low, a plea. “How can you think otherwise? Fuck. I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. I’m still trying to get my head on straight, okay? I just don’t have a lot to give.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. That’s just not enough for me, Gabriel.” I blow out my breath and wipe at my eye.
He steps in and brushes a tear from my cheek. “Shai, I’m sorry.” But he sounds helpless. And he doesn’t say anything else.
“Yeah. Me, too.” I shake my head and walk out, and he doesn’t call my name.
This time Gabriel comes with me and Michael to Robotics. I told him that it was time for him to start easing into Michael’s activities while I ease out, and he agreed. We’re awkward around each other after that last night together and our fight, but amicable, despite the words. We didn’t talk about it at all, just skirted each other uneasily, sticking to safe and mundane topics, and Michael.
I still want him, every time I see his eyes and his muscular forearms, when I watch him walk. See his muscles moving through his clothes. And I think he wants me, too, because his eyes linger on my curves, on my shape, on my mouth. But I don’t want to back down, and he won’t either, so we’re at a stalemate.
Well, we both backed down, away, but the stalemate is real. Maybe it’s that we’re far apart now, and neither of us will take that first step to bring us back together. I tried and got shot down. I think he feels it inside, but something won’t let him admit it, and I’m not trying again, when the first attempt failed so spectacularly.
I show him where the parents can wait, although most of them go out for errands, I guess, while the kids are in the club. Parents aren’t supposed to intrude into the room, but they can look in; the door is open.
The instructor has them in small groups, and I can see that Michael has chosen Brandon as his partner.
“Gabe,” I tell him. “You should see if you can link up with Brandon’s parents. He’s Michael’s best friend in there, and maybe you can set up playdates.”
“Okay. I will.”
I can see that he’s entranced with the scene unfolding in front of him, mesmerized by the vision of his son smiling, laughing, taking charge of a team. His son being a partner, a playmate. A regular kid. Even though I’m angry with him, I’m glad that he’s bonding with Michael. Their progress is good and it makes me feel warm inside.
When I get a phone call from a client’s mom, I step outside to talk in private. She’s in tears. “His results came in and the cancer is back, Shai. It’s back. It’s spread to his liver and his bones. Oh, God. Oh, God!” She’s hyperventilating. Her son is five years old. Bobby, who loves French fries with mustard, Transformers, and his pet cat. Bobby, a leftie who writes his name backwards and giggles when you say the word “bubble.” Bobby, who was getting better. She called me because I’m supposed to represent healing; I stand for confidence, for being fixed. But nobody can fix this.
I let her talk. I ask questions. I offer sympathy. But in the end, I can’t provide what she needs, which is a miracle. I tell her that the whole family can come in for an emergency joint session to discuss strategies for coping. That I can recommend other experts. But at the end of the day, all I can give her at this point is words. The hollowness of my offers stand between us, and when she hangs up, not a single bit soothed, I sob, too. It’s cold outside but I stay, crying, shattering. It’s moments like this where I see the utter futility of my career, my entire life. I want to crawl into a corner and howl.
Eventually the tears stop, because I have to give myself time to recover so I don’t startle Gabriel and freak out Michael. This makes me sad, too, in a way, but not for me—for the woman who called. Her grief spurred mine, and now I’ll go on to forget hers, while it’s something she’ll live with forever. Odd that we can bear these burdens inside that nobody else can touch, even if they try. What’s a solid block of cement for one person, blocking their throat, is a mirage for another, disappearing even as we focus on it.
Other parents are here now, and my eyes flit past overcoats, trailing scarves, wet boot trails, until I find Gabriel. My heart leaps, unbidden, until I see who he’s talking to. She’s young, pretty, like a model. Like Arielle, version 2.0. The upgrade. I say upgrade because this woman gives off an air of kindness and approachability, even though she’s gorgeous. She’s laughing. Her smile is pretty. I can’t hate her at first sight, even though I want to. She’s wearing blue jeans and a red jacket that have nothing snobby about them, and her hair’s in a ponytail.
When I walk up, Gabriel introduces me. “Shai? This is Stacey, Brandon’s aunt. Stacey, this is Shai. She’s, ah, Michael’s therapist.”
I smile and give her my hand. “Nice to meet you.” My throat is full of bile. I want him to tell this woman, “Shai is my lover. My bedmate. The keeper of my secrets. My love. My girlfriend.” But which of those things I am, or was, or will ever be, is a mystery, locked behind his green eyes. Plus, I did tell him to seek out Brandon’s parents. And I was the one who said he should find someone new to fuck.
“Awesome!” She’s full of exuberance. “Brandy keeps talking about Michael and begging for a playdate. Except it’s to hang out. The word playdate is all wrong.” She shrugs. “Live and learn.”
Gabriel laughs, and something inside me curls up, ready to strike. When they exchange numbers and emails, I want to take their phones and stomp on them. It’s not fair, it’s not justified, and I can’t help it.
