by Tom Bierdz
Regrettably Wendy, my sparkling, buoyant, cerebral palsy lady was still there, bouncing through the halls in her wheelchair, waving her arms, and greeting anyone who would talk to her. She was only thirty, a little mentally challenged, but she didn’t belong in a nursing home. I had advocated for her transfer to another facility almost a month ago, but they hadn’t been able to find another placement for her. I made a few calls to try to move her up on a group home’s waiting list.
Saturday night I would usually hit the bars and clubs, looking for action. It had become as regular as combing my hair and brushing my teeth. But this Saturday I decided to try to break the cycle, get off that destructive path. So I read, watched TV, flipped back and forth between the channels, finding nothing satisfying. I was restless and bored, felt and probably looked like a drug addict trying to kick the habit, but I succeeded. I only had a couple of drinks and went to bed at a decent hour.
If I could do that two days in a row, the entire weekend, then maybe I’d become the new and improved me. Or, more correctly, the old me before all the shit hit the fan. Sunday I started to watch, ‘Meet the Press’ but grew weary listening to elected officials act like spoiled little children. ‘If you don’t give me what I want, I’m taking my bat and ball home’. I wanted to echo the words of Rodney King, “Why can’t we all get along?” I used to enjoy following the political process until I realized that the money of a few, not the citizenry, determined what direction the country would take. And the Supreme Court, which used to have my highest regard, blew me away when they ruled that corporations were people and officially made money omnipotent.
I straightened up the house, cleaned the neglected kitchen and bathrooms, had a light lunch, and then fell asleep on the couch watching the Mariners bungle another game. They could have used my friend, Bruce, but it was not his day to pitch.
Late afternoon my doorbell rang. It wasn’t the melodic four note tone I’d been used to, but an abrasive jangle. I went to the door. There stood Megan with pleading eyes, wearing a tight powder blue tee with I’M HERE FOR YOU in white lettering and a white pencil skirt. Her hair was pulled into a loose chignon. A bevy of emotions rushed through me. Surprise at seeing her there, but also anger for trespassing on my personal space. I try to give one-hundred percent when working and I treasure my time off. Therapy was draining and I needed my time to refill the well, even if I didn’t always use that time constructively. But she was beautiful and I could feel something in my core begin to warm. “How did you know where I live?”
“Bobby.”
I should have known. My phone and address is off-limits to patients to protect my privacy. I am available for emergencies but those calls go to an answering service that calls me immediately. In turn, I call the patient. “Come in,” I said.
She stood looking at me curiously until I recognized I’d been blocking the way. I moved, opened the door wide. She ambled over to the sofa, her eyes surveying my living room. Although it’s been over a year since I moved out of my house I hadn’t taken the time to finish decorating. My furnishings, though nice, were pieces taken from our four-thousand-square-foot house, items Hanna agreed to let me have. The result was haphazard and incomplete. Nothing hung on the walls. It was a work in progress. Another metaphor of my life
I sat on the other end of the sofa. “Why are you here?”
“I’m worried about Sasha. I think...” Face twitching, she swallowed before continuing, “I think she may have...” She swallowed, took a deep breath. “She’s at the lake house this weekend. Yesterday she threatened to kill herself. She was going to row herself out on the lake, far, so she couldn’t swim back. Jump into the water.” She took a deep breath, her eyes watered. “I didn’t really believe her. She doesn’t like water. She’d overdose. Like I told you before, we’re very close. And she knows I’m worried about her.” Breathing hard, she continued, “My many calls went to voicemail. So I drove out to the house. She wasn’t there. Her car was. And, then I saw the abandoned rowboat far out in the lake. I didn’t know what to do, so I came here.”
“Did you call her husband or the police?”
“Nick took the boat, the cabin cruiser, and disappeared yesterday. Sasha refused to go with him. I couldn’t reach him. I didn’t think the police would do anything.”
“There’s probably an explanation. When did you call her last?”
“Just before I came here.”
“Try her now.”
She punched in the number, her expression grave. She shook her head. “Voicemail.”
“Okay,” I said, standing, “Let’s go out there.”
We jumped into her blue metallic Mercedes SLS AMG Roadster. I guess she meant it when she said money was no object. I wasn’t up on cars, but I knew this one had to be well into six figures. The top was off and just as I was picturing us doing 100 mph down the highway, her phone ringtone played the first few bars I Knew You Were in Trouble by Taylor Smith.
She perked up.
“It’s Sasha. She took a long hike, left her phone in the cabin.” She told her sister how she worried about her, where she was and snapped the phone shut. “Sorry Grant. I guess I panicked.”
“Better that than having something happen to your sister.”
“Let me buy you dinner. Make it up to you.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Is there something you have to do?
“No, but...”
“Have you eaten?”
“No, but...”
“I’ll feel twice as guilty if you turn me down. Just dinner. You have to eat.”
I was hungry and I didn’t really consider Megan my patient as I was treating her sister, not her. Besides, I needed to get out of the house. “Okay.”
