Charisma: A Novel

by Barbara Hall

  And he is still confused and can’t believe that he has come here.

  Heather returns to the table with her food.

  “I’m so excited,” she says.

  “About what?”

  “The sandwich. The tuna sandwich. What did you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sits and looks at him for a moment.

  “Were you working up your nerve to come and see me?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You could have just made an appointment.”

  “I was afraid of doing that.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here. Something has happened to me.”

  “I heard about Sarah. She’s all right now?”

  “Yes, I think so. I don’t hear from her. She was all right when she left.”

  “So something has happened since then.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Something happened before,” he says under his breath.

  Heather hears him. She says, “Tell me.”

  He launches into the Big Sur dream.

  She nods and waits as if there is more. When he doesn’t speak she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.

  “Wow. You’ve never had an experience like that.”

  “No,” he says. “Of course not.”

  “Why ‘of course not’?”

  “Because I don’t believe in it.”

  “If you didn’t believe in gravity, would you expect to go floating into space? What is it with you people and belief? Why do you even talk about it?”

  He feels cotton-headed and even a little like crying, so he quickly shifts the subject.

  “Look,” he says, “I want to come and see you. As a patient.”

  “Client.”

  “Client. Just a few sessions to hear you out and get into whatever this is.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I think it’s Generalized Anxiety Disorder because I’m getting married.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. And ironically, my fiancé is, or was, a life coach, though she is much different from you. She’s pragmatic. She sees it like training, the way you’d train a muscle. She created strategies for success and people followed them. Or not.”

  “We could do it that way. What would you like to be successful with?”

  “Everything. Work. Marriage. I want to get back on track.”

  “Okay. What was the track?”

  “I loved my job. Well, at least, I understood it. I want to understand it again.”

  “All right.”

  “And, of course, I want to be a good husband.”

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  He thinks. It comes to his mind but he doesn’t want to say it.

  She says it for him: “You want to be happy.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “No, actually. But let’s not worry about everyone else. Let’s focus on you.”

  “All right.”

  She takes her phone out and starts scrolling on it.

  “I have Tuesdays at two. Does that work?” she asks.

  “Sure. I can make it work.”

  “And that happens to be right now so do you want to get started?”

  “Oh.” He looks at his watch and then his phone but he is stalling because he knows his day is free.

  He feels something rush out of him and he thinks he might be dying. He stands in the threshold of this feeling and this moment and he knows he can only walk through the door and he knows he has to face it all, the known and the unknown and the new way of knowing and not knowing.

  “All right,” he says.

  He releases his breath and bows his head.

  “Well, you’re not being led to your execution, Dr. Sutton. Just let me finish my sandwich.”

  She touches his hand. He raises his eyes to hers.

  “It’s going to be fine,” she says.

  And he believes her.

  Chapter 35

  This morning Ryan left for South Africa. He has some kind of business there. I don’t really understand it. Something about nation-building but it is not God’s work. He makes a profit. He travels all over the world and he worries about leaving me alone but I enjoy the space. He is a kind man, and faithful, and he takes care of me and he lets me take care of him, too. This is how it works with people, I now see. We take care of each other. We don’t rescue. We take care.

  Months have passed. I didn’t feel them passing. It is the beginning of summer now. I think we came here in the summer so that means a year has probably passed. I should probably keep track of time. There’s a reason people do that but I can’t remember it anymore. I haven’t needed to worry about time for a while. For quite some time.

  But that’s not entirely true. I keep track of time in the smallest of increments. Time for breakfast. Time for a walk. Time for dinner. Time for bed. Time for Ryan to come home. That kind of time. I’m starting to believe it’s the only kind of time that matters.

  The house feels vast and quiet when he leaves and I make sure to structure my day and find ways to fill it. Space is meant to be filled, not drifted upon. I walk into town to deliver my pies to the markets that sell them. Cherry and blueberry and peach. I also deliver the scarves and pillows and skirts that I sew by hand to the high-end boutique that keeps them in stock. It is fun to talk to the proprietors and we mostly discuss the weather and the surf and what Ryan is doing. They know us as the couple on the hill. We live in a large house on a gravel road, up the hill, behind the churches. There are two churches here, a large Catholic one and a smaller Lutheran one. The Catholic church is called St. Therese Lisieux. Little T. She was a nun who snuck into a convent at a very young age and took her vows and proceeded to be plagued by illness all her life. She prayed her way out of several conditions only to succumb to tuberculosis. She said, “I want to spend my time in heaven doing good on earth.” So she is the patron saint of sick people. Any kind of sickness. You pray to her for health and well being and apparently she provides. Her presence is heralded by a single rose blooming. Wherever there shouldn’t be a single rose. That is how she lets you know she is there and that your prayer has been answered. This is what they tell me. I have no experience of it, of course.

