I stood up and found that I had almost no room to maneuver. Our chairs and Josh’s bed formed a small triangle with the wall, and the only way I could leave, short of climbing over the bed, was to wait for Josh’s father to move his chair to the side. He didn’t budge.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Mr. Whitfield nodded vigorously. “That’s so honest, so raw. I feel your humility. You’re so restrained. It would be so awkward, so . . . out there . . . to proclaim that you’re a healer. So I appreciate this exchange. This is helping me, Mr. Alexander, helping me with my grief. Allow me another question: Did you ever provide healing services for Josh?”
I continued to stand for a few more seconds, but this accentuated my status as a prisoner, so I sat down and tried to regain some measure of dignity. “I spent time with Sondra and your son, Mr. Whitfield, and maybe I tried using some kind of . . . alternative energy to help out, but I never, not once, persuaded Sondra to forgo medical treatment of any kind. I know you’re in a bad way, but you need to know that never happened.”
“Did you fuck my wife?”
“I thought you were divorced.”
“That’s an interesting response. Take me, for example. If I were in your position, I would have focused more on the word ‘fuck’ rather than the accuracy of the word ‘wife.’”
“I’m not continuing this conversation,” I said. I stood up and moved toward his chair, expecting him to move, which he did reluctantly, as if he were considering the option of forcing me to extricate myself. I squeezed out through the small space he allotted to me and walked briskly toward the exit.
“I wish you well,” I said. “I mean that.”
He did not turn around, but his voice carried as if he were inches away, facing me directly. “I can’t say how or when, but I am going to settle this matter with you, Mr. Alexander. It’s my life’s mission now. I thank you for giving me purpose. And I want you to believe the purity of my intentions, the sincerity of my goals, because I have no use for small talk. I am going to settle this matter with you. And when I do, you’ll know it’s me.”
I won’t sugarcoat this exchange. I was freaked out by the intensity of the rage, and I recognized that Josh’s father was in a position to cause trouble. He was wealthy, he was motivated, angry, undoubtedly vindictive. Worse, his son was dying, and, in truth, I did accept the sincerity of his goals. He believed that I was responsible. I had not heard the last of him.
35
Fragility
Jessica Bueti was small and thin and wanted you to know that she was timid. This was easy to believe, because everything about Jessica was frail, except her eyes, which, if you didn’t know better, would suggest an ability to focus at odds with her professed ailments. Her clothes hung off her tiny limbs loosely, and her face was narrow, a biological reality she appeared to conceal by constantly presenting the flat terrain of her profile. I doubt many succeeded in establishing enduring eye contact with Jessica Bueti.
She walked carefully into Erica’s office, pushing the door open and using it as a shield, in case the need arose to slam the door shut and flee the vicinity. She gained a little more confidence when she saw me sitting behind Erica’s desk. “You’re normal looking,” she said. “I’m not sure I was expecting that.”
I was in no mood to deal with her, or any other client for that matter. Two days had passed since my encounter with Josh’s father, and the disorienting effect was undiminished. I forced myself to stand up to shake Jessica’s hand, then beckoned her to sit in the reclining leather chair. Her fingers had no substance, and I was careful not to exert any pressure. I sat in my chair.
“No notepad?” Jessica said. “You’re not recording this, are you?”
“I am definitely not recording this,” I replied. “And I don’t take notes either. I assume you’ve heard something about me, which explains why you’re here.”
“I’m nervous, and the thought that any of this would be taken down, or that anyone would learn about me being here, concerns me.” Her eyes moved about, but I had an odd sense these movements were not entirely voluntary.
“I do not disclose the identity of anyone who comes to see me,” I said. “There are no exceptions. Frankly, I don’t even keep track of who I see here.”
She faced me suddenly, and I couldn’t help but notice the pure aerodynamic feature of her face. I imagined her skull cleaving the slow-moving air being pushed around the room by Erica’s air-conditioning system. “I’m frightened, Mr. Alexander.”
“There’s really no need to be,” I replied.
“Not of you, exactly, or my being here. I’m just afraid, in general. How did you get into this business?”
“Can I ask what you’re afraid of?”
“Everything,” she said. “In fact, I can’t understand why everyone else isn’t petrified. It took me about thirty minutes to get here from my apartment in Brooklyn. The subway could have stalled. Smoke could have filled the cars. The tunnel could have burst through with water. There’s pollution, traffic, crazy people, and there’s nothing anyone can do about any of this. Not even you.” She suddenly lost interest in her rant and carefully examined the office.
“You have to tell me how you got into this business,” she said. “Because I want to trust you, and use you. Everyone else has failed. And I’m lost.”
“I try not to talk too much about myself,” I said. “I’m not being evasive, but my story, my past, is probably less interesting than the possibility that I might be able to help you.”
“Why do you believe you can help me?” she said. “You know nothing about me. Nothing about my medical or psychological history.”
“I didn’t say that I believed I could help you,” I replied. “I said that I might be able to. But I might not. And that’s why I won’t insist on payment from you or from any other client. Payment is voluntary, and the amount you pay is discretionary. It’s up to you.”
