The Reluctant Healer

by Andrew D. Himmel

  Erica fixed on Ava’s gaze, and in so doing, she expelled some of the tension that had mounted between her and Stefan. She leaned back in her chair a bit. “I’m at the beginning of a journey,” she said. “I’m . . . not an accomplished practitioner. Not yet. But I have certain abilities that can help others. I can’t prove this right now. But in time, I will become an effective healer. I will make a significant contribution to the world. Have you ever known something so powerfully, so deeply, that it transcends the temporary absence of evidence? I know this. I feel this. This process cannot be halted, even if I wanted it to be, which of course I don’t.”

  Were New Yorkers allowed to talk like this? Were we allowed to make bold, self-referential commentary about our awesomeness? My body collapsed in a convulsive cringe. My toes dug fiercely into my shoes to the point where I thought I would break through and make contact with the floor. My fingers curled into painful, stiff clumps.

  Stefan was unprepared for this, and he sat back with a disarmed look, devoid of sarcasm or pugnacity. There was a rule violation somewhere in all of this. You can be great and accomplished. You can even be pretentious. But you cannot be conspicuously grandiose.

  While still pinned to the back of his chair, Stefan swiveled his gaze to me. “What do you think about all of this, Will?”

  I had grown comfortable in my role as spectator, and the question caught me by surprise. “I can’t pretend that I understand everything Erica’s experiencing,” I said, pivoting my head from Stefan to Erica. “But I definitely feel her passion and commitment. Did you . . . ever see The Hustler. With Paul Newman? He’s on a date with Joanne Woodward, and he wonders if he’s a loser in life. Then he starts to talk about his passion for playing pool. Joanne Woodward tells him he’s not a loser: ‘Some men never get to feel that way about anything,’ she says.”

  This was clever. Compliment Erica on the depth of her commitment, but at the same time, change the topic to popular culture. Surely, in the strange alchemy that governed shifting topics of conversation, we would now soon be talking about any number of the reference points embedded in my response: Paul Newman. Movies. The Scorsese sequel with Tom Cruise. Did you know that Jackie Gleason was really an accomplished actor?

  Erica leaned toward me with a trace of menace. “So, you think I might be a loser? That my new path is a game?”

  “No, no! That’s not the point. I see your passion as . . .unique, profound.”

  Stefan began to recover. “But depth of feeling, certainty, these things tell you very little by themselves,” he said. “Surely, you have to evaluate precisely what it is that you are passionate about.”

  Erica softened. “Will doesn’t understand. I can’t fault him for that.”

  “What is it that Will doesn’t understand?” Stefan asked. “He’s a pretty sharp guy.”

  Erica smiled. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but Will is a lawyer. He has spent years simultaneously refining and confining his intellect, to the point where he has great insight into so many things but perhaps . . . lacks access to other kinds of appreciation.”

  “Is that how intelligence operates?” Stefan asked. “You can cordon off intelligence so that it is operative in some fields but disabled in others? I think this is a myth. The myth of different kinds of intelligence. People might find certain things more interesting than other things, and that might be a function of personality. Or upbringing. But the ability to understand, and to appreciate . . . that is simply a function of intelligence. You either have it in sufficient dosages, or you don’t. And Will has it. I know that. There is nothing that he cannot understand or appreciate, as far as what you’re talking about.”

  Stefan drank down the rest of his wine and became visibly fortified. “What a protective world we live in,” he said. “We devise highly complex justifications to account for the different abilities of people to grasp concepts. Here are some good ones. Seven different kinds of intelligence. He is more empathic than intellectual. Or my personal favorite: left brain versus right brain. But do you know what I think? I think some people are smart, and some people are stupid.”

