by Jack Kinsley
Helen looked at him curiously, grabbed her purse from the kitchen table, and followed Travis out to the patio.
— — —
Travis and Helen sat around a large woven patio set that was dwarfed by the expanse of red brick under it. The Pacific Ocean was a mirror to the sky, grey and still, except near the shore where a light pattern of wind drew its course like fingers against smooth velvet. Helen listened thoughtfully while Travis recounted the details of all that had materialized in her brief absence. It was shocking how much could happen at Crystal Heights in the span of a day, or even a few hours.
When Travis finished, Helen dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a tissue from her bag and commented on how much she'd missed Little Jack's greeting this morning. And so had Travis — the heartwarming sound of his collar jingling down the hall, growing louder, quickening, and then the sudden appearance of his curious head looking up.
"The son of a bitch deserves a bigger punishment than just getting kicked out of here," Travis told her.
"Before we get to all of that..." she held up a hand for him to stop, and then added her own bit of shocking news to the fray of current events, "I should tell you that Dick was found dead in a hotel room last week." There wasn't any hint of surprise in her tone.
Travis found it odd that she'd deviated and thrown this into the mix after everything he'd just told her. He'd expected her to grill him about Devon's and Jordan's aftercare plans, at least give him some hell about kicking Jordan out, but instead, she was focusing on a past, dead client. Travis then realized he was being wrapped in one of her riddles — a think-for-yourself moment.
"Where?" was all he could ask.
"Does it really matter where?" she said and looked over the Pacific, giving him time to think about it.
Travis joined her gaze over the water and thought about Dick. He really was a dick. The man had no tolerance for anything under the sun. He hadn't been popular with the staff, or with any of the other clients in the house at the time — but of course nobody deserved to die from the drink.
Travis continued to work on Helen's riddle, and then her point suddenly drove into him. "Oh, you think just because I stopped Jordan from wasting away in a hotel room before, that he'll be next?" She wasn't letting him off the hook for kicking him out.
"Well? I don't think it would surprise anyone. Would it?"
No, it wouldn't, he thought.
Jordan's financial success hadn't guaranteed him of anyone really caring for him. He'd taken care of everyone else in his life, but nobody would be looking after him — certainly not the other drunks he kept company with, who only seemed to take advantage of his generous nature. The thought of Jordan dying alone in a hotel room crushed Travis, but he couldn't bring him back.
"I can't be responsible if he doesn't seek help outside Crystal Heights," he told Helen. "And I don't want him here."
The only thing Travis did want at this very moment was another hit of Valium — he longed to swim in its calm waters. It would temporarily erase Ana's name from his mind, and also relieve him of the morning Adderall that was chewing at his insides. He picked nervously under his fingernails.
"Do you know where he's going?" Helen asked.
"Sarah tried to get him into Saviors, but she thinks he's checked himself into the Malibu Beach Inn instead."
Helen nodded, as if to say, I told you so.
He ignored it. "Sarah said she'll pay him a visit tomorrow. See how he's getting on." The sound of his own voice sounded distant and a bit off, and he could feel the weight of Helen studying him.
"As will I," she said. "And he will likely refuse, being the stubborn man that he is."
Travis knew her comment was also meant for him, the way she drilled her eyes into him.
"But I'll try," she told him.
It was common for Helen to continue seeing clients outside of Crystal Heights, a typical piece of their aftercare programs, but Travis didn't like the idea of her meeting with Jordan. He could only count on Jordan's pride getting in the way.
"What about Devon? Where's he headed?" she asked.
"I'm guessing straight to his cave to hunker down and run a marathon through the streets of Grand Theft Auto."
"I'll also pay him a visit tomorrow."
Travis exploded. "Forget about that piece of shit! He can rot and wither for all I care. Serves him right for what he did to Little Jack. And he was knockin' boots with Nathalie. Jeopardizing the recovery of my clients? Screw him and his father — he can hide his son in someone else's closet." Travis spotted an ant crawling across the patio table and flicked it into oblivion.
