Home to Harmony

by Dawn Atkins

  “You were assaulted?”

  “I didn’t say no. And I didn’t want to chicken out. Afterward, I cried. Which was dumb. I mean what was the big deal? At a certain point, virginity is stupid. Dylan took off the next day. I guess he was afraid I’d make a fuss.”

  “Did you talk to anyone about what happened? Your mother?” The experience was clearly more traumatic than she was letting on. Her smile was tight with pain.

  “Are you kidding? She would have lectured me about how stupid it was to give up my power to a man.”

  “I find that unlikely.”

  “Let’s put it this way, when I was ten I begged for a Barbie doll and she ranted about how the dolls distort a girl’s body image, portraying women as nipple-less, dehumanized sluts and she would not allow one anywhere near her or me.”

  “She would not have blamed you, Christine.” In difficult relationships, memories could be distorted, negative incidents mythologized. That seemed to be how Christine felt about her mother. “She would have wanted to reassure and comfort you.”

  “Well, anyway, I survived. And, believe me, ever after, no meant no.” She laughed, but her eyes held sadness. “You know, Bogie secretly bought me that Barbie doll. He felt sorry for me.” She shrugged, then looked at the ceiling over his bed. “Dylan had a poster of the Doors taped up there. I do remember that.”

  He wanted to ask a question, give her time to let deeper feelings surface, but that was not his place. She was not a client. Worse, he had the primitive urge to find this Dylan and beat the crap out of him for hurting her.

  Christine moved on—to his desk, where he’d printed out the seventy-five pages he’d eked out after all these weeks. “So this is where the magic happens?” she asked.

  “Not so much lately.” Why admit that? Something about Christine. How open she was, how direct. She seemed to have conquered his usual reticence as neatly as his salve had soothed her insect bites.

  “What? You’ve got writer’s block?”

  “I’ll work through it.” The truth was, he was dead-on stalled. Just sitting down at the desk made his skin crawl and his muscles itch to move.

  Back in L.A., after the firestorm over his journal report, fury had driven him through a first draft. Once the dust settled on his anger, his momentum slowed, then ground to a halt.

  “So tell me about the book. That’s what I do when I get stuck on an ad project. Maybe that will help.”

  If it were only so simple. “It’s about the stranglehold the insurance companies have on mental health care in this country. Therapists are virtually irrelevant to the treatment plan, almost to the point where they’re committing malpractice.”

  “Malpractice? Really? That sounds extreme.”

  “It’s a controversial premise. The research I published last year created a stir, so the book will more comprehensively lay out my ideas.” Stir was an understatement. Tsunami was more like it. He’d been prepared for the insurance companies to squawk, but the attacks from his colleagues had shocked and wounded him.

  “So what’s your solution?” she asked.

  “Reform. I want to put control of care where it belongs—in the hands of practitioners in consultation with their clients.”

  “That’s certainly a big issue in Washington. How are you organizing the book?”

  “I’m using an extensive literature search, in addition to my own research. I’ve examined shifts in suicide rates, psychiatric hospitalizations, relapse rates, malpractice cases due to misdiagnosis and—” He stopped. “I’m boring you.”

  “Not at all. We have to get you unstuck.”

  “It’ll take more than a conversation for that, but thanks for—”

  “You said your research caused a stir? In what way?”

  He should end this, walk Christine out of his room—and his troubles—but he found himself wanting to answer. Her earnest concern touched him. “I was criticized extensively and from unexpected quarters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I expected insurance companies to try to discredit me, but I was also attacked by colleagues I expected to support my theories. And, even worse, Nathan’s death occurred in the middle of the storm and it was used to defame me in the media.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s outrageous.”

  He shook his head. “I was portrayed as a self-named savior of psychiatry who callously ignored my stepson’s deadly drug use.”

  “But that’s so unfair.”

  “Fairness is rarely the point in these situations. The media exposure was torture for Elizabeth. Nathan’s picture in the paper, his death rehashed on TV over and over.”