  Stefan came off the back of his chair now and fixed his gaze on me. “So let me tell you something about Will, because I know him pretty well. I have worked with him. I have seen him not only in the courtroom but, perhaps more importantly, with clients. He is smart. He is very selfeffacing, too much so for my tastes. But I respect his modesty. And here is the point . . .” At this, Stefan enveloped Erica and me, like in a wideangle lens. “Will understands everything that you are talking about, Erica. He is missing nothing. Every nuance. Every deep thought. Every hidden meaning which resists verbalization. He gets it. Now, whether he actually agrees with everything he hears, that is a whole different story. But you are mistaking his modesty, reticence, and unwillingness to challenge for his inability to perceive. This is something you should rethink.”

  So what was left in this line of reasoning? There really was only one more area to cover: that I heard everything that Erica had to say, and I dismissed it all as nonsense, but I kept this to myself to preserve the relationship. Boiled down—you’re a whack job, Erica, but I want you, so I’ll keep my opinions to myself.

  Stefan sensed the path we were on as well. So he relented then. “Anyway, all I am saying is, give Will a break. He is a bright guy.”

  Erica smiled. “He is more than bright. He is empowered. He doesn’t even know it. But he will, in time.”

  I can’t even recall how the rest of the dinner proceeded, other than to recognize that I had been complimented in a profound way yet still felt like an enfeebled child. On the taxi ride back to Erica’s place, I was irritated by the flicking lights and disorganized sounds of the city.

  I looked over at Erica. She was in a deep sleep, her head angled uncomfortably against the window of the cab. When we arrived at her apartment, she woke with a start. We got out of the cab and into the elevator to her apartment. Although she was clearly exhausted, Erica made purposeful movements to get ready for bed. No words. No furtive glances. As she moved about the apartment, I sat on the edge of the bed and followed her with my gaze. She would not look toward me, but she was not avoiding me.

  “What can that possibly mean, that I am empowered but don’t yet know it.”

  “Will, I’m tired.”

  “And this ominous observation by you, that I will know, in time. What will I know in time?” I asked her.

  Erica went into the bathroom, where she began to brush her teeth. I got off the bed, walked to the bathroom, and stood by her as she rinsed her mouth. She glanced at my reflection in the mirror but returned quickly to her tasks.

  “What will I know in time?” I asked again.

  She spat out the remaining toothpaste in an authoritative manner. “Well, okay, maybe I was being dramatic, but . . .” And here, she turned toward me. “Will, I feel something about you. In fact, I felt this the very moment I first saw you.”

  “I’m not going to keep saying, ‘What do you mean.’ I’m not going to forcibly extract commentary from you. Can you please just tell me, in simple English, what the hell you’re talking about?”

  Erica leaned against the wall and grabbed my hand. “Will, you can either enjoy life or improve life. There may be some overlap, but ultimately, a choice has to be made.”

  I was about to demand an explanation, but I remained quiet. We were not done with this topic, not by a long shot. And I could see that Erica understood this.

  “I want to improve life. And I have embarked on, well, a path. I know I’ve used this metaphor before. But that’s what it is. A path. A journey. Call it what you will. And I wish I could come up with a description that did not sound so trite. But I will tell you this . . .”

  And here, she moved out of the bathroom and went to the bed, sat down, and beckoned me to join her. I stood by the sink.

  She seemed amused by this. Then, her eyes narrowed. “I will tell you this. I have always felt things, even
as a child. Not continuously. Sometimes months, maybe even years would go by. But there have been many moments when I have felt things so wonderfully, so powerfully. I can do things. And I don’t even know what those things are. At least, for so long I didn’t. But now, I’m beginning to realize my potential. My abilities.”

  “What does this have to do with me? What will I come to know in time?”

  “Can I just talk about myself for a second? Do you know what I have come to learn? As a social worker? What every healer, conventional or otherwise, should learn? That you have to approach each patient, or client, with regard to the integrity of the whole individual.”

  “For the love of God, can you just . . .”

  “You have to bring respect and compassion to the effort. You have to respect the perspective of the patient and tie in to their intentions and beliefs. And this process must be communal. It must be collaborative.”