I call Kelsie and ask her to talk. She and Anna come over for coffee and cookies; Anna’s disappointed that Michael isn’t there, but I placate her with a new pack of crayons and a coloring book about the Disney Fairies from the stash I bought just for her visits, and she retreats to my front room to color on the coffee table.
My face crumples. “Things aren’t good with Gabriel.”
“Oh, Shai.” Kelsie’s voice falls like a balloon deflating. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I thought you two were figuring things out?”
I shake my head. “We figured out nothing except how to make Michael better. Allison warned me. She warned me not to get too close. She kept reminding me this was a job, and all jobs end. That these were clients, not family. But I couldn’t help it. I can’t help loving people. Why should I hold back from loving someone if I want to love them?” My voice is fierce.
Kelsie sighs. “To avoid breaking your own heart, that’s why. That’s why I could never do your job. I’d fall in love with every client and then die when I had to leave them.”
“I do die when I leave them. Or when they leave me. And this time it’s going to hurt more than ever.”
“So you’re a therapist,” Kelsie breaks in. “What would you advise a client in the same situation? What’s the best way to extricate?”
I sigh. “With children, you need to work slowly, to back away carefully and with lots of discussion so they can stand on their own and miss you less. More time between sessions. Shorter sessions. Less serious discussions. Then you develop a plan for the last meetings, and by then, the child is ready to let you go and stand on their own. Obviously I care about Michael so much. I don’t want him to suffer or be sad when I go. So I’ll do my best job to make it painless.”
“I meant about Gabe, though, too… and you.”
“Him, I don’t know. I just need to accept the fact that he doesn’t love me like t
hat.”
“Sometimes love isn’t returned the way we want it.”
Her words are true, but something flashes in my soul. It’s a knife, and I throw it into her face. “Yeah, you think?” I can’t believe my words, so bitter, so cruel. “Thanks for the life lesson. Like I don’t know that already.”
Her face expands in surprise, and I feel instant horror and regret. It’s sick. I clap my hand to my mouth. “Kelsie! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I mean, I did, but the anger’s not for you. It’s for him, it’s for me. I’m—forgive me. I’m sorry.”
Kelsie’s face is blank for a second, another second, another. I’m dying. Does she hate me? Then, to my surprise, she smiles and starts to giggle. She gets up from her chair and hugs me, and I don’t know what to say.
“So I guess this means we’re best friends,” she announces.
“We are best friends,” I say. “But because I was mean?” I’m confused.
“You told me yourself that your patients fully accept you when they treat you like shit. I guess this means you love me. You’re lucky I love you, too. Bitchy cunt.”
I widen my eyes, then smile. I’m relieved, I’m joyful. It’s weird and scary to tell another grownup that you want to be best friends, but now that she said it, I’m so happy I could dance and shout.
Arielle answers the door in nothing but a pair of lace panties, and my body reacts automatically. She rubs her chest along my shirt and whispers, “Come into the bedroom and we’ll talk later.”
This is what she wanted when she sent me no less than twelve texts yesterday. In the past, I’d have followed her in to fuck and never to talk; we’d have drifted back into our tango.
I take her shoulders and look into her eyes. “We need to talk now, Arielle. Please get dressed, okay?”
Those words alone make her eyes widen and shine with tears. She turns without a word and walks to her room, fast, coming out a few minutes later in jeans and a soft sweater, the iridescent pink on her toes glistening like pale underwater shells.
She sits on the couch and speaks without looking at me. “So is this another one of your remember we broke up speeches? I know how they go. Why don’t you just call me in a few weeks when you need a fuck.”
I sit beside her and take her hand. “This is me saying that we’re done for good, this time. Arielle, you and I? We’re not right for each other. We need to let go, and find the people who make us happy.”
“So you found someone else?” She stands up and glares at me, hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me, because I already know. It’s Shai, isn’t it.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Jesus, Gabriel, are you the stupidest man in the entire universe?”
“Arielle, let’s not go there. We’ve had some good times together. Let’s not ruin the memories that we have.” My voice is short.
“You’re the one ruining things. And she is. Who the hell does she think she is?” Her voice trembles. “Coming into your lives, spending all this time at your house, getting you wound all around her finger so fast. It’s like you do anything she says. Jump? Sure, Shai! How high? It’s pathetic. She’s manipulating you and you’re letting her!” She sits down again and takes my arm, a plea in her eyes.
“Nobody is manipulating anyone.” I keep my tone firm and even. “This is about you and me right now. Just us. And we’ve reached the end, Arielle. We’re done. We don’t make each other happy. You owe it to yourself to find a person who does. And I owe myself the same.”
“We were happy together,” she insists. “We always had a good time, you know that.” She winds her fingers through mine.
I squeeze once, but extract my hand. “We did have good times,” I admit. “But that’s not enough. A few good times scattered here and there don’t make a good life. And I think that’s what we need, each of us.”
“And you want her?” She crosses her arms and frowns.
