A Handful of Fire

by Alexis Alvarez

  Allison’s secondary office has cream carpet that looks clean and luxurious. While she’s on the phone, I walk to the wall of glass and look down across the parking lot, rows and rows of silent automobiles. Although you can hear ambulances now and then, I can’t see them; their entrance is somewhere behind us in another building. Allison splits her in-office time between our therapy building a block away and this satellite office in the hospital complex.

  When I come to see Allison here, I feel the claustrophobia that only comes from being near such a concentration of extremes. It’s like all the sadness of all the deaths here are heavy feelings, pressing on anyone who comes near. Bricks on your chest. Even the joys of births are heavy because they’re meant for someone else, not you.

  We’re five floors up and I think about airport parking. Another trip entirely. I try to see which color car is most common, but it’s random and I give up after counting white, silver, black, blue. There’s not much red, though. Red reminds me of hearts and blood.

  I see someone trudging up with a small wheeled suitcase, head down, walking fast toward the hospital’s grand main entrance, which looks like a sterile hotel drive-up rotunda. Her husband attempts to take the handle; she brushes him off. Which one of them is going on this journey? I suppose they both are. I shudder.

  “Okay, I’m sorry about that. Shai! It’s good to see you.” Allison sits at her impeccable desk, smoothing her pencil skirt down, crossing one slim leg over the other. “First, congratulations on the book deal. I’m happy for you. Well deserved. It was well written.”

  “Thanks.” I flush pink. “I appreciate your feedback.”

  “I’m glad to help. I was surprised when you came to me. I had no idea you were writing.” She gives me a quizzical glance. “I can tell you’ve been working on that for a long time. Do you have more planned?”

  I nod. “I do.”

  “Writing takes a lot of time,” she observes. “It can be a full-time career, even.” Her voice doesn’t betray any emotion, but I sense a question underneath the even tone.

  “Not for me,” I say quickly. “It’s part time for me. My therapy job is still my job.”

  She nods and taps her keyboard. “Well, let’s review your progress with the Baystocks. I’ve been getting positive feedback from Gabriel Baystock about your work with Michael. I think he’s starting to change his mind about therapy.” She raises one eyebrow. “I think he’s even going to donate to the program, Shai. I don’t need to tell you how much of a big deal that could be for us.”

  “Yes.” I know he’s influential; if he donates, more people might. Plus, if she can snag him as a regular donor, it will be a pretty sweet deal for the bottom line. The money is something I care little about, though; it’s the kids who come first.

  “Well, let’s talk about Michael’s progress,” she says, pulling up his file.

  “Yes. Michael and Gabriel. It’s really good.” I smile at her and cross my own legs. When she leans forward on her desk, I lean in, too. I notice that I’m mirroring. Isopraxism, to use a psychology term. That is supposed to mean we’re in sync.

  “Yes?” She raises an eyebrow. “Tell me.”

  “So we’ve made some good changes. Michael is responding positively to the therapy, and his father agrees that his moods and attitude are improved.”

  I always maintain client confidentiality, but Allison is in the loop, so there are some things I can share with her. She was the one who first talked to Gabriel about therapy for Michael, and he listed out all the issues that needed to be addressed and signed a form saying that Allison and I could discuss details about Michael as needed.

  “For example.” I wind my fingers together. “He used to call his father Gabriel all the time. Now he calls him Dad more often, even though he uses Gabriel when he’s mad.”

  “That’s good.” She nods.

  “Yes. He’s doing all of his homework now, not just the math. He’s on a regular schedule. He’s eating healthier meals, finishing his vegetables. At the beach with Anna he’s supportive and friendly, not surly. At Robotics Club he’s made some friends and they talk together and have arranged some playdates. Brandon is the boy he talks about most. At dinner he’s polite and talks about his day instead of burying himself in his tablet. He’s agreed to go back to his school in January when the semester starts.”

  Allison takes notes. “So Gabriel is spending more time with him?” She tilts her head.