  “You’re stalling. This has everything to do with you and nothing to do with me.”

  “And by the way,” she continued, “you have to reject the false choice between spirituality and science. Can’t you see? Even if you don’t understand, can’t you . . . feel it? It’s all integrated, if we could just . . . just . . . dissolve the phony boundaries . . .”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I yelled. That stung her, but I had gathered too much momentum. “Am I being lectured?”

  “You have this power, Will,” she said. “It’s not even fair, because you’re practically blind, but I see it, in the colors surrounding you.”

  “Here we go again, the colors . . .”

  She stood up from the bed and got up into my face. “This is just great,” she cried. “My role. Not so much to heal, although I have some ability there, but to recognize the ability in others.” She pushed me against the wall. “I’ve worked so hard, and here you are, you don’t care, you don’t see, but if you would just open your fucking eyes, you would . . . make such a difference.”

  I slid away from her and sat down on her bed. Erica walked over slowly and sat next to me.

  “What’s happening here?” I asked. “This feels . . . off, like you’re recruiting me, somehow.”

  Erica avoided my eyes. She looked downward. “Will, I don’t have plans for you. The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing.” I placed my hands on her face. This could all wait. “Will,” she said, “I didn’t plan anything.” She looked up at me sadly. “This all has to be by design, some mischievous force, throwing you and me . . . together.”

  Something shifted with those words, suggesting that we were flung toward each other, without our consent, in a disorganized manner and perhaps against our better judgment, cornered by ominous forces beyond our control, but . . . together.

  10

  Mousserende

  Ifound Stefan slumped on my office couch when I arrived at Canaan & Cassidy the following morning. He looked up at me in a frank and friendly way, and that was comforting. I fell into my chair and swiveled to gaze out at my limited view.

  “It has been brought to my attention that I am a complete asshole,” Stefan said. I continued to survey the traffic snarling north toward my office on Third Avenue. Stefan continued, “I suppose this is not exactly a news flash. Anyway, on reflection, I am afraid I have to agree with the diagnosis.”

  I swung toward Stefan and faced him.

  “Will, I really do apologize for my behavior,” he said.

  “Are you in love with Ava?” I asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “It is a good thing. A very good thing. She tolerates me, civilizes me. Without her, I would simply be one more awe-inspiring stud prowling the streets of New York.”

  “Are you stuck?”

  Stefan hesitated briefly. “I am taken, but I am not stuck. Or, if I am trapped, I suppose I am joyfully trapped.”

  I always liked Stefan. He had a well-deserved reputation for being occasionally brutal with others, but he always had a fondness for me, one that I’m not sure I ever quite understood. I had never befriended him in any meaningful sense, although I had always suspected that this was entirely a function of my own reticence and not his choosing.

  It occurred to me that I lacked friends.

  “I’m drawn to Erica,” I said. “It feels . . . irreversible. And I am not at all sure that this is a good thing. I’m trapped, Stefan, and I’m quite sure that I am not joyfully trapped.”

  “Will, perhaps you should do what I so obviously cannot do, and that is to be understanding and respectful of Erica’s . . .”

  “It’s all nonsense, Stefan. You know it. I know it. And it’s more than just nonsense. It is profound nonsense. Do you know what she is getting into?”

  Stefan stood up, closed my office door, and sat back down again.

  “She is coming to believe that people can be healed remotely. From far-flung distances. Over the phone,” I said.

  “Will, I admit this is beyond me, but I also know that some things are within the realm of possibility . . .”

  “She is coming to believe that she, herself, will be able to heal people remotely. Maybe she is just breaking me in. Ordinarily, the notion of healing someone in person would strike me as preposterous. But if you introduce the notion of remote healing, then scale back to in-person healing, suddenly healing someone in front of you seems ordinary.”

  Stefan leaned forward, and I thought for a moment that he might reach out and hold my hand. “Let us agree, Will, that Erica is involved with peculiar ways of thinking. Why does this have to be an obstacle? She is lively. She is smart. And she is quite drawn to you as well. What someone believes, that is actually only one piece of a much larger puzzle.”

