by Eden Winters
The doctor, silent during the past exchange, stepped up on the opposite side of the bed. “With all due respect, ma’am, you brought me here to assess your s….”—the doctor spared a raised-brow inquiry to Henri before changing to—“client’s mental state, which I have over the past week. He’s competent.”
Margo’s grin grew positively feral. “But you could change your report, right? If he started displaying abnormal behavior again?”
“Ma’am, Henri suffers from anxiety and has a history of depression. With therapy and perhaps better adherence to medication schedules, we can get his condition under control. However, I won’t fake a diagnosis for you or anyone else. You brought me here for my professional opinion and I gave it.” Dr. Worthington reached into a briefcase hanging from her shoulder and extracted a tablet computer. “Besides, I’ve already written my report, ordered prescriptions, and scheduled appointments for this young man’s therapy.” The woman’s hand on Henri’s shoulder offered more comfort than the earlier fake hug.
Margo bolted from the chair. “Well, I suppose I’ll find a new doctor.”
Henri corrected her. “No, you won’t.”
“That’s not up to you to decide!” Angry wasn’t a good look for Margo.
“Mo… Margo, I’m twenty-seven. I’m filthy fucking rich, and I can damned well hire my own doctor.” He slapped his hand over Dr. Worthington’s. The doctor showed support with a quick squeeze, the most genuine affection to be tossed Henri’s way since his sister’s “Thank you for the car” squealing birthday hug. “Now, I need some time to talk with my doctor… alone. Would you please leave?”
Arms folded over her chest like a petulant child, Margo pouched out her lip. “Make me.”
Rather than argue, Henri grinned. “Fine! If you won’t leave, I will.” He flung the covers back and launched himself out of the bed, coming close enough to touch, but stopping short. Storming from the suite, he turned deaf ears to her hurled insults.
Clop, clop, clop sounded in his wake, and he hurried to the elevator and punched the down button. “Please, please hurry!” he whispered to the car. Margo got there first. Henri headed for the stairs instead, clutching the handrail to keep from tumbling. His pursuer couldn’t follow in her heels. Dr. Worthington, in her sensible suit and shoes, might be able to, but as long as she was on Henri’s side, let her deal with Margo.
Henri beat his momager to the ground floor by a matter of seconds. The doctor dogged her heels, pleadings falling on deaf ears.
A crowd of onlookers notwithstanding, Margo caught him and jabbed a pointed nail at Henri’s silk-covered chest. “You will not do this! You will not disrespect me.” Spittle showered his face.
“Watch me.” Henri spun on bare feet and marched across the cold marble lobby floor toward the front entrance of the hotel. He hung onto the revolving door a moment after exiting, reveling in the purple face and hateful words of someone who he would no longer let hurt him.
A few feet away a uniformed officer peered at him from over the top of mirrored shades, pausing midmotion in writing a ticket to an illegally parked Rolls-Royce. Margo’s Rolls-Royce. How ironic that her car cost more than Henri’s, when he’d made the money to buy the damned thing. One month’s payment on the pearl-white status symbol would have bought two of the aging Chevy his mom had once shuffled him to practice in.
The officer took a step toward the commotion, and Henri let loose his hold on the door. Margo stumbled and nearly fell. Her piled-high curls lost the battle with gravity, strands sticking up at odd angles.
Henri tipped an imaginary hat at the officer and trudged off down the street in pajamas, his fluffy hair hanging down his back in a tangled mess.
Margo trotted behind, her words sweet music to his ears. “If you do one more stupid thing—”
Really? He stopped. “You’ll what?”
“Then… then… you can figure your own way out of this bullshit. I’ve had it up to here with your irresponsible behavior.”
He eyed the doctor and then the cop. “Did you hear her?” His heart thudded a mile a minute. “Did she just threaten to drop me?” Escape couldn’t be this easy.
“Sounded like it to me,” the doctor replied, followed by the conveniently placed officer’s quiet, “Yes.”
Henri faced Margo, tamping down the part of him longing to bend to her will, do anything, say anything, for her approval. She glared.
