The Reluctant Healer

by Andrew D. Himmel

“Hop on,” I yelled through the muffled barrier of the helmet’s chin guard.

  “Oh, would you please just knock it off!” she snarled.

  “Erica,” I yelled, “hop on!”

  She stopped, turned left, and took two quick steps toward me on the street, nearly colliding with a bicyclist who had staked out a slalom course on the sidewalk. “Will,” she said, vacantly at first. “Will,” she said again, this time with gathering force. I admired her in that moment. There was no question mark in the vicinity, not yet, just the brute force of a keen intellect aligning data to a new reality.

  “Are you insane?” she asked. And now, the liberation was complete. A woman who believed in remote healing, who believed that traffic patterns were susceptible to energetic manipulations, was questioning my sanity.

  “You lack standing to ask that question,” I said. “Hop on.”

  And I must give credit where credit is due, because without further hesitation, she hopped on, donned the helmet, and off we went on a two-hour journey of streets I knew so well but had never really seen or experienced before that day. We traveled north on the FDR Drive and confronted the snarling ramps of the George Washington Bridge, splayed before us like an inviting but tensed hand, poised to convulse if navigated poorly. Just before making the irreversible choice to New Jersey, we scooted hard to the right, finding the lone exit that kept us in Manhattan. Heading south on the West Side Highway, we reached Fort Tyron, a park straddling the Hudson Heights and Inwood neighborhoods of northern Manhattan, perched on a high ridge with a commanding view of the Hudson River and the steep cliffs of the Pacific Palisades. We parked at the Cloisters and lounged on the sloping lawns fronting what appeared to be a castle from the Middle Ages but was in fact a recreation funded by John D. Rockefeller Jr.

  We returned to Erica’s apartment, exhausted, our faces dried and windswept. “There is no way we just did that,” Erica said. I pushed her onto the bed, straddled her, and pinned her hands over her head. “It’s just possible that I’m not in the mood,” she said.

  “That is of limited interest to me,” I replied. She squirmed without conviction as I disrobed her. “I need your help,” I said.

  “I’ll do what I can.” She was naked, and I began removing my clothes.

  “I will be a great and powerful healer, and I will also need to engage in questionable acts of sexual deviancy, and you will help me, for this is your destiny.”

  “Did you park your scooter in a secure location?” she asked. She closed her eyes and arced her body toward mine. “Or maybe you’re doing that even as we speak.”

  “Speak not, fair lady, for the fiery-footed steeds gallop apace, and thou wilt lie upon the wings of night.”

  “Shakespeare . . . ” she whispered, and indeed, we paid no worship to the garish sun.

  Later, I awoke on my side and found Erica staring at me. “It’s time,” she said.

  “I’m too tired.”

  “For another ride.”

  “I’m too tired.”

  “It’s early,” she said. “The roads will be empty.” I raised my eyebrows. It was still dark outside. “You’re a good rider,” she said.

  “I’m not sure what we’re talking about,” I replied.

  “You’re a good rider.” And we drifted away again.

  Time slipped by, and the sun swamped the apartment. I was alone in the bed, and I could hear the clatter of dishes. “Erica,” I said.

  “Now I’m too tired,” she replied, as she appeared in the doorway. “It’s eleven forty-five in the morning. Don’t you need to be at work?”

  “I’m on a leave of absence, paid, for six months,” I said. She walked toward me slowly without releasing her gaze on me. She climbed on the bed and sat cross-legged in front of me. “And I need your help, because I am going to provide healing services, and you’ll need to be a part of this.”

  Erica opened her eyes wide. “I know I can help,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

  26

  A Striking Development

  And in fact, Erica seemed more prepared and less surprised than I was by this turn of events. No defensiveness. Just an instantaneous acceptance that she should help me help others. The fact that this might mean assuming a subordinate role was meaningless to her.