Her head rotated directly toward me. She looked like a whippet, one of those emaciated dogs descended from greyhounds. “I can’t tolerate strife in conversations,” she said. “You’re here, doing what you do, and you believe that there’s a chance you can help people. I don’t believe that about myself. So my question is why do you believe this about yourself, that you might be able to help me?”
Her directness and precision were surprising. Her fear was her fuel, which she used to propel herself toward abrupt questions. So I took no offense.
“I can’t answer your question, at least not to your satisfaction. Other than to say that I’ve had a few instances with people who I have some reason to believe I’ve helped.” I stopped talking, and she said nothing, and despite her frailty, she was unfazed by the silence that followed. “I really can’t be more specific, and I understand if that’s unacceptable to you.”
“You’re good,” she said.
I wrinkled my brow in mild confusion.
“I mean that in a positive way,” she said. “You’re reassuring. Part of me assumed you were a complete fraud before I came in here. I don’t believe that anymore.”
“Then, we’re making progress,” I said.
“I can’t continue with this, though, unless I know something more about you. And I’ll completely understand if you don’t want to go there. I’ll leave then, no hard feelings.”
I shifted my position in Erica’s chair and searched for a proper response.
“I’m not really talking about conducting a thorough investigation,” Jessica said, through a self-deprecating grunt. “I understand you’re a lawyer at Canaan & Cassidy on a leave of absence.”
“Sounds like the investigation is already underway,” I said.
“I did a web search,” she said. “You can’t exactly hide your status as an attorney. In fact, your name came up with dozens of hits but nothing to do with . . . this . . .”
“I don’t advertise,” I said.
“Yet I’m here,” she said. “And I don’t go just anywhere.”
>
None of my clients had ever expressed much interest in me before, and I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone would ask more than a few perfunctory questions.
“Yes, I am an attorney at Canaan, and yes, I’m on a leave of absence. It’s a long, dull story.”
“I thought about being a lawyer once,” Jessica said. “I was smart enough, but the thought of standing before a judge or a jury petrified me.”
“Not every lawyer is a litigator,” I said.
“But that other kind of law is boring, right? Reading contracts. Writing leases. I’d either be frightened or bored. Was that the case with you?”
Evasion would have been silly, especially at this surface level of inquiry. And if an exchange promoted trust, where would the harm lie?
“I had a love-hate relationship with the practice,” I said. “At times, I could not believe my good fortune at being paid to spend my days handling such interesting matters. And then there were days that were so pressured, or dull, or both, that I bordered on depression.”
I smiled ironically at my description. The depressed healer.
“You used the past tense. Are you done with being a lawyer?”
“I haven’t really thought that through,” I said.
“Let’s say you have a choice. Money is a wash, you’ll make the same amount either way. With that as a given, what would you rather do? This or law?”
There was something recognizable about the cadence of her questioning. “The truth is, I don’t have an answer to that,” I said.
“I think you need to see someone about your issues,” Jessica said.
I smiled, and after a few seconds of an unblinking stare, Jessica smiled as well.
“Do you know where I’m from?” Jessica asked. “I’m from Aventura, in Florida. Near Miami. It’s an asphalt suburb. I’m positive all of my problems come from being from that town. I bet if you google “Aventura” and “hometown” you’d only get a few results. That’s because it’s not really a hometown. It’s a featureless creation, drained of humanity. It’s clean but empty. Who the hell is actually from Aventura anyway? I am. It’s a joke. I was doomed from the start.”
Jessica began to shake, and there was that imbalance right before tears fall. But no tears came.
“Where are you from?” Jessica asked.
“Garrison, New York. Putnam County.”
“Upstate. Wooded. With lots of character. Buildings that have history and meaning. Quirky shops that sell things that, miraculously, pay the rent. You’re so lucky.”
“I suppose I am,” I said.
“You have roots. You might even be bored with your upbringing, but you would be bored in a protective way. You could make fun of your hometown, but you wouldn’t take kindly to other people doing the same.”
I didn’t mind this conversation, and I had no appointments later that day, but I still felt that I should commence the process of transitioning to the business at hand. Jessica must have sensed this.
“Sorry, it’s a funny habit. It calms my fears, my generalized anxiety, to talk aimlessly. This is actually helping me. You really are good.”
“I haven’t done anything,” I said.
“But you have,” Jessica replied. “Unintentionally, but believe me, I have been to a lot of mental health care providers, some really renowned, and they’ve done nothing for me. Nothing. Sometimes, I’d leave their offices worse off than before.” She paused. “You want to know something? I trust you. I really do. And do you know why? Because you’ve done nothing to earn my trust. You don’t even care if I trust you. Am I right?”
“It’s not that I don’t care,” I said. “It’s just not important. I either help you, or I don’t. I don’t make any promises.”