  But I do think sometimes that this is why I found my way to The End in a town presided over by the patron saint of the sick. She keeps us well. It is her job.

  After my chores are completed, I feel a compulsion to go into Southampton. I have been entertaining the idea of peddling my wares further in, to the tonier parts of the Hamptons. My handmade garments do well enough here but Montauk does not attract the fancier people. They tend not to travel much beyond Southampton. I could make a much better living there but it’s not about the money so much. It is about stepping into my life as an artist, and that is also about not knowing. And not minding about not knowing. I believe they call it faith.

  The train is not crowded going in this direction because it is a Thursday and most people are traveling to, not away, from the Hamptons. I like to sit and stare out the window at the landscape drifting past and I think about the fabrics I’d like to work with and the dinner I am going to make. It is okay to imagine these things because I will make them happen. They are more plans than visions.

  The main street in Southampton is already crowded with weekend warriors. The women are talking in loud voices and the men are staring at their phones. The hyper energy of the city has not diffused yet. They are gearing up for fun and relaxation but they are not sure where it’s going to come from and it creates an atmosphere of nervousness. I have to breathe through that. I can’t afford to get caught up in their nerves. So I focus on visiting shops and I talk to a few owners and they show interest and I leave behind some samples and my card.

  I think about getting something to eat here and remember there is a fancy delicatessen and maybe I can get some exo
tic spices and vinegars and oils while I am here. But before I can make my way there I am distracted by a beautiful outdoor flower mart. There are so many more varieties here than in Montauk. All kinds of roses and things brought in from the city so that the Manhattanites don’t have to be too far from their creature comforts while they are desperately seeking decompression. I find the roses don’t really speak to me, though, and it is still the local flowers that want to go home with me. I am drawn to the hydrangeas, even though I know I can get them back home, but there are a few more colors here. It is over a bright blue bouquet that I catch his eye. We stare at each other for a long time, as if we might have wandered into the same dream.

  “Sarah?” he asks.

  “Hello, Dr. Sutton.”

  He smiles and wanders over to me. He is wearing plaid shorts and a Polo shirt and the same Calvin Klein glasses and Top-Siders without socks. Something about his casual weekend look throws me. It’s not the man I remember but somehow it is him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Shopping for flowers. What are you doing here?”

  “Shopping for flowers,” he says and we both laugh nervously.

  “You look very well,” he says.

  “I am very well. You look like someone who doesn’t really belong in the Hamptons.”

  He laughs. “I’m trying to be a good Roman.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll grow into it. Do you live here now?”

  “No, no. I’m here for the week. Just renting a place.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, it’s…the whole family is here. It’s a gathering.”

  “Gatherings are nice.”

  “What about you? Do you live here?”

  “Montauk,” I say. “End of the line.”

  “Oh, I hear it’s nice there.”

  “It is.”

  “Quiet.”

  “Yes. Quieter. Still the Hamptons.”

  “Right.”

  He is holding a large bundle of roses, pinks and reds.

  “That’s going to work,” I tell him.

  “What? Oh.” He laughs. “Well, let’s hope so.”

  “What did you do wrong?”

  “Nothing. Yet. How about you?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong today.”

  He laughs again. “No, I meant, are you with someone? Do you live alone?”

  “I live with Ryan. I suppose he’s my boyfriend. I never know how to describe it. We’re in a relationship.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yes.”

  He stares at his feet for a moment and I want to rescue him from whatever is making him avoid my eyes. But I don’t save anymore. I take care.

  He looks up before I can even do that.

  “Are you still an artist?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “The last time I saw you. You said you were an artist. You realized that about yourself.”

  “Yes. I guess I did.”

  “So you’re doing that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you making a living that way?”

  I laugh into my fist. “No, not really.”

  He seems alarmed. “Why not?”

  “It’s not how I make a living. It’s not about making a living.”

  He nods and his face is a gathering storm of concern.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I just don’t need to burn down the cornfield with it.”

  “It seems a shame, though. I mean, if it’s your calling.”

  “Look who’s talking about callings.”

  “I mean your talent,” he says. “Your gift.”

  “My charism?” I ask.

  This word strikes something in him and his face comes completely to life. It is a look of profound recognition.

  “Yes,” he says. “Have you found your charism?”

  I smile. “I believe it has found me.”

  “Even better,” he says.

  I hand him my business card and he stares at it for a long time.

  “It’s not as sad as all that,” I say.

  “No, I didn’t mean…”

  “Your expression. Like I’ve taken a wrong turn.”

  “Not at all.”

