by Tom Bierdz
We took the lift to the apartment and was greeted by the hostess, an attractive woman in a slinky, orange dress who I guessed to be about fifty who pretended to be thirty. Her dress was wrong and too tight and her plastic surgery had removed the character from her face. Megan later told me the women had reconstructive surgery on other parts of her body as well. The artist, a lanky man some thirty years younger, was all hair and looked to be in need of a shower; his unruly head of hair fell beneath his shoulders, and his facial hair covered everything except his dark, beady eyes and sharp nose. Barefoot, his jeans were paint splattered and he wore a ripped, stained, wife-beater tee that exposed his hairy chest and arms. I’d bet money he was balling his benefactor judging from their carnal touches and glances.
Neither Megan nor I thought much of his paintings which were nothing more than bold splotches of paints on canvas titled by emotional adjectives like anger, jealousy, hate, sex, etc. depending on the predominant color and the interweaving complimentary colors. I seemed to recall monkeys and elephants producing similar paintings. Except for the hostess, none of the small group of others present, any who could individually finance the artist, were impressed.
We had a flute of champagne, mingled briefly with the crowd and left early, laughing and making fun of the exhibit.
Megan gave her ticket to the parking lot attendant. Waiting, we shivered to the screeching tire sounds as the cars zoomed down the spiral exit. When the valet brought Megan her car she walked around it, examining it, finding a small scratch. “Goddamn it!” She stormed up to the valet. Come here, you son-of-a-bitch and take a look at this.”
Reluctantly, he inched over to the rear fender.
I drifted over, rubbed my hand over the area and the scratch disappeared. “It’s nothing,” I said, and apologized to the valet.
Megan looked at me as if I needed an explanation for her behavior, and started the car. “You saw how they grind those cars down that winding exit. They drive like they’re in the goddamn Grand Prix.”
“But you paid extra. Your car was on the first level.”
“Yes, I’m very generous and giving and I expect to be treated accordingly.”
“Do you think, maybe, sometimes you’re too quick to fly off the handle?”
She chose not to respond, merged her car into traffic, and kept her eyes focused on the road in front.
Later, when we both mellowed out, I shared some of my meeting with Carrie, that she was planning an abortion and wanting me there with her. I also told her about my need to visit the bridge from where Kevin jumped. I did not tell her about Hanna’s visit.
Near suppertime, Megan said, “I’ll go in the kitchen and make the Paninis.”
“Need some help?”
“No, Margot made all the preparations - sliced the mozzarella, the prosciutto, tomatoes, basil, and roasted red peppers. All I needed to do it brush a little virgin olive oil on the focaccia and put them in the Panini press. Why don’t you put some music on?” She left for the kitchen.
I sauntered over to the cabinet where Megan kept her CDs in a drawer, divided into classical, jazz, and popular. I ruffled through her jazz collection, put on a Miles Davis track. I found his music soothing. Returning to my chair I noticed a newspaper page on a table, sticking out under a coffee-table book of Chicago with photographs of the city’s highlights. Remembering that I needed to be more observant to learn more about Megan, I lifted the book and studied the page. It was from a recent Seattle Times edition and included an approximately four-by-six-inch, black and white photo, ad of a professionally handsome Dr. Isley Hodges, sans cowboy hat, in a suit and tie announcing the opening of his psychiatry practice.
Several thoughts intersected. First, why did she keep the clipping? Was she planning on seeing Dr. Hodges? Had I missed her grieving for her sister? She didn’t appear depressed, but maybe she covered it, grieved in privacy. After missing Kevin’s signs I had to question my powers of observation. She couldn’t see me for therapy since I cut her off; we were now emotionally involved. Still, I couldn’t help but think I’d have picked up on something, some clue, or that she would have mentioned something.
“Megan,”
“Yes, dear?” she yelled from the kitchen.
I started to ask her about the page but changed my mind, electing to approach it from another angle. Instead, I said, “You never mention playing tennis. You can’t play as a pro without practicing in between. You must have to keep at it.”
