by Dan Taylor
“Walking, yeah.”
“Running?”
“In time. But we’re not going to achieve it this session.”
“I get that.”
“There’s a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Is it going to be painful?”
“Some of it…but not all of it.”
She blushes.
“Have you gone red, Doc?”
“Let’s keep talking about you.”
“Okay.”
“What’s the one big hurdle to your happiness?”
It’s a killer question. “I’d have to think long and hard about that.”
She blushes again, then says, “Just off the top of your head.”
“I suppose it would have to be the situation with my sister.”
“Go on.”
“She’s becoming disabled, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“So you feel powerless?”
“Not just that. I like to think I’m pragmatic enough to accept that life’s dealt her a shit hand. But I feel guilty about it, for some reason.”
She writes in the notepad again. “Maybe it’s not her prognosis that you feel guilty about.”
“What else could it be?”
“You could feel guilty for a number of reasons, that it’s happening to her instead of you, and you feel you’re squandering the healthy life you’ve been gifted with; that you feel you’re not providing adequate emotional support; or that you feel you didn’t make the most of your childhood with her, when she was fit and healthy.”
“I think the second shoe fits.”
“How so?”
“I phoned her this weekend, and she wanted to talk about the progression of her disease, was crying out for emotional support. But all I wanted to do was to talk about Steven Seagal.”
“Why Steven Seagal?”
“We used to watch his movies when we were kids. We found them hilarious.”
“That’s a very telling answer.”
“It is? We talked about his ponytail.”
“You wanted to ignore her illness, make yourself feel better about her having it, so you talked about a happier time in your lives, before her crippling illness struck.”
“So it is the second shoe?”
“I think so. You emotionally bailed on her when she needed support. Instead of you two talking her through this difficult time in her life, you wanted to distract her with a happier time. This was counterproductive.”
“So I should have told her everything’s going to be all right?”
“No, because it isn’t.”
I remember something. “I bought her a Steven Seagal box set to try and cheer her up, and her kid one of those wooden train sets.”
“Throwing money at a problem doesn’t solve it.”
“That’s what I’m doing now.”
“That’s beside the point. I’m not telling you what you should or shouldn’t do, but listening to her would have helped.”
“It would? How?”
“Is talking to me about your failings as a human being helping you?”
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I suppose it is. But she’s suffering from an actual illness. We’re just trying to make me less of a dick. Our problems aren’t comparable.”
“They aren’t. But the solutions are similar.”
“Talking and listening can help both of us?”
“You’re taking the solution too literally. You have to learn to be emotionally there for the people in your life that need your support. You do this, you feel more whole as a person.”
“So how do we make me better at this?”
“You can start by spending more time with your sister, talking about her condition if she wants to. Or talk about Steven Seagal’s hairstyle if she wants to. But the important thing is that you emotionally support her when she needs it.”
“Sounds simple.”
“But yet you never thought of it.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for? To point out the stuff that’s obvious to other people?”
“Crudely put, but that’s accurate. Think of it as emotional development. Like training your biceps at the gym.”
“I don’t go to the gym.”
She doesn’t respond to that, but says, “Are there any other areas of your life you don’t feel content with?”
“I feel bad about the way I split with my wife.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
Dr. Hannah Rogers adjusts her sitting position, and her demeanor changes. She regresses in age before my eyes, looking like a college freshman who’s just found out her roommate is fucking the boy she has a crush on.
“Did I say something to upset you, Hannah? Sorry, is it ok to call you Hannah?”
“You may.”
“Now it’s my turn. You didn’t answer the question.”
She sighs, looks ‘round the condo, avoiding my eye contact. “It’s out of line for me to say so, and I know you’re dangerous for my life, with you being emotionally challenged, but I find you very attractive, Jake.”
“Wowsa.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
She packs her notepad away. “I really should be going.” Then she makes a beeline for the door.
I get up. “No, wait.”
I jog after her, pull her back by her elbow as she reaches the door. Despite my effort to make eye contact, she succeeds in not looking at me.
“Let me go, Jake.”
“No.”
“You really must. I have a colleague that can help you. She’s a top psychiatrist—”
I stop her talking by kissing her. She doesn’t kiss me back at first, but then gives in.
We make our way to the bedroom.
Timidly, she starts to undress. While she does so, she seems unsure, looks like she’s working out a long multiplication in her head.
I say, “We don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Just one more time. Then we’ll say our goodbyes.”
I turn away from her. “Then I’d rather have you as a therapist.”
When I turn back, she’s naked apart from her stilettos.
I say, “How good is this other psychiatrist?”
She steps closer to me. “She’s the best.”
We half kiss, her lips barely touching mine, before I say, “Is she expensive?”
“Double the price of me.”