  “Torture for you, too, Marcus.”

  “But Elizabeth was blameless. It was actually a relief when she asked me to leave.” He no longer had to wake up to her stricken face, the resentment in her eyes.

  “Jesus, Marcus. Look at what you’ve been through— Nathan’s death, a divorce, your work attacked. No wonder you’re stalled. You’re not a writer on retreat. You’re a refugee seeking sanctuary.”

  “That’s melodramatic. I’m hardly innocent here. I made mistakes. I should have shored up defenders before I released my report. I failed both Elizabeth and Nathan. I was arrogant and bullheaded and—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “You’ve been through hell. You get to feel bad about it. Really bad.” He couldn’t take his eyes from her face. She was so pretty and she smelled so good and he wanted to kiss the finger she’d pressed to his mouth.

  To resist, he gripped her hand and held it against his chest, though that only made him want to wrap her in his arms and hold all of her. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”

  “Because I asked.” Her eyes swirled with emotion. “Because you needed to talk to someone. I’m glad I was here.”

  Was she right? He’d talked with Carlos about what happened, but only superficially. Evidently, he was still in turmoil or he wouldn’t have told her the sordid details.

  “I know how it is to fail someone you love. I joke about it, but I’m really scared I’m losing David. This trip feels like my last chance. Part of me believes he could end up—” she swallowed hard “—like your stepson.”

  “David may look like Nathan, but he doesn’t act like him.”

  “You can’t know that,” she said, her eyes full of anguish.

  He knew then that he had to help her. “I’ll talk with David for you,” he said. “An informal conversation or two.”

  “Really?” A smile burst out on her face, a blaze of light in a dark room. “That would be wonderful. You have no idea what this means to me. I know he’ll talk to you. This is perfect.”

  She surprised him with a hug, swamping him in her spring sweetness. His entire body warmed to the contact, the flutter of her heart against his ribs. He raised his arms to return the embrace, but would that suggest more than he intended?

  Ah, hell. He encircled her with his arms and buried his nose in her curls to breathe her in, stealing a moment of pleasure for the lonely hours ahead.

  They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, for long seconds. It was a time-out for both of them…from loneliness, from doubt, from letting down a loved one.

  Finally, Christine loosened her arms and stepped back. “That was nice.” Her eyes chased his, worrying about his response. “But I’d better go.” She eased toward the door, seeming embarrassed—as he was—that they’d held on to each other so urgently.

  “Don’t forget what you came for,” he said, grabbing the jar of salve from his desk, where she’d placed it.

  She took it, then stepped quickly to him to press his cheek with a soft palm. “Thank you for this. And for David. I know this will help him.”

  “He may not cooperate, Christine.”

  “I can hope, can’t I?”

  “Something tells me you will, no matter what I say.” For a moment, an unexpected yearning rose in him, a desire to make her happy, to smooth her path, to be there
for her, come hell or high water. Completely unrealistic, but he felt it all the same. Trying to help David could be a painful reminder of how badly he’d failed Nathan.

  Still, the warmth of her hand lingered on his skin and for hours he could still smell spring.

  DAVID LEFT THE GARDEN to fill his metal water bottle from the pump under the mesquite trees. His blisters had healed, but his hands still cramped up and his back ached from the work. He wasn’t really thirsty, but he needed a break.

  As usual, when he had a quiet moment, his thoughts turned to Brigitte. He decided to go into the house for ice so he could call her. His grandma had said he could use the phone anytime, hadn’t she?

  It was Saturday so Brigitte should answer. He’d been trapped here for almost two weeks now. The only payoff was he was getting tanned and muscular. Brigitte would like that.

  He didn’t mind working with Marcus, who was quiet and never nagged David when he took breaks for water or to coax Lady over. Marcus said Lady needed a friend. David did, too.

  “I’m getting ice. Want some?” he yelled.