She entered the room with a bottle of Chianti and a corkscrew and handed it to me. “Will you open this?”
I followed her into the kitchen.
“I play at the tennis club one or two days a week. I don’t mention it because it’s routine and uneventful just like you don’t talk about your patients every day. If I played Serena Williams you’d hear about it. Shall we eat inside or out?
“In,” I grunted, pulling out the wine cork. “It’s still too chilly for me outside.”
She brought the plates with sandwiches, chips, and pickle to the table adorned with a beautiful, silk tablecloth and a lit candle.
I poured the wine. “You’ve never mentioned the women you play with.”
“That’s because I play with either Steve or Troy. Both men.” She sat. “Are you itching to play me?”
“If you promise not to take my head off.” My bruised ego had recovered, and I did want a rematch to see if she was really that good, or if my game was off due to a lack of play. Who was I kidding? I was competitive and still felt the sting of being beaten and humbled by a woman.
“You got it.” She sipped her wine.
I bit into my sandwich. “Delicious.” Wiping the corner of my mouth with a napkin, I added, “Are you sleeping okay?”
She smiled, “Yes, why do you ask?”
“I’d been remiss in not asking you how you’re dealing with Sasha’s loss. I know how close you two were.”
She took a few beats before answering, studying my facial expression. “Thanks for asking but I’m okay. Every once and a while It’ll hit me and I’ll lose it. But, all in all, I’m doing okay. Even better than I thought I would be.”
“You don’t have to bear it alone. You can get help.”
“Darling, I’d come to you if I needed help,” she said, clasping my hand.
“I’m here for you but sometimes it’s better to see someone who’s objective, not emotionally involved. I can recommend someone–“
Smiling, she patted my hand acknowledging my concern and signaling me to cease my line of questions.
“Dr. Hodges has started his practice,” I continued. “Do you remember me mentioning him to you?
“Of course I do. I appreciate your concern, Grant, but you’ll be the first to know if I think I need to see a shrink. I’m good, okay? Let’s drop it.”
“Sure.” Then why have you saved his photo? I was baffled. She had my permission. If she planned to see him, there was no reason to hide it from me. If she wasn’t going to see him, then why keep the ad? Maybe she planned to give it to someone? Whatever? In any case, it wasn’t a mystery I was able to solve now. I would file it in my mental pending file to take it out and examine it at a later time.
We retired to the living room. Miles Davis was still sweetly blowing his horn. The sun had set and darkness abounded. I strolled to the expansive window and looked at the house lights below, comparing the hill scene to a Christmas tree where every light was burning, and where I stood at the tip, the very top where the angel perched. At least that’s how I imagined it might look to a giant, like Gulliver, from a distance. Was this an angel’s house?
The angel brushed my shoulder, handed me a crystal glass of Cognac. “I like seeing you in this room.”
I smiled, kissed her cheek.
“How about if we just sit and relax like an old married couple.”
Habitually, we never sat long. We lusted for each other and couldn’t wait to get into bed. Just sitting and relaxing was appealing tonight,
although I wished she hadn’t added that part about old married couples.
“Sounds good,” I said, sinking into a cushy chair.
She sat on another, an end table between us.
We sipped our Cognac, talked for a while. I filled her in on more of the details on Carrie, how we originally worked together and became fast friends.
Hours later, after our second glass of Cognac, Megan said, “Having you here, sharing like this, feels so good. So comfortable. Do you feel this way?”
I nodded. “I do.”
Her smile diminished as her expression became grave. “Then move in with me.”
I uttered a deep sigh.
“We’re good together. Two intelligent, virile people with so much in common. The sex is great. We’re spending all this time together. Why not live together?”
I set my near empty crystal glass down on the table before my tightening grip broke it in my hand. “Megan you make it very tempting. I like being with you, look forward to seeing you.”
“Then you’ll stay?”
