Give Me Your Answer True

by Suanne Laqueur

  “I want my bed,” she said. “I want a giant roast beef sandwich and then I want my bed and all the pillows and a decent night’s sleep. We can go tomorrow.”

  The George Washington Bridge loomed ahead, geometric and majestic. Daisy craned her neck, hoping for a glimpse of the little red lighthouse at its base. But it was best seen from the New Jersey side.

  “Do you have to check in with anyone? You know. At…” John jerked his head at the highway behind them.

  “At the place?”

  He smiled. “The thing?”

  “A counselor will be on-call between Christmas and New Year’s. I can call if I need to. First week of January, I’m supposed to check back in with Dr. Montgomery with the name of a new therapist. Or at least show I’m trying to find one.”

  “Which one was Montgomery?”

  “The milquetoast guy with the beard.”

  “Right. Didn’t get to first name basis with him.”

  “No. Dr. Reilly was at least Mary.”

  “You didn’t dig her, either.”

  “Eh?” Daisy looked out the window, uncomfortable. She felt the therapy sessions with both Montgomery and Reilly were unproductive and somehow it was her fault. She didn’t have any profound, promising breakthroughs to share and it was embarrassing.

  John had stayed at her apartment while she was in the hospital and everything was neat and shining.

  “Oh my God, did you dust?” she said, sliding out of her coat. “I never dust.”

  “I don’t either,” he said, setting down her bag. “Julie Valente came over and cleaned. She told me to tell you the babies at Methodist Hospital miss you.”

  “I miss them too. Hope Jules didn’t find anything embarrassing while she was cleaning.”

  “I hid your vibrator.”

  Daisy swatted him then went around touching things. Home. The relief of it. She pressed her face sideways to the window and looked west down 86th Street. She could glimpse a sliver of the river between two buildings.

  John’s arms slid around her waist and he buried his face in her neck. “I missed you so much.”

  She patted his wrists with a small noise of appreciation and her shoulders stiffened slightly. She knew he’d been missing and worrying and thinking about her for two weeks, knew he’d want to make love. And she had zero interest.

  He moved her hair and kissed her neck, pulling her back tight against him. Carefully, she turned in the circle of his arms and put her face against his chest.

  “I know you’re dying,” she said. “And we will. Just let me…be home a little while.” She turned her head up to him. “All right?”

  “I’m not dying,” he said, running his hands along her spine. “Slightly starving. But not dying.”

  She hugged him hard. “Later. Promise. I’m tired right now.”

  The phone rang.

  John kissed her head. “I got it. Go lie down.”

  Touched at how he was keeping a barrier between her and the world, Daisy kicked off her shoes, ripped open the duvet and slid in between the sheets. With a luxurious groan she rolled face-down in the pillows, inhaling fresh clean familiarity. She ignored the twin wolves of guilt and worry parked on the rug.

  It’s not my fault we only got to make love once and I ended up hospitalized twenty-four hours later.

  One wolf turned its head with a disgusted look in its yellow eyes.

  All right, fine. You’re right. It was my doing. I’m sorry.

  She closed her eyes, exhaling heavily.

  Sexual drive was first out and last in, she was told. Dr. Montgomery said it. Dr. Reilly said it. Everyone said it.

  “They put you on Prozac?” April, her roommate at the hospital said. “Welcome to the zero libido club, kid. Kiss your orgasms goodbye. And wait until the night sweats kick in, it’s a blast.”

  Kid set Daisy’s teeth on edge, along with the gleeful warnings. She’d just been admitted to a psychiatric hospital—sex was the furthest thing from her mind. But as the days accumulated, she was alarmed at how distant a dream sex became. How utterly uninteresting. Even her trusty go-to reenactments of lovemaking with Erik only brought a dull warmth, blurred and dim, as if behind dirty sunglasses.

  “It will all come back,” Montgomery said. “It’s not your body’s priority right now.”

