Glimpse

by Renee Wakefield

  “You suffered some pretty serious injuries. A lot of trauma, both mental and physical. Even though physically you are almost fully recovered, it is natural for there to be a period of adjustment.”

  That’s not it though, is it? It’s not just the accident. The accident was merely the start. Accidents are part of life. Shit happens. This is something else.

  “I’d like… I need something to help me sleep.”

  That glare again. He probably doesn’t need an x-ray machine, he can see straight through me.

  “How would you classify yourself as a sleeper? Before the accident?”

  Before the accident? As in, Old Ellie? What does that matter? Old Ellie has left the building.

  “Before? Good.”

  The Doc appears to contemplate this. He’s not. He’s merely pausing before he says no. “Insomnia is not generally consistent with your type of injuries.”

  “I just can’t get comfortable.”

  He pauses again. More pretending. A well practised face. “The Vikadil is quite strong. I’m hesitant to mix it with anything unnecessarily.”

  Fine, get me off the Vikadil then. I need to sleep. To get away. I don’t bother to say this. He won’t listen.

  “I’m inclined to leave it for now. Sleep is a natural state for the body. People run into trouble when they medicate unnecessarily instead of getting back into good natural routines. We can redress this next time if necessary.”

  Whatever. I pout and refuse to look at him. Not that it does me any good.

  I hate waiting rooms. I have become somewhat of an expert in them over the past few months. This one is particularly abhorrent. The chairs are uncomfortable and the cushion fabric scratchy, even through clothes. The seats are too close together too, which wouldn’t be a problem if the room wasn’t busy, except it always is.

  I sit here, spent. The doctor’s appointments are invasive and intrusive, but at least there was a comfort in there. Out here I am exposed. I can sense the real world closing in already.

  I have to wait while Buckley chats with the doctor. They talk in hushed tones, occasionally glancing in my direction. They are talking about me and make no effort to pretend otherwise. It’s kind of humiliating. Clearly, I lack the basic sense to take care of myself.

  Could I find a new doctor somehow? One more sympathetic to my needs? The type of dodgy doctors they have in films who prescribe anything and happily turn a blind eye.

  Buckley is immaculately dressed as usual. The woman at reception keeps peering over at him. Not subtly either. She doesn’t bother to look in my direction, even though she knows full well Buckley is with me.

  Sharon asks me about Buckley.

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else would you like to know?”

  “I would like you to tell me about him.”

  I push myself back in the chair. “Ummm, okay. We’ve been together for three years. Since just after school.” The right words to sum up Buckley don’t want to come for some reason. He shouldn’t be difficult to explain. “He is perfect. He’s just… yeah, perfect.”

  Sharon waits, expecting more. “That’s all you’ve got? He’s perfect?”

  “It’s not a usual question, describe your boyfriend. He’s just Buckley.”

  Sharon’s frown tells me to try harder.

  “I don’t know. He’s magnetic.”

  “Magnetic?”

  “It’s like… Everyone likes him. Except it’s more than that. People want to like him before they have even met him. He’s just got that presence. He walks into a room and commands attention. And then when he talks to you, he makes you feel like you’re the most important person in the whole world. And I don’t mean just me as his girlfriend. Anyone who meets him feels like that.”

  The idea of Buckley makes me smile. “It’s funny. I see people looking at him all the time. Women especially. He is very desirable.”

  “How does it make you feel? Other women looking desirably at him?”

  “I never use to care. Because he’s mine. He loves me. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “I never used to care?”

  I don’t respond. Sharon feels she has to qualify her statement. “You said ‘I never used to care.’”

  I know what I said.

  Sharon fixes me with one of her long stares. “Buckley is not perfect. And you don’t think he is either.”

  Great. Now she is telling me what I think. A crease forms in my brow, but I don’t say anything.

  “Do you blame Buckley for the crash?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Because he was driving.”

  “So? Accidents happen. It’s not like he was trying to kill me.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “He was driving when he shouldn’t have been driving.” She takes her time. “In addition, he was driving in a manner in which he shouldn’t have been driving. It was reckless at best.”

  I’m not sure the best way to respond, so I settle for folding my arms across my chest and shaking my head. It’s the best I can do. This is why I hate therapy. I have to do my best to be honest with her all the time and she can say whatever she likes to me, even if it’s horse shit.

  The streets flash by in a blur as the car gently hums along. I look out the window to avoid Buckley’s gaze. I can sense him watching me the whole time, even when his eyes should be on the road. There is a temptation to tell him to pull over. So we can sit there and talk. Talk at all through. Lay it all out. Put all my cards on the table. I know he would like that. The problem is there is no way I could do it. So instead I ask:

  “Was it okay getting out of work?”

  This is what we have been reduced to. Banal, meaningless pleasantries.

  “It was fine. Of course. Don’t worry about it.”

  It’s possible his kindness and concern might crush me.

  We pull up out front of my slick, glass office building.

  “Just say the appointment ran long. They’ll understand. Come home.”

  The very suggestion grips my insides like a vice. I shake my head. “I can’t. Thanks for… the lift.”