“I’m just not ready to make that kind of commitment. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks–“
”A few months–“
I rubbed my hands together. Shrugged. “A couple of months.”
“Whatever. I’m simply asking you to move in with me. I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“One thing leads to another.”
A spark of anger crossed her eyes. “I want reasons. Why won’t you move in?”
“I told you, it’s too soon.” I felt awkward the way she was staring at me, squeezing meaning out of every syllable. Her anger when she didn’t get her way was part of it. It frightened me. I needed to measure my words carefully.
“If it was four months or six months, you’d move in?”
She was pressing. “I don’t know.”
“That’s what I thought. You give the short amount of time as the reason but there’s something else. What is it?”
“I haven’t fully recovered from Kevin’s suicide and my divorce.”
“You’ve been divorced for over a year and you may never completely recover from Kevin’s suicide.”
“You’re right about Kevin, I may never...but I can put some more distance from it.”
A tear ran down her cheek.
I marveled at how quickly she could go from one emotion to another.
“And how long am I supposed to wait? I remember you wondering why I hadn’t married. I liked being unattached. But that was before I met you. I hadn’t met Mr. Right before. That must sound over the top to a psychiatrist, but it’s true, Grant. I want to be with you.”
I felt cornered. She wasn’t about to drop her probing without something more from me. I needed to be honest, at least to a point. I needed to risk she’d understand. I stood, paced. “I really do need time to sort things out. I’m really turned on by you. Every way, not just sexually. But there are times you scare me...”
She looked sad, jerked her head as if she’d been slapped.
I scratched my head. “Like the time you yelled at the waiter who brought you the wrong wine...”
“I told you when I pay top dollar I expect perfection.”
“...smashing those tennis balls at my head, and today how you ripped the head off the parking attendant.”
“The waiter, the parking guy, they are servants. I pay them extra to treat me special and I get pissed when they take advantage...”
“I’m not one of your servants!”
“The tennis balls were an accident.” She stood, got in my face. “What the fuck do you do? Write down everything I do that doesn’t meet with your approval? Am I some object you want to dissect so you can write a scholarly paper on what makes me tick?
“No! Hell no!” I grabbed her shoulders, shoved her back down on her chair. “I do what every other person does when testing out a new relationship. I try to be sensitive to those things that feel good and make me comfortable and to those things that don’t. I need to feel secure before I commit.”
She looked at me, then moved her eyes away and focused on the floor. I saw her jaw clench and thought she was trying to swallow her anger before responding. I sat down on my chair, finished my Cognac.
“Okay,” she said, slowly raising her head. “Let’s take a break, think about what was said, and talk about this again the next time we see each other. I’ll call you a cab.”
I agreed and we hugged when the cab appeared.
27
I didn’t get much sleep the next night either. I tossed and turned, maybe squeezed in a couple of hours. I had the same sick feeling in my stomach this morning as I did when I got in the taxi after leaving Megan yesterday. My eyes were moist and I think hers were too, but I couldn’t be sure since my welled eyesight was bleary. I didn’t know where our impasse would take us. It was just probably a snag in the larger scheme of things, yet I was surprised how much I felt her loss. I fought to shake off the melancholy as I got ready for work.
The forecast called for rain and it was already starting to sprinkle, so I grabbed my umbrella and began to walk to the office. I liked that the weather was subdued, matching my mood. I zoned out, shifted into autopilot, stepping to the pitter-patter of the raindrops on my umbrella and the rhythm of the cars thrumming on the wet pavement.
Carrie puffed away on the porch, her long hair dancing on her London Fog. She waved as I appeared. I almost inadvertently warned her she shouldn’t smoke being pregnant before I shifted back into awareness.
“I’m going to make my appointment this morning,” she said, as I drew closer. “I’ll shoot for Thursday morning as you suggested.”
“That’s best for me. But don’t worry if you can’t work that out. I still have plenty of gaps in my schedule to move patients around.”
She seized my arm when I reached the top of the stairs. “Thanks, Grant. It means a lot to me.”