  Marcus shook his head, carrying weeds to the compost pile.

  He felt bad leaving Marcus to work alone. The short-timers did more talking than working and David had gotten up too late to help him feed the animals. The “care and share” bit got old.

  Inside, he raced to the kitchen and dialed the number, taking the handset into the alcove his mom used as an office in the afternoons. She spent the mornings in the clay works, so he knew he’d have privacy.

  David lived for these calls. He’d started to be afraid he was forgetting Brigitte—her smile, the way the beads in her blond cornrows rattled when she shook her head, the click of her tongue stud against his teeth when they made out, the way she tasted of Juicy Fruit even when she wasn’t chewing any.

  “’Lo?” Brigitte answered on the first ring, her voice breathy and as sweet as she tasted.

  “’Sme,” he said, going for a sexy whisper.

  “Who is this?” she said loudly. “Hello?”

  That sort of ruined the moment. “It’s me. David.”

  “Oh. Hi.” She didn’t sound too glad, which made him feel like he’d been punched.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I was just on the way out is all.”

  “To where?” He felt stupidly left out.

  “To listen to a new band practice for a gig at the Main-Liner with Melissa and Speel.”

  “Oh. Wish I was there.”

  “Me, too,” she said, her voice warm again.

  Relief blew through him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. “I want you…so much.”

  “It’s a drag you’re so far away.”

  A drag? It was a tragedy that had ripped them apart. They’d both agreed. Now she sounded resigned to it.

  “I’m going to try to come see you,” he blurted. “I’ll take the bus…or borrow a car.” He needed to learn to drive first, of course, but he had to get to her somehow.

  “That’s cool,” she said.

  “Don’t you want me there?” Ice froze his veins.

  “Sure. It’d be great. Really great.” Her voice went muffled as she spoke to someone. Laughter in the background made him burn with jealousy. She was half out the door already.

  “You want to hang up, I can tell.”

  “Don’t pout. You know I’m not good on the phone.”

  “It’s just hard to be away from you—”

  “I know, but you’re having this incredible experience out there. How’s the bud? You’ve got homegrown from a commune. Wow.”

  He’d found the tiny grow room the day he’d first helped in the greenhouse. Bogie’d got all panicked and told him he had to leave because he’d promised Crystal to keep it locked—it was medicine for his cancer and all—but David had asked about the plants and Bogie got into explaining his hybrids and forgot about chasing him out. Bogie wasn’t big on arguments.

  Since then, David had only helped himself to a joint’s worth now and then, not enough that Bogie would notice. Even if he did, David doubted Bogie would narc to Christine, who thought one blunt required rehab. Bogie was cool.

  “He’s got these amazing plants with so much resin you wouldn’t believe. And the smell…” It was so strong, David had had to air out the nuggets before hiding them beneath his mattress.

  “Bring us some when you come, okay?” she said.

  “If I can.” That would be stealing, and David would never do that to Bogie. She sounded more into the weed than seeing him again.

  “Gotta jet. Everyone’s waiting. I wish you got cell reception so I could call you when I’m more in the mood.”

  And like that she was gone. She didn’t even play their I love you more…. No, I love you more game with him.

  She was slipping away. Adrenaline prickled through him. He had to get back to her before she was altogether gone.

  When he returned to the garden, Marcus stopped working and braced an arm on one knee, looking at him. “Where’s your ice?”

  “Uh, I forgot. I’m not thirsty now.” He felt like a jerk for lying. Lady nudged his hand, so he petted her.

  “She seems to really like you,” Marcus said.

  “I heard her howling last night.” It was such a lonely sound, but it made David feel like he wasn’t the only one suffering.

  “What happened to her owner, anyway?”

  Marcus looked David in the eye like this would be important. “Nathan, my stepson, died of a drug overdose. He injected ‘magic.’ Have you heard of it?”

  “Not really.” He didn’t want to sound like he knew too much, though he hadn’t heard of that drug.