  After I told her about Lindquist, she swirled around her bookcase, pulling one volume after another on metaphysics, the Kabbalah, experimental healing, Eastern remedies. And she prepared to organize a streamlined tutorial that I could follow. But I was ahead of her. “We’re going to do this my way,” I said. “Rule number one—I don’t know what I’m doing. Rule number two—I have no idea if energetic healing is possible or complete nonsense. Rule number three—communicate rule number one and rule number two to the client.”

  Erica was about to interrupt me. “It gets worse,” I said. “There will be no justifications, no quasi-medical explanations that straddle the line between science and silliness, no rituals, no giving of thanks or paying of homage to any god, spirit, deity, entity, object, or thing. I will entertain no questions from the client, because I do not have any of the answers, and I will not presume to educate anyone about a topic, since I know nothing.”

  Erica’s mind was racing. She had already marshaled a point-by-point rebuttal. “Don’t even start,” I said. “You will prevail on every point, if the prevailing guidelines are logic and reason. But I’m beyond that now. I will study nothing. I will read nothing. I will listen to nothing. I will not become a student or a follower. I will not become interested or intrigued.”

  Something about the absolutist position I staked out slowly appealed to Erica. She relaxed. “Why do you need me, then?” she asked.

  “You are the bridge,” I replied. “You believe, you understand, you study. I intend to be honest with Lindquist. And if the missing link in my interaction with Lindquist is an absence of conviction, your presence will supply that missing link.”

  “But after everything is explained to Lindquist, what are you going to do? To help him? What will you ask him to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  I sent another text to Lindquist. “If you’re free, let’s meet at 928 Broadway, Suite 1000, at 2:30 p.m. tomorrow afternoon. Please confirm.” Surely, Lindquist must have been further contemplating the absurdity of it all. He would reconsider, and this path would be averted. Moments later, however, he responded.

  “I’ll be there,” the text read.

  It made sense to use Erica’s office. Not that I was concerned with staging and theatrics, but if these considerations were important, then Erica’s office was the perfect locale: darkly lit with imposing tomes lining the bookcases, spare furnishings—not so spare as to suggest a lack of substance but not so ornate as to border on pretension. The office had one comfortable leather couch and two chairs that could recline to near-horizontal positions. Toward the rear was a desk of substance, an eight-by-ten-foot mahogany slab propped up by black file cabinets. One window let in a muted stream of light.

  Erica and I arrived at her office at 10:45 the next morning to engage in the minimal preparations for our meeting with Lindquist, consisting mainly of placing a jar of filtered water and three glasses on the desk. Lindquist arrived on time, dressed casually but with some degree of calculation. He was eager and wary.

  Enough was enough. I sat down on the couch, and Lindquist and Erica sat on the chairs. We formed an equilateral triangle.

  “I need to say a few things,” I began, and it appeared that both Lindquist and Erica were relieved that I was taking control. “I am flabbergasted that I am here at all. Nothing will be possible unless I communicate this. You need to know something about me, Mr. Lindquist. I grew up in Putnam County, I went to college, then I went to law school, then I became a lawyer and started work at a fairly conventional law firm in Manhattan. If this is all you ever knew about me, then you could fill in the blanks with all of the predictable criteria, and you would never be far from the
mark. Does this make sense so far?”

  “It does,” Lindquist said.

  “I met Erica in a bar . . .” Lindquist and Erica established eye contact, and it struck me that they knew what they were doing here, with a certainty that I lacked. “And we started dating, and we are together now. Erica believes in the power of energetic healing, but I’m just a guy from the suburbs. And if that were the sum total of it all, then you wouldn’t be here. Erica and I would go forward, and our relationship would hold together or fall apart in light of our differences, but that would be an issue that would involve just the two of us.”

  I stood up and walked over to the desk and poured myself a glass of water. “Probably should have fortified myself with some scotch earlier,” I said.

  “I’m ahead of you on that score,” Lindquist said, and we all laughed a little. I returned to the couch and cradled the glass in my hands.