Although famed for his creative song lyrics, when asked to produce bad behavior out of thin air, nothing immediate came to mind. Several bystanders stood on the sidelines, snapping pictures with cellphones. May each benefit properly from their cold-hearted nosiness into someone else’s meltdown.
He had to do something, anything, outrageous. Beyond rehab stints, trashed hotel rooms, or drunken brawls in seedy clubs. What to do? What to do? Escape lay at his fingertips if he could push his mother a fraction of an inch further. What the hell could he do to piss her off?
Gaze falling on the cop, Henri muttered, “Sorry, man. But it’s for a good cause.” He brought both hands up to hold the officer’s head and slammed his lips down, initiating a game of tonsil hockey with a surprised opposing team.
Three
Nurse Attitude made a hasty retreat. Amazing how quickly she fled from so simple a gesture. Henri had only licked his arm twice before she bounded out of the room to report to the higher-ups. Ah, and that’s what he paid for every time he checked himself into rehab—quality entertainment.
A five-foot-nothing human dynamo bounded through the door before he’d even gotten his tongue back in his mouth. Ms. Perky, also known as Tessa Eklund, meditation therapist, merely smiled and quipped, “Let me guess. Tastes like chicken, right?”, thus taking all the fun out of his crazy act. “How are you feeling today, Henri?” She deposited a large bronze bowl and an even larger purse on his coffee table, and removed three nested bowls from the larger one. Funny how someone who couldn’t be still for even a moment intended to teach him how to calm the fuck down.
He wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to rattle her seemingly unflappable cage. “Why don’t you be the judge? Come on over and check for feathers. Or better yet, have a taste of chicken.” He held out his arm.
Henri sat sprawled across an armchair by the window in the luxury quarters of his favorite Los Angeles rehab facility, where he’d been hiding from the world since his “kiss the cop” incident. So far he’d managed to shirk all responsibilities for a full three weeks. He owned houses he’d spent less time in.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass—I’m vegan.” The woman giggled and sauntered over to pat his head, pushing his arm out of the way. She stooped to pick up a drink cup from the floor. “Hmmm, you’re feeling like a temperamental rock god, right?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You always feel like a temperamental rock god.” She balled up the cup and slam-dunked it into the trash can. “She shoots, she scores!”
He’d been waiting for a visit from this woman all afternoon. Therapist Tessa was the closest thing he had to a true friend. How pathetic was that? “I’d kill for a joint.”
“And I’d be killed for giving you one.” She flitted around the room, plumping the pillows on his bed, hanging up a jacket he’d deliberately left on the floor.
Yanking her chain about his drug use had become a ritual for them. “Pul-eeze. Have a heart.” Henri gave her puppy dog eyes. “Everybody knows you health care types have the best shit.”
“Only because we confiscate it from our temperamental rock god clients.” She shoved his tennis shoes into the closet. Twice daily housekeeping cleaned his room, and yet his meditation coach recleaned every day. Of course, he made sure to leave plenty of debris lying around. Lord knew what Perky Girl would do with her nervous energy if not put to good use. Spontaneously combust, maybe? That’d be messy.
Henri deserved an Academy Award for his put-upon sigh. He added a pout for effect. “That’s a no, isn’t it?”
�
�Yes, it is.” Tessa straightened the blinds he’d left at an angle.
“But… but…. I’m in here to relax and create music. I can’t relax and create music without a big fat joint.”
“Sure you can. What you need is meditation, not medication. You don’t need drugs.” Her scowl would have been scary if she’d managed to be a little taller. Five foot with her skinny frame gave her the appearance of a pixie. A pixie who, at the moment, was rearranging the magazines on his coffee table—alphabetically.
“Prove it!” Ha, had her there.
“That’s why I’m here. Meditating on your own puts you to sleep, yoga inspires inappropriate comments, and you don’t play well with others, which leaves out group therapy. I’m your last hope before you’re shuffled into arts and crafts as the de-stress portion of your stay. Trust me, you don’t want arts and crafts.” She plopped down onto the floor by the coffee table. “Now, I want you to clear your mind.”