  I mean more. Much more. Thanks for the lift, thanks for being there, thanks for taking time out of your day, thanks for driving me, thanks for being you. The list goes on. However, what I say comes out small and insignificant.

  “See you.” I reach for the door.

  “Ellie…” Buckley rattles a small container of Vikadil.

  “Thanks.” I attempt to take the bottle with me but he is wise to my trickery. He doesn’t let go.

  “Here.”

  Resentfully I tear open the container and swallow two pills with a swig of water. I glare at him, opening my mouth to prove I’ve swallowed them. Like I am the naughty mental patient character in a movie or TV show. It’s a futile gesture intended to rile him. He merely smiles kindly which makes me feel worse than if he had reacted. This is stupid. It’s not Buckley’s fault and I’m not angry with him. But he’s the one who is here.

  “I’ll see you tonight.”

  I don’t respond. It’s challenging to form words while concealing two tablets under my tongue. I wait until I am at the office door and he’s driven away before I spit the Vikadil into the small garden that surrounds the front of the office.

  3

  My office is like a person who desperately wants to be liked. There was talk of installing a slide to show just how hip we are, but as yet it hasn’t eventuated. Already there are arcade games in the break room, a variety of beers and ciders on tap in the kitchen and weekly mindfulness classes. It’s a very cool place to work. This is the modern way. Everyone wants to work at Google. These accessories supposedly make us more productive workers. It’s the idea of these things though more than any practical implication because anybody who was caught playing the arcade games when they were supposed to be working or regularly drinking the cider during business hours would get let go pretty quickly.
r />   The overarching idea is to create an impression of an enviable workplace and the impression is clearly working because even without the slide we were voted third coolest office to work by Panda Addict. Panda Addict is only a local website of course, with a local focus, not worldwide. Still landing so high in the vote was cause for celebration. Such a high result creates a certain cachet. Those in the know are avid Panda Addict readers, so when you mention to those people where you work not only have they have heard of our office, they are immediately either impressed or jealous or both, which is the whole point. The hope is to go one better next year and win the whole thing, hence the slide. All of which use to appeal greatly to Old Ellie. Now, it’s hard to see how any of that matters in the slightest.

  I go in, smile as best I can at a few people I pass, then sit at my desk and do nothing. In theory, I am supposed to be redesigning a campaign for one of our regular clients. However, I mostly sit at my desk looking vague and distracted and not working. This behaviour is my standard work M.O. at the moment. Like everyone else in my life, the people at work have been very patient with me. However, that patience will run dry at some point. I hope desperately to have my life back in order before that happens. I do my best to pep myself up. Old Ellie used to love work. It was something I could do with ease and confidence. Now, I find it oppressive and almost impossible to settle.

  I open the client’s most recent files and style guide and begin when something rips at my attention. My head snaps around. It’s nothing. My eyes find the back corner of the office. One of the few solid surfaces that isn’t glass. There’s nothing there. Only the water cooler up against the wall. Nothing out of place. So why is my mouth dry and my heart attempting to smash its way out of my chest? I close my eyes, riding the wave of intense panic. Running screaming from the office isn’t going to help things. Against my better judgement, I force my eyes open and glance back at the cooler. It’s an empty corner of the office I remind myself. Nothing more. The knowledge doesn’t help. I can’t trust my eyes.

  “Ellie?”

  Ness’ unexpected voice almost makes me jump out of my skin. Ness is one of my workmates, a slight waif of a girl with a perpetual apology in her expression.

  “Sorry, Ellie… I…” she splutters. I wave it away as though it is nothing.

  “Meeting time.”

  John clearly relishes being in charge. He leads the meeting in Jill’s absence. Jill is the big boss. John drones on and on about some new client, going through the specs for them. Looking for suggestions in direction, particularly aligning their print presence with their new online styling. I can’t bring myself to care, so I keep quiet.

  I know I should probably be doing more than counting the minutes until the meeting is over. So far, the sum total of my meeting productiveness has been realising the large conference room has a slight echo to it, depending on where you sit.

  The discussions continue around me. Briefs and strategies and clients. Fortunately, I brought a pen and paper, allowing me to doodle endlessly and aimlessly and avoid eye contact. Not that I’m fooling anybody. They won’t do anything about it at the moment though. Not until Jill gets back at least. Nobody would have the guts to do anything about me until she returns.

  Back at my desk, I make another concerted attempt to get working. I just need to focus and concentrate. It can’t be that hard. I make a conscious decision not to let my eyes drift across to the corner and the water cooler. It’s a start. Instead, I find myself distracted by the photos I have stuck around my monitor. Old Ellie in happier times. Out with Buckley. At a club with Virginia and Bear. Having fun. It’s hard to recognise Old Ellie. She looks so happy and pretty. Not a care in the world. Right there and then I make another conscious decision. My life isn’t simply going to come back to me, so I am going to force the issue. It’s very simple. I am going to be Old Ellie again until that’s who I am once more.

  Virginia messages me back straight away. She is up for it. The night out idea is genius. It means I don’t have to go home.