She glowed, put a band around her hair. “You like Italian?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Good! I know this little Italian place.”
She shot out of the parking space, merged into the highway, the thrust gluing my back to the seat. My earlier highway fantasy came true as we flew down the highway leaving everyone else in our wake. Talk was impossible, letting me silently experience the moment. It was thrilling.
Soon we were in a marginal area of the city where the blight was slowly undergoing a revitalization, the contrast between the decay and new construction glaring. Megan bounced over the potholes and pulled in front of a storefront restaurant, Villa d’Giorno, crammed between ramshackle brick buildings. The building across the street had been razed. Construction equipment rimmed the lot. I couldn’t imagine her leaving her car in the street, but when we entered Megan gave her keys and a ten spot to a waiter who, after showing us to a table in the corner, moved it somewhere safe.
The smells were fantastic, mouth-watering. Megan took the band out, ran her hands through her hair, rearranging it, then boldly reached over and hand-combed mine. Nonplused, I stared blankly.
She grinned and asked, “Do you mind if I order for you?”
“No,” I said, recovering, “I’ll bend to your expertise.” She had taken control, but I didn’t mind.
It felt nice, for a change, having someone else make decisions for me.
The owner, a short, jovial, Michelin-shaped man, his flesh spilling into chins and jowls, came out of the kitchen, hugged and fussed over Megan. She ate it up. I took in the restaurant. Small and homey, it was half-full, mostly with regulars I assumed, who engaged in warm conversation. In the traditional Italian decor, straw-covered wine bottles hung from the ceiling, and the tables were covered in red and green tablecloths. Megan introduced me as her friend.
“Looks like you come here often,” I said.
“Not often. I’m just a big tipper.”
The waiter, a small, elderly man with thinning, white hair who appeared too frail to ca
rry trays, brought her the wine list. She ordered a white. Sauterne, I thought.
She turned to me when he left. “You must get tips in your business. What’s the most memorable?”
I took a moment before responding. “A pair of white panties.”
Momentarily stunned, she broke out in ruckus laughter. “What did you do with them?”
“I added them to my bedroom lingerie collection.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Of course.” I wondered why I had said that. I had to keep in mind that she was not a date. “I’d get cards, baked goods, that sort of thing. Once a patient brought me a mask she brought back from a trip to Africa. You may have seen it on the wall.”
“Yes, it’s rather scary.”
“It was a warrior’s. It stimulates some good conversations.”
The waiter brought the wine, opened it, and poured a small amount into her glass.
She tasted and spit it out. “This is horrible. I won’t drink this!” She drew glances from the patrons. The waiter apologized profusely. The owner flew out of the kitchen, apologized to Megan, screamed at the waiter and ordered him to bring her a specific bottle of wine that she sampled and approved.
“I’m sorry if I offended your sensitivities, but I expect perfection when I pay top dollar.”
“No problem,” I said, hiding my embarrassment and sipped the wine which was delicious.
She ordered linguine and clams for both of us with a side salad.
“We’ve talked about your sister, but I know nothing about you, “I said, interested. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I grew up privileged in Winnetka, a Chicago suburb. My father was a psychiatrist; my mother a book editor. I hardly knew her as she died in an airplane crash when Sasha and I were very young. My father never remarried, although he had a number of serious relationships. He died from a massive heart attack when I was eighteen.”
“That had to be tough. Were you on your own?”
A sudden blankness moved into her eyes. “Legally I was an adult. I took care of Sasha who is two years younger.”
“You’re still taking care of her.”
A small appreciative grin lifted her cheeks. “I guess, but I don’t mind. She’s the only family I have.”
“Did you go on to school?”
“Many schools.” She took out a compact, checked her lipstick, added a little. “I took writing at Northwestern, went to modeling school, back to NU for drama. Sampled varied areas at different schools, but I never graduated. Didn’t have the discipline nor the patience. I needed to live in the moment. People go to school to get a good job to make good money. I was already there. I had plenty of money to satisfy my every need...”
“Married?”
“Never.”
I was taken aback. I knew women delayed marriage longer nowadays, but something about that just didn’t feel right. “I’m surprised.”
“Why? The excitement peters out of most marriages after a few years. Why stick together if there’s no chemistry? I’ve learned that serial relationships...exciting relationships...work best for me.”
I thought the peters out part Freudian. She seemed to be defining marriage purely by sex, glossing over essential areas like respect, admiration, working together and raising a family. “I’m surprised because you’re beautiful, alluring, and wealthy. A good catch.”
Glowing with the compliment, she teased her food with her fork, smiled impishly. “Last night I dreamed about you.”
“What did you dream?”
“That you and I were making love.”
Stunned. I said nothing.
“On the couch in your office. Naked.” Slowly and sensually she traced the rim of her wine glass with her finger, keeping her eyes on me.
At the same time my insides were twisting, my penis was growing beneath the table. She was ravishing and I was there with her on the couch in my imagination. Suddenly, I felt as if I was taking unfair advantage of her. I was trained to interpret dreams. She wanted me, at least on an unconscious basis. Probably on a conscious basis as well.