Helen looked him over with her clinical eyes. She took her time to respond, seemingly waiting for his outrage to dissipate from their conversation.
Then she told him, "Travis, you may punish a child who has done wrong, but you would never banish them altogether to wither and die. And besides, when someone can't differentiate right from wrong, you can't hold them responsible for their action. It's like telling a baby to quit being such a baby. It doesn't know any different. We all have expectations and make demands from this world in the ways we've been conditioned, and to understand Devon is to know how he developed and find the best way to help him."
"Help him? You know I can't stand the 'don't blame me, that's just who I am' defense. 'It's not my fault because of the way I've been treated.' That's bullshit. It's just another excuse to keep their sick habits going. What the hell are we doing here, anyway? Since when have we started encouraging our clients to play the victim?"
"Look," Helen leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee, her motherly instincts on cruise control. "I'm not allowing anyone to use any labels here of any kind — and certainly not one of 'victim.' But you have to understand, Devon is not our typical client — if we can even generalize a typical client. But he's got a whole set of issues that are well outside the realm of addiction." She leaned back into her chair and observed him. "And since when have you started playing therapist?"
Her last comment resonated with him and shut him down at once.
Oh, how he wished for a little help from one of his blue friends right now — maybe two friends. A pair would erase even more of his memory. Travis looked down and caught himself digging aggressively under the fingernails of his left hand with his index fingernail. It was becoming a bad habit and the repetition was permanently scarring white inverted V-shapes under a few of his nails. He caught himself and stopped, but not before he saw Helen make a mental note of it — and she had a bullshit detector working twenty-four-seven.
"Why do you think Devon killed Little Jack?" she asked.
"It was him, without a doubt. He even talked about hurting small animals in your sessions together. I read your notes."
"No," she said, and then repeated. "Why do you think Devon killed Little Jack?"
It was another one of her riddles, but he simply didn't have the brain power for it this morning — or just didn't care that much about Devon.
"Because he's an asshole?" he told her.
"Travis, if you're going to play therapist, then you need to at least understand the issues. And in therapy, you never accept the obvious conclusion."
He considered this and said, "Because he was jealous of Nathalie? He didn't like that she was giving more attention to the pup than she was to him?"
"Better, but you still don't know the reason why."
Because he is an asshole, Travis thought again, but then told her, "I'm listening, but let's not forget that Betsy's on her way and Nathalie is waiting for you."
Helen didn't acknowledge the time constraint; she sat back in her chair a little further. "Devon harbors resentment toward his parents for neglecting him — their lack of unconditional love while raising him. And in turn, he seeks out to destroy the very thing he had wanted, and continues to want most. He craves unconditional love. To be accepted for who he is. And small animals are helpless and dependent. They are true reciprocators of unconditi
onal love, something Devon was incapable of experiencing. His urges, created out of envy and jealousy, trigger a strong desire to kill what he can't have. He needs my help, and with your permission, I would like to continue working with Devon, privately."
"Why do you want to help him?" Travis asked.
"Because I can," she said as a matter of fact. And that was it with Helen Ross: she could go on a monologue for ten minutes, or simply shoot three words in your direction to end the subject.
"If you choose to work with Devon, and I strongly advise against it, there can't be any association with myself or Crystal Heights. Devon's father is a huge concern, for obvious reasons."
"We won't speak of it any further," Helen said.
"And there will no remuneration on my part," Travis continued. "Any of the usual commission Crystal Heights would make on those sessions should be donated, or handled however else you see fit." The word 'remuneration' repeated in Travis's head — a word normally used in the heap of legal jargon. He couldn't remember ever being so formal with Helen.
"It'll only be charity therapy." This is how she liked to refer to it.
Helen charged a considerable sum for her services, the highest pay scale a therapist could reasonably charge, but she consistently gave her time gratis to the ones who couldn't afford it. More often, it was for those who didn't believe they needed it.
Travis then moved onto the biggest fish he needed to fry this morning. "After your session with Nathalie, can you meet with our newest client, Dallas Vallero? He arrived unexpectedly this morning, and from the looks of him, he needed a session yesterday."