  “You wouldn’t tolerate her or someone like her,” I replied. “You would be forceful, direct; you would challenge her mercilessly, and the whole thing would fall apart quickly. You would stand your ground. You would be a fucking man about the whole process.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think. I admit that, from external appearances, I am quite an imposing figure. But I am terrified of Ava. I do what I am told. You know that joke, I may be the boss, but she is the decision maker.”

  “I don’t buy that. You do what you’re told because you figured out long ago that Ava would never tell you to do anything, or believe anything, that you weren’t already willing to do or to believe. You figured out long ago that you and Ava had a natural fit.”

  “Well, perhaps there is something there. But please don’t pattern your relationship after ours.” Stefan pushed his hair back with both hands and breathed out. “May I offer one observation, Will? And I am going to take a risk here, and perhaps anger you, and perhaps you will never talk to me again because you will mistake my next words for condescension, and you will find this overly familiar and unforgiveable.”

  I waited. I wanted to hear this.

  “You are an enviable guy, Will. You are pretty good looking. Not like me, but few can have the whole package. But I always had this sense that you were coasting. Are you ready to dump me now?”

  “No, I won’t dump you, Stefan. You’re my new best friend.”

  “Will, you are . . . well, what is the word I am looking for . . . in Danish, it would be mousserende; I guess the closest English word would be . . . sparkling, yes that’s it, sparkling, in a weird way, of course, all mashed up with your angst, but it is, well, it is attractive . . . in a very uncomfortable way . . .” He stopped abruptly and glanced slyly at me. “This is really troubling, by the way, my growing attachment to you.”

  “I think we’ll be fine, Stefan.” I forced myself not to smile.

  11

  The King of the Mississippi

  On a bracing Saturday morning in fall, a few weeks after our Mare Blu dinner date, Erica roughly pushed me toward the side of the bed in a determined effort to wake me up. “Let’s go. We’ll be late. And I will not be late. Not for this, not for
our first visit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your parents. We’re going out there and spending the night. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  I had indeed forgotten. After our dinner with Stefan and Ava, the thought of introducing Erica to my parents was unbearable. But in my rush to introduce Erica to the significant participants in my life, I had already arranged for a weekend visit to my parents’ house in Garrison, New York, about fifty miles north of Manhattan. I wanted to postpone the visit now. I needed time to recover. I wanted to have a few more advisory discussions with my parents, so that they could be prepared. “There are a few things you might want to know about Erica . . .”

  Now, it dawned on me that I would never have the chance to, what, warn them? I had already spoken to them a few times about Erica, had even identified her by name. I had also mentioned that she was a social worker, and perhaps I had described her as “intense.” But I found in these few conversations that I pretty much left out everything that was worth saying about Erica, and I knew that my parents felt this gap keenly.

  Erica swirled around the apartment like a windstorm, sweeping up articles of clothing and toiletries. In her frenetic preparations, I noticed that she folded her clothes carefully before packing.

  “Will, you told them we would be there by late morning.”

  “Late morning is broad enough in its scope to encompass early afternoon. There have been studies on this.” She did not find this funny. “There is truly no hurry, Erica. My folks are gentle. We can arrive whenever we want to.”

  “No. I’ll go myself if I have to.”

  We drove out of the city onto the Taconic State Parkway, where we saw deer languishing dangerously close to the road. I loved this parkway, which swept authoritatively through empty expanses of farmland. Driving usually relaxed me, but I did not experience my customary sense of peace and well-being while we headed north. Erica would be revealed to me through the eyes of my humble and unpretentious parents, and I would be mortified. My parents were not meddling types, but they were concerned that their only child was unmarried and, in their view, lonely. And now, here he comes, about to introduce them to someone who just might be the one to liberate him from his solitary life, and she turns out to be this?