“See? That’s exactly what I mean. The more you do nothing to earn my trust, the more I trust you. I believe some people have healing powers. And I’ve been to many, many people who say they have these kinds of abilities, but they’ve all been frauds. Every single last one of them. Can you imagine how twisted all of this is?”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“I believe, Mr. Alexander. I totally believe in something that my experience, my mind tells me I shouldn’t believe. I believe in healing, in nonmedical, mystical, otherworldly healing. I just haven’t been fortunate enough to meet someone who can do it in that way.” She looked more closely at me now. “You haven’t asked me anything about myself.”
I was becoming acclimated to her skittishness and found a certain comfort in predicting the abrupt changes in topics. “I try not to pry into my clients’ lives. Most people come here wishing complete anonymity, and I respect that.”
“I want you to pry.”
“Okay, tell me about yourself.”
“No, be more specific.”
“Tell me your full name and marital status.”
“My name is Jessica Bueti, I’m from Aventura, Florida, and I’m single.”
“If I were your lawyer, I would scold you now, because you provided information beyond the limited boundaries of my question.”
“You should be my lawyer.”
“That would be too expensive,” I said.
“How ironic is that. The service you provide, the service that’s actually meaningful, you charge nothing. And the service that’s worthless, you would charge for.”
“There’s a lot to unpack there,” I said. “It’s not that I don’t charge, it’s that . . .”
“I know, it’s up to me. I’m not very attractive, and that hasn’t helped me.”
“I certainly do not agree with that,” I said.
“Do you find me attractive?” she asked.
“I’m in a relationship,” I said. “I’m bound by the rules that prohibit me from expressing an opinion about the attractiveness of others.” I smiled.
“She must be attractive. Here’s another guess. You did nothing to impress her, and she found you impressive all the same. You’re attractive, but she’s really gorgeous, right? You can hardly believe your good fortune. Have you spent a lifetime, ever since childhood, believing that you had mystical powers to help people with the channeling of energy healing?
Throw out a question or statement, leave it hanging, then thrust forward with a question of greater interest.
“Are you sure you’re not a lawyer?” I asked.
“I’m bothering you,” she said. “I do this. I find someone who might be able to help me. Then, I sabotage the relationship.”
“You haven’t sabotaged anything,” I said.
“I have to go,” she said. “But I want to see you again. How about Thursday? Is that okay? At three?”
“I can do that,” I said.
Jessica fumbled through her purse.
“What do I owe you?” she asked.
“Nothing. At least, nothing right now. I never ask clients for payment at the time of service. I leave it to them to figure out what the session was worth to them, then they pay me later.”
“No way I can do that,” Jessica said. “Call it part of my neurosis, but I can’t just walk away. I need to pay you something.”
“I’ll leave it to you to handle the payment,” I said. “You can pay me now or later, and you can pay me what you want.”
She scribbled on a postal money order, folded it neatly in half, then folded it once again. “Wait until I leave before you look at it. I’m not rich. Keep that in mind, please. And let me come by at least one more time, even if you think the amount is too small. Can you do that for me?”
“I can do that for you,” I said.
She stood up quickly, placed the money order on the desk, and walked out. The office felt empty now, like a large ballroom in the aftermath of a splashy event. I unfolded the money order. Five hundred dollars. Many clients had paid more, but I was still struck by the amount. That was a lot of money for her, I was sure.
I struggled, but only briefly, to identify the sensation I was experiencing, and then
, it came to me.
I enjoyed the encounter.
36
Three out of Four
I had concluded that I could easily get away with my affair with Sondra. She would never make any disclosure to Erica. I was sure of it. Sondra was broken and tough and, through her enduring tragedy, had fashioned a personal code of ethics that I suspected was not subject to amendment. She made herself available for me because she wanted to, because it did not constitute a violation of her obligations to Josh, and because she needed the release, which was good for her and therefore good for her continuing care of Josh. Maybe I felt an obligation to be honest to the woman I loved, but the true reason I decided to disclose the affair to Erica was because I had become weary of being a coward.
I found Jessica bracing in this regard. In our sessions, I saw that she was fearless in her confrontation of her own fears, willing to reveal her timidity to a total stranger with an almost complete lack of hesitation. I admired her, envied her perhaps, her willingness to preclude thoughts of consequences from impeding her progress.
So I called Erica and told her I was riding north to see her. Like ripping the scab off a wound, I raced to Garrison, where I found her seated on a rusted, wrought-iron chair, gazing out over the small patch of greenery that separated my parents’ home from their neighbors’. I sat down next to her.
“I feel better, and I’m ready to leave,” she said. “I want to return home, to my apartment, to my life.” She turned to me. “You’ve put up with a lot,” she said. “And I’ve never told you how much I appreciate that. I’m not clueless, you know. I’ve seen what you’ve been through.”
“I’m not a good person, Erica,” I said. I plucked a blade of grass from the ground and stared at it. I needed to force the words out. “I love you, Erica, and I don’t love Sondra, but I slept with her, and I’m sorry I did that, and I’m sorry I withheld this from you.”
The Reluctant Healer Page 22