  “It’s heroin mixed with fentanyl, a strong painkiller. Both suppress heart rate and respiration so it’s easy to get too much, especially by injection.”

  “Needles are stupid.”

  “That’s how I thought Nathan felt.” The dude looked so sad all of a sudden. So did Lady, which was weird, and it made David’s own sorrow well up. He blinked hard.

  “You okay?” Marcus said, looking closer at him.

  “Life is sad sometimes.”

  “You feel sad right now?” His eyes looked deep, catching secrets David would rather keep to himself.

  “Yeah.” He swallowed. “It’s my girlfriend. She’s with all our friends in Phoenix and I’m stuck out here.” He swallowed the emotion that flooded his throat.

  “Separations can be difficult.”

  At least he didn’t say you’ll get over it or you’re too young for a girlfriend the way his mother would have.

  “You want to help me out here while we talk?” Marcus smiled, waving his spade over the row of onions beside him.

  “Okay. Yeah.” He went through the gate and started yanking weeds, the dense, green smell of the onions filling his nose.

  “What helps with your sadness?” Marcus asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you enjoy doing here?”

  “Nothing. I talk to Brigitte. Sleep. Try to get online, but dial-up sucks.” Spark up a bowl, but the guy wasn’t cool enough to say that.

  “Music? Sometimes music is a good escape.”

  He shrugged. He would like to get better at his guitar so he could write music to go with the lyrics he’d written.

  “It seems like time drags when you’re watching the clock. Why don’t you distract yourself with things you enjoy doing?”

  “I guess.”

  “You’ll meet the Barlow twins tonight at dinner, right? School will be out soon, so they’ll have more time to hang out.”

  “That sounds like my mom. ‘Go on and play with your little friends.’” He shook his head. She was clueless.

  “Christine is concerned about you.”

  He yanked at some weeds. “She dragged me here to break me and Brigitte up. She hates Brigitte.”

  Marcus didn’t dispute what he was saying, so he kept going. “She can’t stand
that I have opinions, that I want my own life. She hates how I look, what I say, how I think…everything.”

  “What do you want from her, David?”

  “For her to leave me alone, get off my back.” He breathed hard, getting angry thinking about how she harassed him.

  “What would it take?”

  “Huh?”

  “To get her off your back? What does she want from you?”

  “Everything. She wants me to slave in the gardens all day, then do schoolwork, go to bed early, get up all smiley about feeding chickens at the crack of dawn. Then she wants me to spill my guts to a shrink who’ll tell me what a screwup I am.”

  Like he didn’t know already. Like he could change that.

  “She wants me to get straight As, be class president, eat spinach, hate drugs, never drive a car or have sex ever.” His throat tightened at how hopeless it was. “I can’t make her happy and I’m sick of making her cry.”

  Dammit. He’d spewed at Marcus like a dill hole. He yanked at the weeds to hide his emotions.

  Marcus let the silence between them hang. The only sound was the chuff of his spade, the tearing of the weeds, a birdcall. “Which are you willing to do?” he finally said.

  “None of them. There’s no point. Nothing’s ever enough for her.” He yanked hard and saw he’d ripped up some onion shoots. Whoops.

  “If you want her to back off, you’ll have to do something she wants. Which make the most sense to you?”

  The guy wouldn’t leave this alone. “I don’t know.” He paused, thinking it through. “The schoolwork, I guess. No way will I repeat those classes.”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  “The Internet. I don’t know. I don’t feel like it, is all.”

  “Is it a lot of work?”

  “Not really,” he muttered. The math was a pain, but the history was reading and answering questions and the English was mostly writing. He was good at that.

  “Some visible progress would make your mother feel a lot less worried. You have to do it anyway, correct?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Anything else you could do? To get her off your back?”

  “I could be nicer, I guess. You think if I do the work and act less sarcastic, she won’t make me go to a shrink?”