  “People need clothes. They need to eat.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I love providing those things.”

  “Yes.”

  “But what?”

  “I didn’t say but.”

  “Your face said it.”

  He shrugs and smiles.

  “Dr. Sutton. You of all people should know there is more than one way of expressing art.”

  “Yes,” he says. “I should know that.”

  I laugh. “You wanted me to be famous?”

  His face processes a legion of emotions and finally he says, “I only ever wanted you to be happy.”

  “I thought you wanted me to be sane.”

  He shrugs. “Same thing.”

  “Really, doctor?”

  “You have the strength to stand out,” he says.

  “And so do you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Look at what you’re wearing.”

  He looks down and blushes. “I thought I was fitting in.”

  “You’re not exactly owning it.”

  He laughs and the blush deepens. He becomes preoccupied with the roses he is carrying, repositioning them, fiddling with the loud plastic wrapping paper.

  “And you’re still working at Oceanside?” I ask.

  “Oh, no. I’m taking some time off. I might go back to school.”

  “For what?”

  “Another discipline. I haven’t decided. Maybe research.”

  “Sick of people and their problems?”

  “I think the technical term is burnout.”

  “Did I do that to you?”

  He shakes his head. “It was a long time coming.”

  “And when does this reinvention begin?”

  “Maybe next spring. I’m taking some time off until after.”

  “After.”

  He seems hesitant to say the next thing.

  “I’m getting married. That’s why we’re all here.”

  “Oh,” I say, hearing the brightness in my voice and wondering if it sounds false. It’s not meant to. It has little to do with him and his girlfriend, whom I don’t know at all despite my speculations and the rumors at Oceanside. It has to do with marriage, the way someone who has failed to attempt it feels when the announcement is made. We all want them to fail, no matter how much we claim otherwise. We wish no one well because we cannot believe in the possibility of it, having destroyed the concept ourselves. That is how I used to feel anyway, and now I realize I am having a robotic response because something in me is experiencing the slightest lift, like a tiny champagne bubble struggling to find the surface. It is a new feeling, one of hope and good will. Not for the concept of sharing a lifetime, which still seems to me an unnecessarily punishing assignment, but for the optimism in the human spirit which comes up to bat again and again. I know this act must require a great amount of faith or surrender on Dr. David Sutton’s part. And I know these aren’t oceans he has ventured to swim in before. And I still think the unknown is a thing to step into if you can handle it. He won’t just handle it. He needs it.

  How do I know this? I know it. The way that any sentient being just knows a thing. Intuition. Feeling. Not magic. The voice that is always there, turned way down to an almost imperceptible volume, which is where it should stay.

  “Congratulations,” I say to him.

  “Thank you. I’m glad I’m seeing you because I wanted to tell you. I didn’t have your address. So this is a fine coincidence.”

  What must that feel like, I wonder. The idea that we are caught up in a series of coincidences.

  Just as I’m thinking it, he says, “Or synchronicity.”

  I smile. “Listen to you.”

  “But it’s awkward, what I wanted t
o tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of your part in it.”

  “I don’t think I had a part in it. I never even met Jennifer. I saw her a couple of times but that’s all.”

  “It’s not Jennifer.”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s Heather.”

  I am rocked back for a moment. “Heather? Heather Hensen? My Heather?”

  Suddenly it all settles like a light snow and it makes perfect sense.

  “So, you see. You brought us together,” he says.

  He stares at me a moment longer and he seems to want to ask me something all important. Life altering, even. But to do so would be to negate our whole relationship, to turn the teacher into the student, the healed into the healer. I look away because neither of us is ready for that.

  “I hope it’s a wonderful wedding,” I say.

  “Thank you. Looks like the weather’s going to be on our side.”

  “Yes.”

  He glances at his watch. “Well, I still have to go to the market. Everyone’s probably thinking I engineered an escape.”

  “It’s very nice to see you.”

  “And you.”

  We stare at each other and this time I am thinking of kissing him the way he was thinking of kissing me back in the hospital room. We are thinking of much more than that, too. We are thinking of a sharp turn that would send everything in the cart flying in all directions and we are both seeing some crazy tumultuous ride full of hills and valleys and storms and sunrises and tears and euphoria. It races back and forth between us like streaks of lightning and then it settles and fades and it never was.

  “Goodbye, Dr. Sutton.”

  “Goodbye, Sarah.”

  I walk away without any flowers.

  On the train ride home I stare at the landscape again and think of what I am going to make for dinner. Maybe I’ll get some fresh corn from the market and turn it into a soup, a pale yellow sea of sweetness and warmth, chopped chives floating on top like little boats and just a touch cream, drifting across like a cloud.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.