  “I hope you’re not plastered,” I said to Lindquist.

  “I’m functional,” Lindquist said. We both turned to Erica, who expressed no objections. This is what passed, I supposed, for an expert opinion.

  “There are people, Mr. Lindquist, who think I have some . . . power . . . to help others through these energetic means. I am not among them. In fact, I am not among those who believe that anyone has this kind of capability. I am a skeptic, a pretty die-hard one at that.”

  I paused and hoped for some contribution from Erica or Lindquist, but they were paying close attention, and neither of them felt that it was their time to interject.

  “But here’s the thing . . . ” I said. “If it is even remotely possible that I can help others, even if nothing more is in play than a placebo effect, then maybe, just maybe, it can’t hurt to . . . put myself out there. This is a conclusion I have come to within the past forty-eight hours. But it is a conclusion that I am comfortable with only if I announce, again and again, to the point of irritation, that I question the legitimacy of what I am doing.”

  I looked down at my half-filled glass and saw an imprecise image staring back at me from the smooth surface of the water. I tried to establish eye contact, but the eyes of the image darted away from any point of traction.

  “Just a few other comments. I actually prepared a retainer agreement, but I’ve reconsidered. We’re not going to sign anything. We’re not going to agree to any particular figure. We will establish no duration. You’ll pay me what you believe I should be paid, and you’ll pay me at a time of your choosing. If you pay me nothing, as it will be your absolute option to choose, this will be a good indication that I haven’t done a damn thing for you and that you’ve reached the same conclusion.”

  Lindquist nodded.

  “And in this continuing spirit of honesty and disclosure, I need to add the following: I have no idea what I am supposed to do now.”

  “I do,” Erica said. I was about to object, but this time, she silenced me, politely but firmly. “Can I make an observation and a suggestion?”

  I lost my combativeness in that moment, my need to control by announcing I had no control, and ceded the focus to Erica. Lindquist assented to this transition.

  “My observation is that different healers have different modes of transmission. Vanja aligns musical notes. Others chant. Some use physical contact, like tappers. Others have no use for tactile connection. Can we talk about Halter for just a moment? You may have been standing, Will, but you lost connection with consciousness, even if just for a few seconds. And Halter was asleep as well.”

  “No, he wasn’t asleep. He had his head on the table, the last that I remember, and he was in a state of despair, but he was conscious.”

  “He may not have been unconscious, but he was momentarily disconnected from his surroundings, as you were. At the same time. And so here is my suggestion. I don’t think we have to all go into a trance. It may be enough to simultaneously experience just the slightest degree of alteration, maybe nothing more than relaxation. I’m not even talking about a meditative state. What if we all just lay back, closed our eyes, kept silent, and see what happens? The only suggestion I would make is to direct some intention to help, some focus directed from Will to Mark.”

  This proposal had enormous appeal for me, as it required no further disclaimers, and Lindquist was equally enthusiastic. Lindquist and Erica adjusted their seats to fully reclined positions. I removed my shoes and lay down on the couch and remembered that during my sophomore year of college, I went to an acupuncturist to help with back pain. Although I concluded quickly then that the sessions were useless for their intended purpose, I kept going anyway, because when I lay back after the needles were inserted, I always fell asleep to a depth that to this day I’ve never been able to achieve. I would wake up refreshed and amazed at the disconnect I had experienced. And I always wondered during those sessions, as I was wondering now, whether the depth of my slumber was accompanied by blood rushing out of or into my head. I could feel the pulsing; I just couldn’t track the direction. I only knew that there was movement, and that this movement was a precursor to an altered state. Could this flow be redirected toward those in need? Would it matter?

  And it soon occurred to me that Erica, Lindquist, and I were running briskly through an open field, and we found that, when we leapt, we stayed suspended in the air for perhaps a second longer than the laws of gravity would normally allow. We were free. And we were laughing like schoolchildren, holding hands, and collapsing into hysterics when we established eye contact.