"I'm sorry, but I can't this morning. I have another session in LA at noon," she replied. He was aware of her watching him work methodically under each of his fingernails. Then she asked directly, "Have you been using again?"
The question hit Travis like a cannonball to the stomach. He stopped working at his fingertips.
He sat up properly in his chair.
"No. I took something to help me fall asleep last night, nothing more than what was needed. Don't worry, I made a promise to you and I'm keeping it." He did his best to lie.
"Do we need to book more sessions together?"
"No, really, I'm fine."
"You men," she shook her head. "You're all the same — thinking you can plan for everything, but death is the one thing no one plans for."
Was this another one of her riddles? he thought, but instantly gave up trying to solve this one.
"We made a lot of progress together," she continued. "Remember to use the tools I gave you. And forgive yourself, for Christ's sake. What's the date?" She thought for a moment; understanding washed over her face. "Yeah, it's about that time of year. Stop mentally whipping yourself, Travis. Marilyn would have wanted you to live a full life, no matter what went down. And remember...there's no point living in shame out of respect for the dead."
Travis stood, signaling that the conversation was over. Helen knew everyone's secrets at the rehab, including his, but he didn't want to hear another word about it. He'd push that memory back with ten milligrams of pure blue bliss after their meeting.
"Let's talk about this another time. You're already running late for Nathalie."
She observed him a last time as a therapist and then stood. "I'll be back this evening," she said, and pushed her chair under the patio table. "In the meantime, I suggest someone keep Dallas busy. The last thing I want is someone playing therapist with him, but if he's in dire straits, then there's some truth to the old adage 'misery loves company.' After all, Shinjū isn't widely practiced with addicts."
Travis stared blankly at her.
"Double suicides," she said, and opened the patio slider.
"Hey, Helen," he stopped her. "Guess what?" he said, giving her the signal that he wanted a quick banter with her. It was a game they often played. They called it Spinning the Positives.
"I stepped in dog shit today," he told her. "What do you say to that?"
"Well, at least you know your best friend is nearby," she answered.
They shared a genuine chuckle, but it soon turned into the solemn realization that Little Jack was dead and waiting for cremation.
Nathalie had decided to have a memorial diamond made from the carbon of Little Jack's ashes.
— — —
Inside the house, there was a rush of excitement in anticipation of Betsy's imminent arrival. Lucy carefully arranged a striking bloom of pink lilies on the dining room table — it would later be placed on Betsy's nightstand. Betsy's Jacuzzi tub had already been lined with a set of eucalyptus three-wick candles, and Diane was outside beating the plush bedside rug made of high-pile shag that would welcome Betsy's feet when she got in and out of bed. Chef Tom had made a quick run to Whole Foods — he'd changed his mind and menu — in order to prepare Betsy's favorite dish, green chicken curry. Travis told him to watch the spice, but Chef Tom assured him he would only use one red pepper instead of three. Betsy's preferred masseuse had been called in and had initially declined, but then quickly agreed to the last-minute appointment when she found out it was Betsy.
Even Sarah had been eager to please, and ordered a foam wedge bed pillow for Betsy online. It would be fine back support for her when she watched TV and read in bed, but unfortunately it wouldn't arrive for a few days. Sarah had also confirmed with Dr. Haycock that he would stop by and have a quick look at Betsy — the son of a bitch even managed to squeeze an early lunch out of Chef Tom for coming at a moment's notice; he would take it to go.
Dani stood in the middle of everything, eavesdropping on all the conversations, but she didn't ask what all the hoopla was about. Travis was getting ready to offer her a seat on the couch and something to drink to get her out of the way, when Lucy approached him. Her horrible bangs were in her face. He had to wait for her second attempt before she formed a coherent question.
"Should I draw her a bath?" she finally constructed with some clarity.
"For who? Betsy?"
Her bangs bounced yes in front of him. This was typical — she was always over-thinking or under-thinking everything; there was rarely the happy medium.
