On one drive home from the Good News Cafe in Woodbury, Connecticut, Sirius/XM radio played Beatles songs, alphabetically. Sondra and I, and even Josh, knew some of the words to most of the songs, and we exchanged not one word of dialogue as we sang out loud, laughing whenever we flubbed words simultaneously. The Major Deegan Expressway was clogged with traffic leading into Manhattan, extending the drive late into the evening. When we arrived at Sondra’s apartment, we began to engage in the choreography of bidding farewell as we always had. Sondra and Josh exited from the passenger side of the car; I got out of the driver’s seat. Then, as Sondra and Josh walked up the stairs to their brownstone, I walked to the passenger side of the car and waved goodbye as they walked into their apartment.
On this night, Josh ran down the steps and clasped his arms around my legs, then immediately let go and raced upstairs and through the doors without looking back. Sondra witnessed all this with widened eyes and placed her hand over her mouth.
“Come in and say good night to him,” she said after a minute. I could not offer a reason to refuse her request. We walked up the three flights to her brownstone, where Josh had already collapsed on his bed. Sondra eased him into his pajamas, and he fell into a deep sleep. We stood at the end of the bed, looking at him, angelic, innocent, and I was irate that the universe had chosen him for this miserable ordeal.
We left Josh and sat on Sondra’s couch in her living room, recounting the day. She stood up abruptly. “I’ll make some tea. We’ll just relax here for a moment, talk a little bit more, and then, I’ll release you.” She smiled and walked to the kitchen.
My heart raced. Everything was conspiring to accelerate toward an unwanted stimulation. Everything that should have been an impediment was having the opposite effect. I contemplated the guilt, the treachery, the wild inappropriateness on too many levels to count, and each wave of realization left me more defenseless and thrilled.
Sondra came back with two cups of tea, and I found some relief in the steam pouring out. Nothing could happen while we cradled these drinks, and the tea was hot, so we would have to take our time, sipping carefully, slowly. We spoke about the day, about Erica, about Josh. We covered other subjects, but my participation was robotic. I heard her words, I excavated responses that were germane, but I hardly recalled what I was saying. Sondra then leaned over to take the cup of tea away from me, and I held on.
“You’re finished,” she said. “Right?”
I looked down at the cup, unquestionably empty, not even a few drops of liquid rolling around on the bottom, no lingering stain.
“Right,” I responded. I released the cup, and Sondra walked to the kitchen and placed the two cups in the dishwasher.
I remained seated, and Sondra sat down on the couch again, and it would have been hard to measure, but I was sure that she placed herself just a little closer to me than before. “Thank you so much for everything,” she said. “Josh is happy with us. Whatever else happens, nothing can take that away from him or from me.”
“Don’t even go there,” I said. “He’s going to be fine. I say this from my vast experience as a mystic, a healer, and a lawyer. Every base is covered.”
Sondra smiled and reached behind to adjust her blouse, arching her back and exposing a flash of skin that quickly disappeared. I allowed myself the wolfish realization that she had a phenomenal body, and then I was mortified that she would see my helpless arousal. My heart thumped comically. I tried to find some subjects of conversation, anything, but we had waited too long.
I leaned over and kissed her and quite deliberately kept the rest of my body separated. Beyond the kiss, I refused to touch her, and she respected this protocol, but otherwise, she was responsive to my overture, so responsive, oh God, I still think about that moment. And I poured myself into the kiss, less out of passion and more in the belief that maybe we could contain ourselves at this level, that if we prolonged the kiss, we could buy time, reconsider, and step back. There were gradations of treachery, and maybe we could both live with the violations committed so far.
She placed her hand on my thigh, and all restraint collapsed. We were not rough with each other, but neither were we tender. There was a blunt realization that each of us had what the other wanted, and we were taking it, now, because we were within each other’s grasp, and there were no barriers. We were propelled forward out of lust but also greed and desperation. We disrobed each other methodically, and I marveled at her physique, waiting for the moment when I would find an imperfection that would restore some sanity to our frenzy, but she was flawless in a way that became more conspicuous the more clothes she shed. We ran our hands over each other, our combined entity possessed of multiple limbs, as it soon became impossible to know where one began and one ended. We dove into each other, bent on exhausting what the other had to offer, to receive, and as frenetic as we were, we did not rush, but instead took the time to do everything, until there was nothing left to do.
32
Gone
Neither of us slept. The sky brightened slightly, capturing the feel of an all-nighter, with a lingering sense of accomplishment and waste.
“You should go, at some point. I don’t want Josh seeing you here in the morning.”
“I agree,” I said. I began to get dressed and gather my belongings. I avoided eye contact.
“Will,” Sondra said. “I refuse to be awkward about this. We’re going to talk this through now. You’re not leaving until we do.”
“I can’t do this again, I said.”
“Neither can I. But the three of us will continue to do things together. That does not change. There is no way that Josh gets penalized. I’ll tell you something else.” She walked over to me and gently stabbed me with her finger. “I do not care about any discomfort or regret or guilt that any of us feel. The three of us go on. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“And anyway, I feel no regret or guilt. If it helps, this is on me. I needed this, and I used you.”