  She kept asking her body if it was sure. On restless, anxious nights when she touched herself to bring on sleep, nothing would work. She kept grinding the key in the ignition but the engine wouldn’t turn.

  “Give it time,” Reilly said. “Try not to think about it too much.”

  Daisy rolled onto her side, wondering if thinking about how much she still didn’t think about sex qualified as thinking about sex.

  With another explosive sigh, she rolled the other way, tucking her cold hands between her knees. Let it be, she thought. You’re home. You’re in your bed. Now is now, later is later. Be honest with him and do what you can. Tomorrow you’ll be at La Tarasque.

  Her eyes opened.

  Her mother would probably put her and John in the carriage house.

  Do you ever think of marrying me?

  The bedroom door creaked open. “You asleep?”

  “Not yet.”

  He laid down next to her, holding a scrap of paper. “That was my mom. She had a few numbers for you. Therapists on the West Side you could try.”

  “Oh.” She freed a hand and took the slip. Scanned the four names without interest and twisted to set it down on her night stand. John’s hand smoothed her hair as she faced him again and burrowed into the covers.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” he said.

  He looked adorable, stretched out on his side, his head pillowed on one bent arm. His use of “home” was relaxed and unassuming, asking nothing of her but her company. She slid her hand around the back of his neck, filled with a true and tender gratitude for everything he’d done for her. Pulling up close to him, she whispered against his forehead, “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  DAISY RAN HER FINGERS over the cap of her left shoulder. Nearly three months after she cut herself with the pencil sharpener, the scars were barely perceptible. “These are almost gone. The ones around my waist and back are taking longer to fade.” She pulled her T-shirt sleeve down and drew up the lapel of her cardigan.

  “How do you feel about them fading?” Rita said.

  Daisy smiled. “You always know what to ask.”

  “It’s my job.”

  She picked at the rough edge of her fingernail. “Is it weird to say I miss them? That I feel almost mournful when I notice how they’re disappearing?”

  “Not at all,” Rita said. “Cutting has two aspects. One is to release pain and the other is to have a physical, or rather visual, manifestation of pain.”

  “It’s about the scar.”

  “Yes. And it can often be difficult when the scars fade.”

  Daisy nodded and drew in a breath. “Which is why I’m here with you.”

  Rita smiled as she drew off her glasses and cleaned them with one of her cuffs. “I’m curious what made you choose me from the list John’s mother gave.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “We have mutual colleagues. I know who she is but I don’t know her personally. Would it bother you if I did?”

  “Yes,” Daisy said. “And to answer your original question, I picked you because you were a four-block walk from my apartment.”

  Laughing, Rita put her glasses back on. “Convenience first.”

  The silence shuffled around, getting comfortable.

  “So I’m back at work,” Daisy said.

  “What’s that like?”

  “I’m a little out of shape but everyone’s being nice to me. And it’s a relief that class is still my friend. I mean it seems no matter what happens, dancing is still a constant. First position is always first position. I put my hand on the barre and put my feet in first and two pliés later, everything goes away. I guess I need to find th
e equivalent for when I’m not in class or onstage.”

  “What do you like to do?”

  “Read. I started knitting again. I did it a little in college—Taylor Revell taught me. But I never got into it as a hobby. I remembered it while I was in the hospital and my mom brought me some yarn and a pair of needles. Big fat ones, it’s like knitting Fisher Price style. I find working with my hands to be relaxing. Something meditative about it and I don’t much care about the end product.” She smiled. “I sound like David. Get there but not be there. I like to knit but not to have knitted something. Anyway…”

  “How do you feel, physically? Are the meds giving you any issues?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I feel better, no question. I don’t have that constant anxiety. The daily road of life isn’t filled with sudden sinkholes. I’m eating and I’m sleeping.”

  “Are you having disturbing dreams?”

  “Not disturbing, but vivid. Vivid and weird. And the night sweats, oh my God.”

  “Yes, unfortunately it’s one of the adverse effects.”