"Now? She still needs to see the doctor and who knows what else."
"Not now, I mean later, after all of it."
He took a deep breath, remembering one of Helen's life lessons. "Yes, I think it would be a wonderful idea. You can ask her when she comes in."
A bright, innocent smile slowly spread across Lucy's face. Travis couldn't help but find it stupidly endearing, and was happy he hadn't told her what he'd really thought about her idea.
"She just pulled up!" Sarah announced, walking into the living room. "Travis, you come with me, and the rest of you can greet her when she comes into the house. We don't want to overwhelm her."
Travis joined her at the front door and watched Betsy make her grand entrance through the front gate with her chauffeur. She looked frail. She'd lost a tremendous amount of weight since Travis had seen her last, and her skin and muscle hung loose from her bones. She moved slowly and cautiously with a newly acquired walker, inching and scraping the green tennis balls along the red brick toward the front door where they waited for her. Her loyal chauffeur followed closely behind, giving her independence, but ready for a sudden slip with a hand inches from her waist, as if keeping her steady by some invisible cord.
Travis and Sarah decided instinctively at the exact same time to go and assist her, bumping into each other like a couple of grandkids, but Betsy ordered them to stop.
"You two stay right there," she told them. They froze in their tracks. "The pampering doesn't start until I get in there myself. Not a moment sooner."
After another full minute, she arrived at the door and then daringly let go of the walker. "Now get that damn thing out of my sight," she told her chauffeur, waving a bony hand at it, and then stretched her grasp out to Travis. He immediately took her arm and thread it through the eyehole of his elbow and arm; they looked like they w
ere entering a church wedding.
"It's good to have you back," he told her as they walked in.
Sarah came to her other side and rubbed her back. "Are you hungry?"
"Oh, no. I had a late breakfast," she said, and a bit of rooster skin shook under her neck. She turned to her chauffeur. "Get the rest of the bags, will ya?" He nodded and bee-lined out the gate. "There goes a true gentleman right there, if you're still looking for one," she told Sarah.
"I've got one, but starting to think I don't need one at all."
"So young and so pretty...and so smart. I wish I would have figured that out in my prime. God knows what I would have done without one." She laughed.
"Hey, there's still one in your presence," Travis pointed out.
"Yeah, but that's not your fault," she teased him. "Now, I don't want you guys making too much of a fuss over me. Okay? These legs may have run out of some juice, but there's still a lot of fire in here."
"Wouldn't doubt it for a second," Travis said, but he was seriously concerned about her current state. She was emaciated — had lost a few dress sizes for sure — and looked like she'd skipped her seventies altogether, seemingly eight-six instead of sixty-eight. There wasn't a time when Travis had believed in Sarah's intuition more, but he couldn't have been happier to have Betsy back — no matter what the future held for her.
When the three of them rounded the corner into the living room, they were greeted by a small welcoming party. It was only staff; Dani had respected the unspoken rule of giving new clients their privacy during admissions, and Nathalie was busy with Helen. Hugs were shared all around, everyone taking their turn, and a beam of light shone from Betsy at their genuine affection.
Then Helen made a surprise visit and held her longer than anyone, rubbing the bumps of Betsy's spine that could be seen through the back of her silk blouse. She told Betsy how much she looked forward to spending time with her later that night, and then excused herself to return to Nathalie's room.
While everyone briefly caught up with each other, Dr. Haycock walked in. It brought the conversations to a halt and it was an awkward moment when he approached Betsy — they didn't know whether to hug or shake hands. The doctor finally gave her a hug, but Travis believed it was only out of social obligation. The doctor waited for almost a full minute while Betsy finished her conversation with Sarah, who was giving her the bad news about her favorite suite not being available (Dani and Nathalie were currently in it), but they had put her in the Florence suite, with the pool view. Betsy said it wasn't a problem, but Dr. Haycock's presence and impending physical evaluation killed the natural flow of their exchange. He stepped forward to signal that he was ready to meet Betsy in private.