  Erica had not told me where we were headed, but it made no difference. The ground was soft beneath us, and the air was pristine. There were no buildings in sight. And for the longest time, there were no people either, just gently undulating hills with a gorgeous array of flowers lining our path, so crisply lit that they looked artificial.

  In the distance, we saw dancers in flowing garb broadly spread across the horizon, twirling gracefully and flailing their arms in helicopter motions. Erica grabbed both my hands with hers, and she spun me around, and we square danced our way to the gathering masses.

  We then became one with the dancers, and Erica released my hands. I felt the comforting presence of those around us. Erica slowed down and swung her right hand behind her back, angling her torso to achieve maximum contortion. She then sprang forward and released her arm, which catapulted the flat of her palm onto my cheek. This was startling, and all the more so because it created a sound like the echoing crack of a snapped dry log. Erica bent forward, opened her eyes wide, and placed both hands over her mouth, covering her failed attempt to suppress a giddy smile.

  And before I could react, she struck me again and again, and each strike drove sheets of negativity billowing away from the point of contact, and made room for an onrush of insight and calm. As my head flinched from each blow, I could see that the dancers among us were also striking each other. Everyone was paired.

  Erica then beckoned me, and I slowly brushed her left cheek with my right hand. She assumed an expression of mock disappointment and then, more seriously, beckoned me again. I tapped her cheek this time, and I heard her say, “Not bad, but you can do better,” although I was quite sure that she had not opened her mouth. Then, I really struck her, and this time, she fell down, and I was horrified, and I bent over to comfort her, but she was laughing with more joy than I ever thought I would see from her. She then stood up and raced into the crowd, and at that moment, we changed partners.

  And Lindquist was before me, and I knew that anger played no role, but I was furious all the same, and I struck him, and I detested his bravery and fortitude, and he stood his ground, experiencing pain but ready for more. And I delivered, but I was not accomplishing my goal, because there was an irritant present, one that trembled with each assault but which clung to the source despite my best efforts, although I sensed progress, like strands of gut slowly fraying. Soon, the anger gave way to a renewed sense of purpose, and the final strand released its hold, and I was exhausted. Lindquist ran away, and from the ba
ck, I could not determine whether he was exhilarated or panicked. But he had changed—for better or for worse I could not say, but he had changed all the same, and I did not need to establish eye contact to confirm this new reality.

  27

  The Vanishing Point

  I found myself in Erica’s office, alone, with the rumble of the streets muted. I sat up and scanned the office casually. I heard the outer door open, and Erica walked in. She approached me and grabbed my hands. “What happened?” I asked her.

  “We all lost consciousness, and then, Lindquist and I woke up around the same time. He got up and left.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was going to ask you that,” she said.

  “What was he . . . like?”

  “He seemed agitated. He didn’t say a word. I didn’t try to stop him or ask any questions.”

  I stood up and almost fell back onto the couch. Erica grabbed my hands and steadied me. “Are we going to square dance now?” I asked.

  Erica looked confused. “You’re probably not up to that right now,” she said.

  “How long ago did he leave?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  “How about a ride?” I asked.

  Erica brightened. “I can’t,” she said. “I have clients later. Tomorrow?”

  I couldn’t wait. I still had a few hours of daylight left. I conquered my vertigo and ran down the steps to the Vespa, clamped my helmet on, and rode with no purpose or direction. I found myself at the southern end of Manhattan, where I all but dared the police at the entrance to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel to stop me. No doubt they would be brusque. No toys allowed, sir, not in this cavern blasted through granite and resting audaciously below the New York Harbor. But the cops stared at me vacantly as I coasted down into the passage.

  On the other side of the tunnel, I was distracted by the transfixing ugliness of Industry City. I tried avoiding the road indentations, but that enhanced the risk of colliding with the traffic, so I chose deathby-pothole. What a magnificent machine though. I finally accepted that the scooter would not crumble, not even under considerable stress. The Vespa was laughably rugged.