  “Yes, definitely.” I give an empathic nod.

  “I’m glad. Things like the park and Robotics, playdates with friends, these are great ways for parent–child bonding. I’m pleased that you were able to get him to engage at that level. And kudos to you for getting the appropriate information from his father.”

  I flush and lean back a little bit. I know I need to disclose this, and I’m nervous about her reaction. “Well, uh, actually, I’m the one who, you know, takes him to the beach and the club.”

  At her expression, I add, “It’s just another form of therapy, Allison. He bonded with me and responds to my guidance, so it just made sense for me to take him places to practice his social skills. And, you know, it worked out well so I just kept taking him. Gabriel works a lot, and his housekeeper, Natalie? Well, she’s super nice, but older and tired. So, me taking him works out.”

  Allison picks up a pen, turns it in her fingers, and looks at me. “Shai.”

  “What?” I cross my arms.

  “How many hours a week do you spend with Michael? The original plan was three hours a week. Which is a serious time commitment as it is.”

  My lip twitches. “Well, if I had to add it up? The three therapy hours. Plus, you know, the beach once or twice a week. Robotics Club. And because Robotics is right before dinner, they’ve invited me to stay… a few nights. Sometimes. So, that. Added up, would be?” But I don’t give a number.

  She clears her throat. “When Gabriel talked to me last, I got the impression you were spending more time than we’d discussed with the family. Now, talking to you, I see that I underestimated your involvement.”

  “Um…” I’m not sure what to say.

  Allison looks right at me. “I worry that you’re getting too involved with this family.”

  “I’m not.” I clear my throat. “Allison, I—”

  “It’s not typical for a therapist to spend so much time with a single client. It’s not entirely unheard of. But definitely atypical.” She twirls the pen in her fingers.

  “You always tell me that we need to adjust to fit the needs of each client.” My tone is defiant.

  “Within reason.” She puts down the pen. “Shai? I don’t want you to blur the boundaries. I know you care about your work, and that’s what sets you apart—your exuberance and your willingness to love what you do. You’ve gotten awards for your excellent progress, and I think it’s partly due to your ability to love each family, and treat them like they matter most in the world. But it’s a delicate balance. This time, I think you’re getting in too deep.”

  “No, but I’m not, Allison. I just—it’s short term and intensive. Gabriel said he wanted to see significant progress in just a few months. I have the time, so I used it to help reach the goals faster. I just want to see Michael heal.”

  “I know you do.” She sighs. When she leans back in, I stay frozen in my same position. “Are you able to stay on top of the rest of your workload effectively?”

  “Of course.” I work to keep any notes of irritation out of my voice.

  “Are you sure?” She waits a beat. “You’re the program manager, Shai. I asked you to take on Michael’s therapy, yes. But I need you to manage the team as well. Your weekly reports have been late the past month, and so were your expense reports. Margaret and Sunisha came to me when they said you didn’t respond to their emails in a timely manner regarding the seminar in Houston next month and whether travel is authorized. Now, you’re writing, too. And while I admire that—and fully support it—I need to know that you�
�re able to manage your commitments to me and this job. In a professional way.”

  “I’m sorry. I let my time management lapse. It won’t happen again. I’ll touch base with them today and restart our weekly one-on-one meetings.” I curse myself. It’s just that nothing has mattered these past weeks except Michael and Gabriel.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. I’m not trying to pick at you, Shai. But we need to keep this program professional. It’s not just the right thing for the clients. It’s the right thing for you, too. The harder it is to leave these people when your job is done, the more difficult it will be for all of you. Your job is to make their lives easier, not create additional problems that may arise when therapy ends. Because this will end. All our jobs do.”

  My gaze is buried in the carpet. “Yes, I know that.”

  “And it looks inappropriate to the outside observer. I’m not saying that public opinion is the most critical part of our job, but I’d be lying if I said it meant nothing. I don’t want other clients to feel slighted because they get less attention. And I surely don’t want anyone gossiping about excessive time spent at the Baystock home.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You know that professional behavior is a big part of therapy. Your team looks up to you. They use you as a model of what to do, and what not to do. Do you understand? Your job as the manager involves leadership, and good leaders lead by example.”