“I don’t feel used,” I said. “I’m thinking about Erica.”
Sondra sat down on the edge of her bed. “If I had the ability to care for anything other than my child, I would think about her too.”
I continued to get dressed. “I don’t know if I’m going to tell her, not in her current state at least.” I looked at Sondra. “That’s convenient, right? I cheated, but I shouldn’t tell her. It’s for her own good.”
“You didn’t cheat,” she said, and she sounded secure in her conviction. “I know that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s true somehow.”
As I walked down the steps of Sondra’s brownstone and into the cold grip of a late October morning, I was keenly aware that I was empty, but I fully expected all of the conventional emotions and reactions to kick in. Guilt. Regret. Shame. And I believe that in the absence of intervening events, I just might have experienced mortification from cheating on the only woman I had ever loved, while she was convalescing at my parents’ house, at taking advantage of her patient, who some might view as being particularly vulnerable under the circumstances.
But as I look back at this time, I realize that I was dropping through a vortex, spinning faster as I reached the bottom of the funnel. Recrimination was a luxury I would soon not be able to afford.
My memory is perhaps hazy from the passage of time, but I recall that as I entered my apartment hours after my night with Sondra, I resolved that I would quickly disclose the events to Erica. The affair clarified my feelings toward Erica, an appalling result to the evening, I realized. I wanted to work through everything, the affair, the kundalini rising, the differences in our beliefs, and construct an enduring relationship, not one that depended on resolving our differences, but one that could withstand them.
And given my impatience, I would have called Erica promptly, maybe spilling out my confession over the phone. But at that moment of gathering conviction, I heard the phone ring and shuddered that she had beat me to the punch. I steeled myself and answer
ed the call.
“We haven’t spoken in a while, Will. I hope all is well with you.”
I was tired, and Lindquist’s voice was pleasant but unwelcome, a voice from my past. “I won’t take up too much of your time, but I thought you might appreciate a report from the battleground. First thing I need to say is that I’m resigning my role as your agent.”
“I’m migrating away from the . . . practice anyway, not that I ever really participated, so I accept your resignation.”
“Might not be a bad career choice,” Lindquist said. “I need to report that, from a statistical standpoint, our evening in the country was not successful.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m not glad that the others are suffering, but this news makes my career choice that much easier.”
“We all had a good time, Will, a great time, actually, and that is no small consideration.”
“I had a good time too,” I replied, “at least to the extent that I can recall.”
“Well, that’s important too,” Lindquist said. “Truth be told, however, Sarah’s still suffering from pain.”
“Mark, I have to believe that neither she nor the others came to your house with great expectations.”
“And Evelyn still sniffles, and Maureen is still despondent.”
I felt a realignment, a reversion to the norm. Centrifugal forces exerted their comforting pull. I had fashioned out of my excellent adventure a more daring approach to life, and it was time now to allow the playing field to level. “Mark, you know I never fully bought into this . . . business, and maybe we should interpret our peculiar time together as a wake-up call . . .”
“Kravitz is doing better.”
“I’m thankful for that,” I replied.
“‘Better’ might be an inexact term.”
“Any improvement would be wonderful.”
“‘Improvement’ might be inexact as well.”
“Mark, I thank you for providing me with some unforgettable experiences . . .”
“I’m being coy, Will, trying to create some dramatic tension, so you’ll need to forgive me.”
“For what?”
“For stringing this along, rather than just coming right out and telling you. The fact of the matter is, Kravitz is a lot better.”
“You mentioned that.”
“So much so that his doctors are in a state of confusion.”
“Are you still stringing this out?”
“I am,” Lindquist said. “Kravitz is in remission. In fact, remission might not capture it. The cancer is, if I understand this, gone.”
“Gone . . . what does that mean?”
“Gone, as in no longer there.”
“Gone . . .”
“The medical term might be spontaneous remission or regression, and apparently it’s not unprecedented, but in this case, it was unexpected. Anyway, I started this conversation off by saying that I’m done being your agent, and I mean that. I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but you’re on your own. I’m not a promoter. You’ll take things where you will. But I suspect you’ll be hearing from Kravitz, directly or indirectly. Consider this a heads-up.”
33
Logistics
I would ask at this point that you put yourself in my position. Doing so does not require that you subscribe to any particular belief, but it does require that you accept as factual the unfolding of events described in this memorandum. Choose any explanation you wish, but accept that, in three identifiable instances, namely, with Halter, Lindquist, and Kravitz, my interactions were followed by changes in their conditions. I use the phrase “followed by” because I am aware of the distinctions separating causation, correlation, and coincidence, and equally aware that a great deal of silliness in the unregulated universe of faith-based belief arises from the conflation of these concepts.
But was I supposed to dismiss any consideration that my intervention led to the improvement of these three individuals? And please do not misconstrue where I am taking this. On hearing that Kravitz had improved, I experienced no exhilaration at the giddy possibility that I was possessed of healing powers. In fact, my prethought reaction was one of deflation, as if I were being pulled back down into a depressing abyss from which I had just recently escaped. I even had the fleeting thought that I wanted my old life back.