A little digging in a handbag nearly bigger than Tessa produced a fat wooden peg, tipped with rubber. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before letting it out in a controlled exhale. The cleansing. Eyes still closed, she tapped the peg against the side of the first bowl. The sweetest, purest note emerged, sending cold chills along Henri’s arms. At one time she’d have insisted on him joining her on the floor. She’d learned to pick her battles and not waste a precious moment of their half hour together. Henri remained in the chair, but he listened as she wound the mallet around the top of the bowl, creating a soothing hum.
“Inhale deeply, now breathe out. Let go of the pressures, let go of the pain. Push them out of your body. Slow, steady breaths. Feel the tension drain, all of your stresses, all of your cares.”
The first bowl still sang, and she added notes from the second and fourth; the smaller the bowl, the higher the pitch. When notes from the others faded, she tapped the third, the first, and the second and fourth again, then slowly wound the mallet around the edges of each bowl.
The created harmony soothed his nerves as much as her friendly presence. Henri’s failures taunted him before reality kicked in. Reflection was the last thing he needed, the first being a band, a stage, and an audience. He’d lost his band—everyone but him belonged to Margo. Not that the other members of Hookers and Cocaine were his friends, but he’d earned one hell of a lot of money with them, not to mention fame. For a moment he struggled to breathe. What the hell had he done?
He might have won his independence from his mother, but he’d paid a heavy price. He’d barely managed to maintain status quo while with his old band; now his recent mad dash for freedom meant starting over. Starting over took energy. The mere thought had Henri ready to curl up for a nap. And then mad panic set in again. Pills. He needed pills. Or a joint. Booze would do in a pinch—the reason he was in rehab and not at home, where five minutes and a few bills could get him whatever he wanted. At the very least, somebody hand him some chocolate!
Fuck it all. “This isn’t the kind of music I need. Got any rock and roll or heavy metal hiding in that bowl?” Words always formed in his head while she played, but sappy, sunshine-and-roses stuff, not anything Henri Lafontaine could put his name on. He needed pounding rhythms, a primal scream, some way to release the darkness within. “The Darkness Within.” That’d make one hell of a song title.
“These are delicate instruments, meant for calming, soothing, and meditation. They’re not gongs.” Tessa lifted her chin into the air.
A gong. Hmmm…. What if he introduced a gong to the new tune he’d been working on? Sure, Queen had ended “Bohemian Rhapsody” with a gong, but how many of his current fans knew of the seventies hit? And those who did might enjoy the touch of nostalgia and homage to a group who’d influenced a young Henri. Still, a gong. Different. Different was good. “What else do you play? Piccolo? Flute?” He pictured Tessa with fairy wings, sitting in a tree while serenading birds.
Narrowed eyes and pursed lips announced an acceptance of his challenge, a very different image from “Fairy Tessa.” “Name a song, any song, and I’ll play it, using just what I find in this room.”
She was supposed to get adorably flustered, not accept. Still, a slim chance beat none. “You’re on. If you can’t, I get a joint.” Might as well make the most of the situation.
“And if I win?” Shwoosh went an empty tissue box into the trash. Please don’t let her ask why I go through so many tissues. Isolation meant no warm bedmates and pending calluses on Henri’s palms. Sooner or later she’d find the empty lotion bottle under the bed—and likely order a replacement.
“Front-row concert tickets, if and when I ever have a band again.”
“I will, you will, and you’re on.” Tessa lifted her pointy little chin another fraction of an inch. Stubborn woman. Henri liked her. A lot.
She scrounged through the room again, gathering up a variety of items: two glasses, which she filled to different levels of water in the sink, an empty soda can, a book, the tissue box, and “Aha! You owe me, mister!” She turned around, sheer triumph on her face. She held aloft a Chinese takeout box and set of chopsticks. Damn. Busted. “Someone’s been sneaking contraband in.”
“How much do you want to keep quiet?” Henri reached for his billfold. A guy couldn’t survive on the healthy meals provided by the center, and so far no one had figured out that “Cousin Joe” who faithfully visited every day worked for a delivery service.
Tessa skewered him with blasts of pure fury from her frosty green eyes. Oh hell. With Henri’s luck she’d live up the reputation of fiery redheads. “You swear to me it’s only food, no drugs, and we’re good.”