“Glad I can help.”
I walked into my office and greeted Lindsey, my first patient, telling her I’d be with her shortly.
Lindsey, the daughter of a friend, came home from college over the weekend and refused to go back. The friend hoped I’d be able to discover what the problem was and resolve it so she’d continue her education.
“What’s this?” I asked Bobby, entering the inner office and spotting a baguette and slow cooker on his credenza.
“My meatballs paisan!” Bobby kissed his fingers and gestured toward me. You have to stay for lunch today. I finally found the magic formula. Bam! I had to kick it up a little!”
I laughed at his excellent Emeril Lagasse interpretation. “I can’t wait. Once you plug in that crock pot and that scent swings through this office you’re going to have to beat the hungry people off.”
“I will with your permission. There’s a few of your patients I’d like to deck.”
“Shh!” I put my finger to my lips and shouldered toward the waiting room. After a couple of beats, I invited Lindsey into my office.
My mouth was watering as the garlicky, tomato aromas wafted into my office. Bobby finally hiked in the fixings, sliced the baguette and made two huge meatball bombers that were as good as any I had eaten in the past.
Satisfied, I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “You really can cook, Bobby. I’m impressed. Bring in lunch anytime. I’ll gladly be your guinea pig.”
Beaming, he said, “We have to cook for the class. It’s factored into the final grade. I think I’ll do Italian. Did you like the sauce? I made it from scratch.”
“Terrific. You could bottle and sell it.”
After we exhausted the subject of cooking and culinary school, I asked, “You ever see Megan get angry?”
“Just that one time when she came in after her sister’s death. I mean, I didn’t personally. Her anger came through the walls.”
“Yeah, that’s when I didn’t call her. How about between the two of you?”
He rubbed his forehead, gave it some thought. “No, not r
eally. She was extremely competitive when we played games. Intense. She won every time. I wonder how she’d react had I won. I don’t think she’d like losing.”
“Yeah.” I leaned back in my chair, laced my fingers and pressed my palms together.
“She have a temper problem?”
“Uh-huh. Quick to fly off the handle. She can get pretty ugly.”
“You thinking of breaking up?”
“No, not yet anyway. But it’s a red flag.”
Bobby wiped up the sauce that dripped down the side of the crock-pot. “My opinion don’t mean a lot, but a bird in the hand...If I had a perfect ten, like Megan, I’d put up with a little shit. I mean, how many perfect tens are going to fall into your lap. I’ve never dated anyone beyond a seven or eight. I’ll probably never date a ten, and if I did it would probably never last.”
“You got a point, Bobby.” I glanced at my watch. “You need to get back to your desk. My next patient should be arriving. Thanks for your feedback and for lunch.”
The rest of the day was routine. Patients came and went. For the most part I was able to focus on my patients and escape my thoughts. Henry, a fifty-something accountant, who was fixated at the oral stage, was the exception. Throughout the interview he sucked on his empty pipe and railed about the neglect he received as a child. He was boring, constantly repeated his concerns, and stayed stuck in the morass of his own anxiety, failing to follow through on any of my suggestions. I found myself drifting off into my own concerns. I didn’t like whiners who refused to do anything about their situation. I had to deal with my countertransference. Henry was still sucking at the breast. I decided to approach him with a referral to a woman therapist at our next session.
At the end of the day I expected Bobby to tell me that Megan had called and was disappointed to learn she hadn’t. I felt empty like a love-sick adolescent. With no more patients to focus on, my thoughts fixated on Megan as I walked home. There were no messages on my answering machine. I checked the dial tone on my phone to make sure it was still working. Nervous as an expectant father, I couldn’t unwind. Scotch didn’t calm my nerves. I couldn’t decide what to eat, continually opening and closing refrigerator and cupboard doors, either forgetting what was inside because I hadn’t focused, or expecting something new to appear. I don’t remember what I ate, if anything. Nothing I put in my mouth tasted good.