  “It’s so gross. It’s not even a clean sweat but that really slimy post-workout drench. I’m killing four pairs of sheets a week and for no fun reason.”

  “How is your sex drive?”

  “Out to lunch. Every now and then I’ll feel like it but it’s always a passive thing. Like I can have sex because I can tolerate it. Like I know John wants to and I think yeah, all right, I can do it for him, I can accept him into me tonight and find something in it. But I never feel spontaneously sexy. I’m never…horny. I’m never fully connected. I don’t lose myself in it and I can’t have an orgasm to save my life. And frankly, that sucks. I’ve never come with John. I tell him not to feel bad about it because I can barely make myself come.”

  Rita flipped the pages of her notebook. “You’re on the Prozac alone, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to write you a scrip for Wellbutrin. It’s shown to be effective in treating SSRI-induced sexual dysfunction. We may have to fiddle around with the dosage but let’s give this a try.”

  “All right.”

  “This isn’t the most professional of observations but life is so much easier to deal with when you’re getting laid properly.”

  Daisy worried her teeth at her thumbnail as Rita was writing, her throat dry around unspoken words. Poised on the edge of a secret, caught between hiding and telling. Why was hiding so much easier?

  “Funny,” she said, and cleared her throat. “The one thing that always turns me on is when John touches my scars.”

  Rita finished writing, tore the slip off her pad and handed it to Daisy. “Can you tell me more?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she pressed her lips tight, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re safe here,” Rita said.

  “I don’t know what it is. He runs his fingers over them… The ones on my back. The two deep ones that won’t ever fade. He touches them and I love it. I’m glad they won’t fade. In a sick, twisted way I’m proud of them. God, I’m such a coward.”

  She thought Rita was unsurprisable but for the first time in two months of sessions, Rita’s face registered true shock. “You’re a coward?” she said. “Why do you say that?”

  “They’re on my back,” Daisy said. She was crying now. “I cut the deepest on my back where I wouldn’t have to see. He has to look at them. And he runs his fingers over them and he hates them, but I love it. Sometimes it’s the only intimate touch I love.” She yanked a tissue from the box and held it to her eyes. “I cut where I couldn’t see. It’s so passive-aggressive.”

  Her shoulders went limp as she blew her nose. A euphoria existed in unburdening her heart. She felt a little sick inside, yet the buzz beneath the skin of her face was almost pleasant.

  “You set so little value on your own strength,” Rita said.

  “Because I feel like I’m weak. And stupid.”

  “You toughed it out after the shooting. Worked your ass off to make a comeback only a year later. You toughed it out through drug withdrawal. You’re still toughing out a cruel emotional desertion by your lover. Where most people would bottom out, you quickly regrouped after you lost your job, came to one of the hardest cities in the world to make a living as an artist and found work. On your own. You have little free time, yet volunteer to comfort infants who are detoxing from heroin. You’re one of a handful of cuddlers with the stomach and the strength to hold that kind of screaming. These are not small feats, Daisy, nor accomplishments made by idiots. On one hand, I’m aghast at what you suffered alone. On the other hand, I don’t often encounter your kind of resiliency and it’s not something to be dismissed.”

  Before Daisy could process the speech, maybe preen a little, Rita went on.

  “Why do you tough everything out alone? What happened to the courage to be a mess?”

  Open-mouthed, spent and stunned, Daisy could only shake her head. “I don’t know what happened to me.”

  Rita’s eyes flicked to her watch and she smiled. “Something to think about for next week.”

  But Daisy still sat frozen, turning Rita’s words over in her mind. “Do you really believe,” she said, “what Erik’s been doing to me is cruel?”

  It took Rita a moment to answer. Daisy could see her mind’s gears turning, measuring words and weighing their objectivity.

  “I don’t know him,” Rita said. “But I believe what you did hurt him terribly. And I also believe he could have made better or different choices to deal with it. I sometimes wonder why he chose such total disconnection.”

  “I wonder, too,” Daisy said. “Every day I wonder.”