  “I understand.” I stare at the carpet, wishing I were anywhere but here, having this excruciating conversation. I feel my cheeks burn, and I keep staring at the floor to calm my swirling thoughts. That rug. If I got down on the floor and put my face even with the pile so the individual strands of fabric were a forest, I think they might resemble the strands of dog food we used to feed our malamute when I was a kid. Except those were a bright, fake red and looked like Play-Doh extruded through a garlic press.

  “So I’m telling you to pull back. Confine your work with him to the therapy sessions. It’s okay to do them at the beach or other venues. But stick to the three hours. Being his companion to such a degree is too much, and so is additional time spent with his father. Yes?”

  “Yes.” My face is still hot. I know she’s technically correct. I’d never advise a therapist to become a nanny, a chauffeur, a regular dinner partner. To fall in love with the child’s father and dream about him. It’s not the right way to do things—everyone knows that, even people who aren’t therapists. Except, in this case, with these people, it feels like the exact right thing to do. Nothing else would feel as right.

  I don’t know how to explain it in a way that will make her understand, so I don’t try. I just nod. “Thank you for the feedback, Allison. I’ll disconnect to the appropriate level and step up my involvement with my team. I apologize for the issues and I’ll fix them right away.”

  She gets up. “You’ll see that it’s for the best.”

  “Yes.”

  Breakfast is usually cooked by Natalie, but I tell her to take the day off. Her eyebrows rise up high, into her curly white bangs, and I explain. “I want to cook for Michael today.”

  “But your weekly staff meeting.” She wrinkles her forehead. “You never miss that. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, well, I asked one of my Denver team to cover it and the world, apparently,” I gesture toward the nearest window, “isn’t exploding. I’ve decided to do more delegating so I can spend time with Michael, while he’s at home.”

  “That’s great, Gabriel.” Natalie’s face lights up. “He’s going to love that.”

  “I should have done it sooner,” I confess, “but at least Shai convinced me—well, anyway, the woman running the meeting for me is stepping up nicely.”

  Natalie nods at me and makes the “hmmmph” noise that she makes when Michael does something right, like putting away his backpack or taking away his dirty socks from the TV room. She says, “Usually on Mondays we make waffles. But you can make whatever you want, of course.”

  “Waffles?” I hesitate. I’m good with milk and cereal, and can even scramble some eggs. But waffles sound complicated and messy. I imagine burned offerings and sticky pans. I don’t even know. “Do you put eggs in those? Or have a recipe?”

  Surely a man with advanced degrees can make waffles. Irene used to do the cooking, not because it’s a woman thing, but because she loved to. If she’d ever asked, I’d have learned to cook, Cordon Bleu. I’d have done anything for her. But she enjoyed it, so I did my things, and here I am today—a person who’s relatively useless in a kitchen.

  Arielle doesn’t cook, does she? I have no idea. We eat in restaurants, if we eat at all. Sustenance isn’t something we do.

  Natalie laughs. “Organic, from a box. Toaster-ready.”

  “Oh, phew.” I wipe pretend sweat from my brow.

  Natalie looks at me. “You seem happy today, Gabriel.”

  “I am.”

  “What time is Shai coming?” She must have heard us in my study that one day when we kissed. She knows Shai stays for dinner some nights. But I don’t owe her any explanation.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Her usual time.”

  “All right.” She’s still looking at me with that quizzical expression, her head tilted to one side, her eyes slightly narrow. Then she smiles. “Thank you for the day off. I’m going to pick up some new knitting supplies.”

  I surprise myself by asking more about her knitting, a topic I’ve previously never even considered. I’m in a good mood, filled with optimism, and sharing it feels right. “So, the things you knit, what do you do with them?”