“So how would you interpret my dream?”
“I don’t know enough about you at this point to venture a guess. More than likely you’re projecting feelings to me you have for someone else. We call it transference. In any case, I’m flattered.” I tried to maintain a professional facade but I feared my eyes betrayed me.
“Now I’m embarrassed that I brought it up.”
“Don’t be. You made my day.”
She segued to my marriage, asking why it didn’t work. I didn’t really want to talk about it with her and responded in vague generalities. I said we weren’t able to handle our son’s suicide. It tore us apart. Our food came and I switched the subject, making small talk about the weather, restaurants to frequent, etc. The conversation was uneventful and innocent enough, yet I felt there was a subtext in her smile confident and calculating, and the ways she held me in her eyes. She was in control, a woman who knew what she wanted. Her dream played on my mind and I was flattered to be the object of her desire. She was the type of woman that men prized, wished they could be with her, but she was elusive, out of their reach. I had been like those men in the past, desiring from afar. But here we were, the two of us together. I liked being with her, liked being seen with her, knowing others envied me. I was becoming comfortable and enjoyed lingering after dinner. It was Megan who determined we should leave.
When she pulled up in front of my place, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for being there for me.”
It was a friendly peck but it was like a spark that lit a fuse and I felt the fire burning throughout my body. “I’m glad Sasha’s okay. And, thanks for dinner.”
“My pleasure,” she said, and instead of hitting a button to unlock my door, she reached over me, stretching her body so that her breasts touched my arm, and her lips were but inches away from mine, and released the lock. It took everything I had to resist grabbing and kissing her.
She saw the lust in my eyes. “I’ll see you next week at our appointment,” she said.
I went inside and poured myself a tall scotch and tried to reflect on what had just happened. I had just dined with a woman I was seeing professionally. I had no business seeing Megan in the first place. Sasha was the one requiring treatment, but was she my responsibility if she refused to come in? Yet she was in need and I could also understand her reluctance to see a therapist. And, wasn’t Megan doing the sisterly thing, availing herself of the resources to get the help for her sister who she had assumed responsibility for when she was only eighteen? Certainly, that was anxiety-provoking. Both could benefit from professional guidance. I traipsed to the bathroom, looked at the face in the mirror. Although I’d still be considered handsome by most, I was aging prematurely. Strands of gray hair flecked my maple sugar, brown hair and faint fault lines were beginning to form near the corners of my eyes and mouth. But it was those hazel eyes that expressed doubt and confusion and, if I really looked closely, lust lurked there. I had basked in her dream, enjoyed Megan’s kiss and closeness and wanted more.
4
The following Monday morning I sprang out of bed at the first ring of the alarm, eager to get to work. Hangover free, I had behaved myself this weekend, at least to the degree I wasn’t part of the bar scene. I had an early appointment and was expected to testify for the defense in a murder trial. I put on my best blue suit, a buttoned-down white shirt, and a dark conservative silk tie, grabbed a handful of Pecan Sandies to eat along the way, and headed for the office. Chilly and overcast, it felt like rain, and I regretted not taking an umbrella. I always used to keep one in the car, but since I’ve become a pedestrian I haven’t gotten into a habit of carrying one. Anybody who lived in this area of the country knew that we got a lot of r
ain in the Spring.
As I neared the building I saw Bobby stooping and picking up cigarette butts in the grass and dropping them into a paper cup. “I thought the maintenance people took care of that,” I said.
“Doesn’t look like they do.” He stood and moved toward me with a cup of butts filled to the brim. “One of the things they teach you in food service is cleanliness and presentation. For example, the table setting should be precise and everything on it spotless. Anything less turns people off. And since we’ve been losing patients, I thought I’d tidy up a bit. Make this place more inviting.”
“Concern and initiative, I like it!” I slapped Bobby on the back and entered the office surprised to see Ted Kingsley, my first patient, already seated in the waiting room, paging through a magazine. I greeted him and told him I’d be with him in a few minutes. Now I meant it when I said I admired Bobby’s concern and initiative, but Bobby had been told not to leave patients alone, unsupervised in the office. We have a drug room that is easily accessible and a number of confidential patient files that are not necessarily locked away, that could prove to be disastrous if gotten into the wrong hands. I had no doubt that Ted Kingsley was completely trustworthy, but some of my other patients might not be.
Ted was three years shy of retirement from the State Department of Transportation and our focus had been to keep him from blowing his top and his pension. Smart and extremely capable, Ted came from the private sector where creative efficiency and effectiveness was rewarded. When the company he was working for went under, he got hired by the State and got caught up in the bureaucratic quagmire where creativity was frowned upon, unless it was accompanied with jumping through layers of rings and hoops. Never an ass-kisser, anything Ted had wanted to do had been squelched to where he had built up so much resentment he had threatened to tell his boss to take the job and shove it. Which, if he did, would initially make him feel better but jeopardize his retirement. Supportive therapy where he could unleash his frustrations, and low-dose tranquilizers, had been effective in keeping him employed.