  THERAPY LEFT HER SO EMOTIONALLY SHREDDED, she tried to schedule her appointments on the days when she wasn’t performing. After a late afternoon session, she had just enough energy to stumble the four blocks home and trudge up the two flights of stairs to her apartment.

  John was already there. At her parents’ insistence, she gave him a key.

  “I want him to be able to get to you,” Joe said, in a tone that brooked no discussion.

  John didn’t abuse the privilege, and always let her know when he’d be letting himself in on his off nights, which he tried to schedule with hers whenever he could.

  He was napping. Daisy tiptoed and heeled off her shoes as quietly as possible. Without opening his eyes he put out an arm and folded back the quilt for her. She slid beneath, moved into the warm nest he made.

  She sighed. Of all the simple pleasures in life, lying down was in the top five.

  His arm with the quilt closed over her, tucking her in. “Get beat up?” he whispered.

  “Bruised.”

  He cuddled closer, his mouth against her temple. “Poor thing.”

  “So tired.”

  “Shh. Go to sleep.” He held her tight, his arm heavy and protective across her chest, one of his calves over hers. It took five minutes for her ears to sort out the ambient sounds of the city outside and weave them with the ocean waves of John’s breathing. Her thoughts slowly dissolved and she fell into a deep, motionless rest. When she woke up, the room had gone dark and John’s hands were on her with a different heaviness.

  It was easiest when she was still wreathed in sleep. Her body more open to sex when she was slightly lethargic. It wasn’t bad. It was sex—it didn’t suck. But she was always conscious of how she made love to John, not with him. How she surfed the waves of his pleasure, knowing how happy it made him when she responded to his overtures. Even happier when she extended them—slid a hand down his pants while he was cooking, climbed on top of him in bed or stepped into the tub while he was showering.

  Seeing him happy filled her with a genuine joy. It was a lot like the joy of daily barre work: Daisy loved being in class but she often hated going to class. Getting up and dressed and motivated was a drag. But the only way to be there was to go. In the same way, she made herself initiate sex, knowing some kind of pleasure was usually wai
ting for her. Even if it was only feeling John’s smile against her mouth. She loved his smile.

  She sighed.

  “I love conversations that start with sighing,” he said. He was curled up naked behind her, their hands twined between her breasts.

  “Rita gave me a new script,” she said. “It’s supposed to help with the lack of sex drive.”

  The chuckles in his chest vibrated against her back. “You have such charming pillow talk.”

  She squeezed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  His arm tightened around her. “I’m teasing. I’m all about whatever makes you feel better.”

  “You’re so sweet to me,” she said.

  “I’m not sweet, I’m greedy,” he said, curving a hand around her breast.

  She knew he was. Greedy for the tsunami of her own passion to crash over him for once. To see her crumbling under the weight of desire. Undone and uninhibited in the dark.

  “You’re sighing again,” he said. “Is this angst or afterglow?”

  “I detect some sass here.”

  “I’m sorry, what? You respect my ass, dear?”

  She grabbed a throw pillow and whacked it over her shoulder. “Cute.”

  He put his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder and pulled her close. He was adorable. Sweet, sympathetic and attentive. And patient.

  “Like a polar bear,” Daisy said to Lucky at lunch the next day. “Waiting for the seal to poke through the ice.”

  “You could do worse,” Lucky said. “And he dances.”

  “True.” It was the one arena where John left Erik in the dust. Any night off they could coordinate together, they went out dancing. Clubbing. Or Swing 46. Ballroom, square dancing, country line dancing, a polka night at the Polish-American Club. Nothing was beyond them, beneath them or too hokey.

  (“Greek Orthodox liturgical dance workshop,” Daisy said, reading from The Village Voice.

  “Bring it,” he said.)

  Lucky stirred her ice tea and tapped the spoon on the rim of the glass. “How is Opie in bed? I always wondered.”

  “You did?”

  “No, just making girl talk.”

  “He’s fine. I mean, he’s great. I’m the boring one.”