“Ouch.”
She grabs my crotch, then nibbles my earlobe.
“I suppose I can live with that.”
59.
THE SESSION WAS make-believe, but Dr. Hannah Rogers has me thinking about my sister. Being there for her would make me feel better about myself. For a high-class hooker, she’s a hell of a psychiatrist.
I kissed Dr. Rogers goodbye ten minutes ago, and I’ve been toying with the idea of phoning my sister since. Getting the ball rolling on this being-there-for-her thing. But something’s holding me back.
I decide to just jump in and swim.
She doesn’t answer, then I realize that she has an appointment with a physiotherapist on Mondays. So she won’t be available to talk until the evening.
This is how I see the next week or so going. I’ll have dinner with Jane, probably end up having sex with her; then I’ll go to the underground bunker, phone my sister this evening, try and be emotionally there for her; Andre’s nerds will sort out this situation with the Agency, catch whoever’s behind it; I’ll come back to my life in Hollywood, and be the man that I should be at thirty-seven. Face my sister’s shit with her.
That does sound like a good plan.
But first I need to freshen up, wash Dr. Hannah Rogers off me before Jane arrives. And start cooking dinner.
When she does, I smell like sandalwood and evening primrose oil, my hair’s slicked back, and I’m weari
ng a trim-fit gray suit with matching waistcoat. I won’t lie; I look like a candidate for the next James Bond.
I buzz her in, then open the door, start opening some decent Belgian beers.
“Hello, Jake,” she says.
She comes in tentatively, holding a bouquet of flowers. I notice there’s something different about her.
“Have you had your hair done?”
“No.”
“New makeup job?”
She laughs. “No.”
“What is it, then?”
“Guess.”
“We just tried that, and I failed miserably.”
“Look into my eyes.”
“Is this one of those tricks to get me to kiss you? Because you can just ask if you’d like me to.”
She chuckles. “Just look into my eyes.”
I do. “Are they a different color?”
“You’re useless.”
“I’m just teasing. You’ve had the eye operation. I thought it wasn’t until tomorrow.”
“Someone who was scheduled to have theirs done today had an accident, so they could fit me in for this morning. I wasn’t working, so I thought what the hell.”
I pass her a glass of beer, take the flowers from her. “Lucky…for you, I mean.” Indicating the flowers, I say, “What’s with these? Did some other guy give them to you during the date you had scheduled before ours?”
I can see she’s suppressing a smile. She says, “I brought them to freak you out.”
“It worked.”
“Did it?”
She gets excited, punches the air.
“It was a pretty goofy joke, but I like it.”
“Thanks.”
“You look great, by the way. And not just because of the new eyes.”
“You can say it how it is, Jake.”
“Okay, the eyes make a hell of a difference. You look like a new woman.”
It would be a dangerous thing to say to most women, but Jane beams from that awkward compliment.
She says, “It was worth every cent.”
“Do you think he could fix my eyes?”
“Nah, you’re stuck with yours.”
“Damn.”
“I kinda like them, anyway.”
“Why don’t you take a seat?”
As she sits, I put on some romantic jazz music. Lady in Satin by Billie Holiday.
She says, “I like the music.”
I join her on the sofa. “Some people think it’s depressing. But I think that about cheerful music.”
“I know, right.”
“You don’t have to pretend everything I say’s interesting.”
“Thank God! That last thing you said was really boring.”
“How does this sound? We sit in silence for a while, drink this beer, and when we get a little drunk, we can start talking about real stuff.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We sit and drink, and I allow Jane to have a cigarette. When the beer’s finished, I decant two more bottles, check on dinner, then sit back down.
She says, “Are you sufficiently drunk, yet?”
“Getting there.”
“Must be the effects of the anesthetic. I feel pretty tipsy.”
“I prefer women that way.”
She turns to me, interested in what I said. “Really? This I’ve got to hear.”
“It isn’t because there’s a better chance that they’ll drop their panties, or because they’ll think I’m better looking than I actually am—though I won’t deny they’re bonuses—but because the alcohol seems to cut all the bullshit and fakery out of them. In a first date scenario, that is.”
She thinks about that a second. “I like your honesty.”
“But what I said isn’t relevant for you.”
“That right? Why not?”
“Because you’ve got no bullshit to cut out. Sure, you pretended to like my boring comment about Billie Holiday. But I figure you were just being polite. The flowers convinced me you have no interest in selling me some fake, ideal version of yourself, and then revealing the real you when you know I’ve started to develop feelings for you. You brought those flowers, said, this is who I am, take it or leave it. I’m goofy, I’ve got an ironic sense of humor, and I don’t care if the guy in front of me interprets it as tacky or as though I’m trying too hard. Which some men might. You didn’t play it safe.”