I’m silent. Images fill my mind, Shai in my bed, the fight. I don’t answer.
Arielle searches my face, then scoffs. “She’s in your head because she’s around all the time. You just like her because she’s helped Michael. If you think about it, you don’t really like like her.” Her voice is cajoling. “Seriously, Gabriel. You’re having… transference for her. I looked it up. It’s this feeling people get when they see a therapist. They fall in love with the therapist, but it’s not real. It’s just all this emotion they feel and they think it’s love. But it’s not.”
Can she be right? Is this why I felt panic at her words? Or is my anxiety based on the fact that I fucked things up with Shai? How do I figure this out?
“I’m going now,” I tell her. “Arielle, this is better for both of us. You’ll see.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she tells me. And I don’t just see sadness in her face, I also see desperation.
I’m trying to figure out how to figure things out with Shai. She spends time with Michael, but avoids me.
I want her back, in my bed, in my arms. I want to see her smile at me. Yes, I’m scared to commit. But being without her is worse. I think I might love her.
I can tell her. I want to tell her. I want to see the look in her eyes when she hears it. I want to feel her arms go around me, because it will be so right. Right? It will either be perfect or a horrible, terrible mistake.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, wishing I could turn to Irene for advice. Then I shout out loud and bury my face in my hands. Ah, Irene. Irene. Memories flood me so fast I can barely breathe. What am I doing? How can I possibly do it all again, with someone else? Open myself up to that kind of risk? I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Will I?
A week later, Arielle tries again. Her voice is crackly on the phone. The connection is weak, and threatens to split apart every time I turn my head. “What is it?” I’m not pleased that she chose today to reach out.
“I just thought you should know some things about your perfect woman,” Arielle says, her voice gaining and losing volume second by second. I imagine her as a cartoon balloon, shrinking and expanding.
“You need to let this go, Arielle.” I arrange a stack of papers with one hand. “We’re done.”
“She’s not honest with you.”
I put down the papers, sit in the chair, focusing on her voice, curious despite myself. “Just say what it is you want to say.”
“Well, did you know that she sees a ton of other patients besides Michael? Ten others. And she spends the most time with you. Doesn’t that make you uncomfortable?” Her voice holds a challenge. “It’s kind of weird.”
“I know about her job, Arielle. As for the time, it’s something we negotiated.”
“Well, did you realize that she—she’s not very rich. I think maybe she’s hoping to get money from you. Have you seen that car she drives?”
I feel a wave of fury, white-hot, rise from my skin. “Arielle, I’m familiar with her car, and you’re way off base. This conversation is over.”
“I’m guessing she never told you that she had chemo once. I found out about her history.”
“What?” My head spins. I did the criminal background check on her, checked her education and credentials, but I stopped short of digging into her personal life.
“I figured you’d want to know, since Michael. You know.” She pauses. “You know all about my past. I never lied about that to you. Gabriel.” Her voice hitches. “I didn’t leave anything out. It was all there, for you, if you wanted it. I can tell you more about her. Do you want to know? I researched her, okay? It was when she was—”
“Stop. Quiet.” She goes silent. I manage to get out, “You said what you wanted. Don’t call me again.”
Gabriel’s in his office downtown, and I’m at the Baystock home for an early session with Michael; he has a special Robotics meeting this afternoon, so I’m here before lunch.
Michael’s doing so well that I’ve continued the cutback of therapy hours. We only meet once a week. Gabriel’s shifted his schedule and he’s
the one who takes Michael to club meetings, to the beach, to playdates. He doesn’t meet up with Kelsie or Anna; they’ve still never met. Before I finish therapy, I would like to at least introduce them, so Michael can continue to see Anna. Despite their differences, they’ve become close friends.
Next week is supposed to be our last session before a follow-up in a month or two to close out our relationship. This is the absolute right thing for their family, but it tears at me in a personal way, on a visceral level.
Honestly, Michael doesn’t actually need therapy anymore. He could still benefit from it, on an ongoing basis, but he’s no longer broken. I do the best I can for all my clients, but he means more to me than any other child I’ve worked with. I care about him so fiercely. I’ve come to love this little boy during my time here. The truth is that I don’t want to leave. I want to stay. And it’s not just for Michael. It’s all about Gabriel, too. I’m in way too deep.
Allison was right about everything. I’m not sorry I got close to them, but I feel bad for deceiving her, and worse, knowing I have to leave their lives. Because it feels like I’ll be leaving my own life behind, too. I’m in the picture now, in the portrait. When I walk out, I’ll be the one leaving the frame and going out on my own. And then I’ll have to do this all over again, and over again; start this process of loving and grieving with another child. And I don’t know how much longer I can do this. This job fulfills me and destroys me both, but they don’t even out. And what’s always terrified me the most is that if I stop doing this, what will I do next? Can I make it work full time with writing?
Arielle must walk with feet of silk, because I hear nothing but silence, then flash!—she’s in front of me, coming out of Gabriel’s room.
A Handful of Fire Page 18