And be assured that I twisted and arranged the chronology of events in my mind’s eye, subjecting the linear development of facts to endless permutations, to resist the implausible conclusion that my efforts had any impact. But the cold order of events stood unimpeached, and I began to entertain possibilities. The best way I can describe this is to say that I made a pact with myself. Something might be possible. Let’s not be any more specific than that. Let’s just ride this out a little bit further, not to confirm what the facts were suggesting but instead to multiply the number of interventions to create a sufficient statistical sampling from which to draw conclusions. Three was not enough.
But even then, I had no plans. I was struck by the news of Kravitz’s condition, but I had no intention of calling him, and he never called me. Not once. Not even to this day. I understand that he is doing well, still in remission, if that is the right term. And I never begrudged him his decision to avoid contact with me. I could imagine many plausible reasons. Perhaps he did not wish to jinx what might otherwise constitute an enduring miracle. Or maybe he drew no connection whatsoever and instead accepted the medical opinion that these things do happen. Chalk it up to God or the universe. Or perhaps he considered the possibility that I had played a role, but he was not prepared to announce his allegiance to a way of thinking that most would view with ridicule.
I called Erica, who listened to my summary of Lindquist’s news and insisted that I come see her in Garrison. On the ride north, an annoying rain coated my face shield and distorted my vision, disorienting me from my thoughts. I rode slowly, taking twice the time to travel the familiar route. When I arrived, Erica ran down the sloping hill to the driveway, grabbed my hand before I had even dismounted, and beckoned me inside. My parents were out.
“You are going to receive calls,” Erica said. “Or emails. One way or the other, people are going to get in touch with you. You should be prepared.”
I wanted to confess, but she was so animated, so joyous, that I just couldn’t bring myself to do so. And maybe Sondra had a point. Maybe on some cosmic level, I hadn’t cheated but instead had relented to incandescent forces unleashed by authorities too distant and too wise to question. Or maybe I was a complete asshole. “I’ve known this from the beginning,” she said. “You can try all you want, but none of this can be held back. I have some ideas.”
And Erica then mapped out a strategy that, to her credit, recognized that I would not actively market my services or even discuss any abilities that I allegedly possessed. Let them come to you, she suggested. Don’t market, don’t telegraph, don’t advertise. They will call. Don’t charge anything. When they arrive, don’t promise that you can do anything. Just tell them that maybe you can help, maybe not. Handle your new clientele the way you handled Lindquist. Tell them to pay you whatever they think you’re worth, with any payment to be made at a time of their choosing after they’ve left the office.
“What office?” I asked.
“Use mine,” she said. “It’s perfect. You already had some success there with Lindquist. Maybe some combination of my lingering presence and your abilities strengthens your powers.”
I suppose I could identify this moment as a pivotal point. My involvement with Lindquist, both the individual meeting and the drunken group session, was something I could cheerfully pass off as a lark. But prescheduled office visits were different in tone and intention. They were premeditated, and they had the stench of a promise, no matter how many disclaimers I erected. Realistically though, was anyone really going to call me? I relaxed and felt a comforting momentum carrying me away from having to decide my path. I would spend the night here, with Erica, and we would talk no
more about healing and energy and the universe.
But Erica was right. I began to receive communications. And because I took Lindquist at his word that he was through being my agent, I assumed that these were the result of Kravitz’s efforts, not that he was actively promoting me. But I suspect that, in sotto voce, he recommended me to those in dire straits. Perhaps, from time to time, he would pull some beleaguered soul to the side and say, “Look, I’m not going to go into too much detail, and please don’t use my name, but I do know of someone who uses unconventional means, and that’s all I’m going to say. The rest is up to you.”
Whatever the reason, I began to receive inquiries, just a trickle at first, then usually one or two a week. Some left messages on my voicemail, others emailed me (perhaps Lindquist went so far as to provide my contact information to Kravitz), and I even received texts from time to time. The inquiries varied in tone and substance, but a few common features emerged. The callers would express some embarrassment at making the communication in the first place, and I could usually detect a faint hint of desperation, either in the carefully chosen words they used or in the quiver of their voices.
With Erica’s help, I set up a schedule. I never took one blessed step in promoting my services, but Erica and I did organize a schedule with respect to those who reached out to me. And enough reached out that we simply had to implement some tool of organization. We settled on the following methodology: First, I would see people only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I would limit myself to three sessions a day, the first at 10:00 a.m., the second at 2:00 p.m., and the third at 5:00 p.m. I would never answer my cell phone unless I recognized the caller; otherwise, I would assume that any unfamiliar number was an inquiry and allow my voicemail to take the message. I would later send a text back to the caller (almost everyone who called used a cell phone), advising them of a range of available session slots and asking the person to choose quickly. I would offer no other content in the communication, other than a brief comment that I would not require payment at the time of visit. I would use a similar approach with emails.
The Reluctant Healer Page 20