She leans back, examines me, as though looking at me in a new light. “You’re right. This is much better than small-talk.”
“I think so.”
“I suppose it’s my turn to say something real.”
“If you want to.”
“I think you’re materialistic, a little bit arrogant—a lot, actually—and the way you’ve dressed tonight makes me think you think you’re God’s gift to women. But I don’t believe any of that. I think you’re overcompensating. I think you’re clueless when it comes to women. We may as well be a Rubik’s Cube to you. It makes you kind of cute, with you being thirty-seven, and all. And I think you’re lonely, and that makes you vulnerable, behind all that bravado.”
“So does that mean I should go ahead and cancel the gun show I had planned for later?”
“That’s a good idea.”
“And the lie I was going to tell about how much I can bench press?”
“Yep…just out of interest, how much were you going to say?”
“At least three hundred pounds. Four hundred if the conversation dried up.”
“That’s a lot for a man with your frame.”
“I was going to wait until you were a little more drunk before saying it.”
“What will you do now if the conversation dries up?”
“I don’t think it will.”
“But if it did?”
“I’d dust off a board game.”
“Sounds boring.”
“You didn’t wait to hear which board game we were going to play.”
“Is it naked Twister?”
“Got it in one.”
“Here’s a deal for you. If the conversation dries up, and it’s mostly my fault—from answering questions with one-word answers, or something—you can take me to the bedroom, have your way with me.”
I stay quiet, waiting for her to say more.
After thirty seconds or so, she cottons on. “Very funny.”
She notices her handbag on the unused sofa chair. “Seeing as we seem to have this whole absolute-honesty policy tonight, I’ve got a confession to make.”
“Shoot.”
“I left the handbag under your bed on purpose.”
“Really?”
“You knew?”
“I’ve got a collection of handbags in my wardrobe from women who I didn’t ask on a second date.”
“You really know how to make a woman feel special.”
“Thanks.”
“But seriously, what gave me away?”
“You took your wallet and keys out before you left it.”
She punches me on the arm, and it reminds me of Megan. “You pig!”
“Gotcha.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t sure you had, but I am now. I know better than to go snooping in a woman’s handbag.”
She blushes. “I didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I have a confession, too.”
She looks worried.
“If you planned on inviting me back to yours sometime, I was going to leave my handbag under your bed.”
She laughs. “It would’ve totally worked.”
We don’t say anything for a couple minutes, just listen to the music, and glance at one another every so often.
Dinner goes well. The conversation doesn’t dry up, despite my best effort at times to make it. And I have to admit, I like Jane. We’ve got similar personalities. I’m not saying we finish each other’s sentences or some other cheesy shit you see in movies, but she laughs at my jokes. And I hers.
And she doesn’t mind shutting up for a couple minutes, enjoying the silence. I like that.
Does this mean that I’m going to stop my therapy with Dr. Hannah Rogers, ask Jane to move in with me, cut ties with my ex-wife once and for all, and stand up Megan on our date to Sister D’s in a year’s time? You know me better than that. I’m adhering to the absolute-honesty policy for tonight—well, almost—but I never agreed for that to be the case in the future.
Will I see Jane for a third time, fourth? It depends on a few things. At the top of the list is if she can perform in bed as well as she did the first time. Think that’s shallow? If I commit to a woman, and I mean really commit, then I want to make sure she can satisfy me sexually. It’s for her good and mine, believe me. If she can’t, I’m likely to wander. And I couldn’t do that to Jane.
After dinner, she asks for a tour ‘round the condo with a twinkle in her eye.
I start with the bedroom, and she does perform really well in bed. I’m a gentleman, so I won’t give you any details, but let’s just say there’s no way I would sleep on these bed sheets tonight if I wasn’t going away.
Which reminds me.
We’re lying in bed, and have just stopped breathing like walruses that’ve competed against each other in a hundred-yard dash. I say, “I’m going away for a while.”
“So that wasn’t a joke? That’s cool.”
“And I won’t be able to use my phone.”
“Okay…”
“Which doesn’t mean I’m going on holiday with some other woman.”
“I believe you.”
“I’ll be staying in an underground bunker, so that I’m safe from some unknown threat.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“It’s true. Think if I were going to make something up, I couldn’t come up with a better story than that?”
“When you put it that way...”
“There’s probably a secure landline I can use. I’ll try and phone you using that.”
“Whatever.”
“There’s no need to act nonchalant. I do like you. And I’ll try to phone, if they allow it.”
We’re quiet a couple minutes.
Then she says, “So, this exclusivity thing.”
“What about it?” Before she can answer, I glance at my watch, say, “Is that the time?”
“Jake…”
“No, seriously. I need to get dressed. It’s seven-fifty-five.”