Henri held two fingers aloft, in a symbol for “scout’s honor” that he hadn’t used in fifteen years. “The nurses have a full list of everything I take. It’s on my chart.”
“Good.” She washed the chopsticks off in the sink. “Now, what song do you want?”
“I don’t care, you pick.” She’d never manage a decent rhythm with her assorted pile of junk.
“How about Sheila E.’s ‘The Glamorous Life’?”
“Works for me.” An oldie but a goodie.
Her malevolent grin put the evil day nurse to shame. Tessa took a deep breath and closed her eyes, chopsticks in hand. Tap, tap, rap, rap, bibbity bop, bop, bop.
Henri managed to slough off some of his lethargic stupor. Damn. In a good way. “How’d you learn to play?”
“Sheila E. was my idol growing up. A kickass woman who played drums? Awesome. I practiced on my desk at school with pencils, kept getting into trouble.” Her rhythm didn’t falter throughout the conversation. “Finally my dad gave in and sent me to lessons.” All grin and bright green eyes, it was easy to imagine her as a hyperactive kid. “I started in junior high band as a percussionist, went through high school and on to college.”
Hell, Henri pitied the woman’s teachers. Keeping her still must have been like trying to rope a cyclone. Unless they’d been the ones to discover the mighty power of setting a bronze bowl in front of her—the only thing he’d ever seen hold her attention for longer than five minutes.
Bip, bip, bip, bop. “At State I met a group of exchange students who introduced me to new instruments. They suggested Tibetan bowls for their calming effects.”
Heh. No need to wonder why.
She nodded toward the coffee table. “I’ve got a cool setup in my garage. Come by for a private concert sometime.” Thwack, thwack, boppity bop.
Here she was, a therapist, chatting with a so-called rock god about music. Her face nearly glowed. She wasn’t trying to sell him anything. She wasn’t asking him to make her famous. All she wanted was to share her passion—and maybe teach him to meditate.
Once upon a time Henri had felt the same way about his songs, before every single note became a commercial endeavor, words written to impress fans and earn money. What he wouldn’t give to have a bit of the old fire back. “Do you still play drums? Have you ever played in a band?”
“On
ly in college. Now I’m teaching my nephew, and occasionally entertain at parties with my bowls. I put away my rock star dreams a long time ago.” She gave a halfhearted smile. “My dad advised me to find a safer career option. Or demanded, rather.”
Dad had a point. “Yeah. Look at me. You might have turned into a drugged-out, rock has-been.”
She darted her tongue out, giving her the momentary appearance of a bratty twelve-year-old. “And wouldn’t that have been awful? They’d put me in the next room and we’d be neighbors.”
Somehow, except for the drugged-out part, Henri could imagine a lot less pleasant things than being Tessa’s neighbor. He’d simply send her to the rec room to play the pool table with cue sticks when she grew annoying.
Henri hadn’t told her he was gay from long habit of keeping things hidden that might affect ticket sales, and she didn’t ask. She also didn’t flirt or throw herself at him. She wanted nothing personal from him but conversation, his mental well-being, and a chance to clean up his room. And she didn’t scurry off, duty done, the moment she’d scribbled on his clipboard at the end of their sessions. She cared. What a rare gift. Nobody in LA cared anymore. They must have imported her from Iowa or somewhere.
She stopped dead still—for about three heartbeats. “Oh, crap! I’m gonna be late for my next appointment!” In a flurry of motion she disassembled her makeshift drums and shot out the door, enormous purse slamming against the bowls in her hands with every step.
Damn, but Henri needed to sleep now. She’d never have given him a joint, even if he’d won the bet, but she probably hadn’t doubted her abilities for a moment. Henri’d been her level of cocky once.
He added “Hear Tessa play drums” to his to-do list. Next time he’d bet for chocolate.
“Mr. Lafontaine? I’m Detective Shepard of the Los Angeles Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” A suit and tie couldn’t disguise one of LA’s finest. He screamed cop from the moment Henri entered the private sitting room designated for talking with guests. Couldn’t have the general public romping around in patients’ rooms. Not that Henri lived in a cell by any means. His suite rivaled a five-star hotel. It should, for what he paid.