  She smiles at me. “Some for my grandkids, and some for the local homeless shelter. I try to make at least ten hats to donate each winter.” She pulls on her coat, then adds, “I started a knitting club where other women get together to knit for the homeless, too. We donate our own money for supplies.”

  “Can I donate to your group?” I didn’t realize I was going to say it, but once the words are out, I’m glad I did. The expression on Natalie’s face is worth it and much more.

  “Gabriel,” she says, after a moment’s pause. “That would be wonderful. I never wanted to ask. I wouldn’t expect you to, you know. But that would be amazing.”

  I nod. “Later on, we’ll talk more. I’ll write a check. Actually, let me do it now, so you can use it right away.”

  I can see the excitement in her face when I give it to her, and knowing that I helped do that—that I sparked her extra joy today, that I sparked maybe some extra good in the community—makes my own heart turn over.

  When Michael sees me, his face glows, literally. I think I can see rays coming out. “Dad!” He runs to me and throws his arms around my waist. “You’re going to have breakfast with me? What about your meeting?”

  “Someone else is going to do that from now on,” I tell him. “I want to spend the morning with you.” I hug him back, tentative at first, then with a firm grip. “So Natalie says Monday is waffle day.”

  “Yes, usually.” He goes to the fridge, then turns to me with a coy smile. “Unless, of course, you want to take me out to McDonald’s for pancakes and hash browns.”

  “That stuff isn’t good for you.” I speak without thinking. Actually, I speak while thinking about lots of things—about how fast food is supposedly full of chemicals and altered DNA, full of sodium and grease and bad juju. How cancer patients, even recovering ones, are supposed to eat organic and healthy all the time to allow their body to flood with healthy, healing nutrients, a green soup of antioxidants and micronutrients that can bathe each cell in a cleansing bath of verdant love. How I’d want to feed Michael carrots and kale patties every day if it had once single chance of preventing his cancer from returning. How I’m not even sure that organic waffles, once a week, is a good choice, because cancer cells supposedly love sugar, and do I need to lecture Natalie once again on my eating expectations for Michael?

  Then I see his face fall, and think about what his doctor said, and what Shai would sa
y, and I correct myself. “But once in a while won’t hurt. And you’re healthy now. Your cancer is gone, and your doctor said it’s okay to loosen up with the food. Let’s go.”

  “Really?” An expression of such disbelief grows on his face that I get impatient and peeved.

  “Yes, really. Do you want me to change my mind, or are you going to get your shoes?” Then I take a breath and put up my hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I take it back. Please get your shoes, so we can head out for your treat.” I force a smile.

  I’m still trying to get that cold chill out of my gut that came from thinking about cancer and sugar, and how there are just so many things we don’t fucking know about how to prevent recurrences. It’s maddening. My anger wasn’t for him; it was directed at life, at fate, at the vagaries of change that toss mutations our way, blistered broken genes that tick like a bomb you don’t know how to defuse, so you try everything.

  His doctor told me that weekly treats were fine and that we could ease up on the restrictions, although it’s important to keep eating healthy in general. But I still worry. I’ll worry for the rest of my life, but I need to keep that kind of concern inside, so I don’t contaminate Michael with additional anxiety he doesn’t need. I’ll do better.

  He nods. “It’s okay. But I’m not going to get my shoes.”

  I feel my face fall, then he adds, “I’m going to wear my snow boots.”

  I smile at him, laugh. “Michael! The ground is dry.”

  “I know. But they make me feel like an astronaut. Sometimes Shai and I pretend we’re exploring the moon or Mars.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “You wear your snow boots, too. So we can explore together?” He orders it, but it’s sort of a question. I look at my suit, then say, “Yeah. Okay. I will. I think they’re in my closet.”

  “Awesome!” His shout makes it worth it, so I find the boots and tap them out to make sure there are no spiders inside. There are not. They’re completely empty. Just some dust on the outside. I put them on and he almost takes my hand as we walk to my Porsche, a little upward motion, then a sharp arrest, and he pulls the hand back.