  4

  I have decided that I distinctly don’t like Sharon’s office. It has a sterile, hardness about it. Too masculine for a therapist’s office. Soft pastel colours and tissue boxes might be cliched, but they would be a much smarter choice. The pictures on the wall are especially bothersome. Long exposure images of waterfalls. The idea is fine, the execution is awful. Bad photographs. The photos look like rejects from motivational posters. I could take better shots and photography isn’t my strong suit. Maybe I should offer to redesign Sharon’s office interior for her.

  “Tell me about your friends,” Sharon instructs.

  I am not sure how any of this helps my accident recovery, yet I do my best to be agreeable.

  “I have a lot of friends. Generally. In my inner circle, we have a very tight group of four. Ginny, Virginia, and I have been best friends with since school. She is great. Always there for me. And then a few years ago I got together with Buckley and she got together with Bear. And it just works. We’re a gang of four. We’re a good fit. We do everything together.”

  “Bear?”

  “Wilson. Except everybody calls him Bear.”

  “Why do you call him that?”

  “Why do I? Or why does everybody else?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Bear’s his nickname Because of his size. The name makes perfect sense when you see him. People tend to find him quite scary because he is such a big guy.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not at all. I mean, he’s got a bit of a temper. And I am sure he would be terrifying if he was chasing you down a dark alley.”

  “I assume he has never chased you down a dark alley?”

  “Exactly. No, I call him Bear because he is like a big, cuddly teddy bear.”

  Talking about Ginny and Bear always makes me smile. I can hear it in my voice. “It’s funny. I never thought Ginny and Bear would work. As a couple. Ginny is petite. She is like a flower or a pencil or something. She so skinny I often worry she might snap in two. And he is huge. For a while, I was terrified he would break her. But he is very soft and gentle with her. Bear is kind of a goofball. He is quirky and hip. Very laid back. I thought they’d be too different, but they complement each other. They fit. It’s nice. In an odd sort of way the four is an extension of the two, of Bucks and me.”

  Sharon’s laser-like stare burns into me. I wonder what I have said wrong this time.

  “All fun and games until something goes wrong…”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What happens when there’s a problem?”

  “We… There aren’t any problems.”

  “What if Virginia has a fight with Bear? Where does that leave you?”

  “Ginny and Bear don’t fight.”

  “Yes, but if they did. Let's say Virginia and Bear have a huge row. That will be awkward for you. Do you side with your best friend or with your boyfriend?”

  I frown, accompanied by a shrug.

  “When there are problems, people take sides. That’s just life.”

  “Ginny and Bear don’t fight,” I repeat. I can’t explain things any better. She simply doesn’t get it. They don’t fight. It’s not who they are.

  After work, I head straight to Virginia’s. I borrow some of her clothes. The process of putting on a short skirt and stockings and getting myself all made up and ready feels good. Like old times. Ginny and I drink and dress up and talk and laugh. The whole thing is a touch forced, but we ignore that, both wanting to believe the old ways are possible to get back to. Old times. Old ways… It was only a month or two ago this was normal behaviour. I am determined. It can be again.

  A Tuesday night would be limiting for some. Not for us. We know every bar and club worth knowing. Bucks and Bear meet us at the Zone. A spur of the moment night out is so much easier for guys. No need to change out of their work clothes.

  Zone is stupidly loud, dim and smoky. The music is a little techy for
our tastes. We occupy a booth off the dance floor. The four of us are a good-looking group. All in our mid-20s, young and successful. The kind of people others aspire to be like. Buckley is wearing the shirt I bought him. Perfectly dressed as always. I admire how handsomely the shirt falls around his tight, toned shoulders. He smiles contentedly at me. Bear returns from the bar with shots for all of us.

  This is good. This is fun. The night out was a good idea. I am enjoying myself. Bear and Ginny laugh and flirt, amusing Bucks. I force a wide grin, hoping it comes out all right. That little voice is talking to me again. Somewhere in the depths of my head. I try to ignore it. The voice has no intention of going away. Wanting to know why I am not feeling it. Old Ellie wasn’t doing anything different. Why was she happy?

  It’s a slippery slope and without any warning or reason the night goes wrong. The music drills into my skull. Even the songs I like reduced to nothing more than excruciating noise. I can’t sit still. The voice morphs into every fibre of my being screaming at me to move. Without warning I find myself shoving my way through the dance floor.

  I hurry into the ladies room, at once both relieved and terrified to find it empty. The heavy baseline follows me in, pounding the walls and pummelling my brain. Beads of condensation trickle down the mirror. I stare at my reflection and I don’t like who I see. This isn’t right. I want to see Old Ellie. All I see is a scared, cowering husk hiding in her place. I stand straight and smile and try to look sexy. She won’t come out. Suddenly I feel terribly unsafe. Trapped. I run for the door.

  I mean to go back to the booth. I really do. Instead, I find myself dashing for the exit. This is wrong. I need to tell them where I’m going. What I’m doing. They’ll worry. I should go back now.