What the Heart Desires

by Jaime Derelle

  He knew when he was fighting a losing battle, plus he could never say no to his Madeline. “Okay, but when it's healthy, it goes back to the wild, or city or whatever.”

  “Deal!” she smiled, then cooed at the pigeon as she started bandaging her foot.

  It took two weeks, but Madeline patiently cared for the pigeon and brought her back to full health. Jack was actually surprised and impressed at how well she did. That was the first moment he realized she would make a great mother. A woman he would honored to have a family with and share a lifetime of memories.

  Jack turned the knob on the door for the last time, taking a deep breath in hopes of smelling Madeline's perfume one last time. It was there, ever so faintly. A tear slipped from his eye as he walked out of the flat.

  On the plane headed back to England, Jack was lucky to have an aisle seat so he could stretch out his long legs. He had brought his laptop, in hope he could attempt some writing, but he just wanted to sleep. It had eluded him for weeks now, tossing and turning every night. Memories of Madeline pervading his mind, making sleep impossible.

  He asked the flight attendant for a scotch on the rocks. After three of those, he felt a comfortable numbness that spread throughout his whole body. Why hadn't he thought of this before? Now he was confident he could snag a few hours of sleep, albeit alcohol induced.

  As Jack closed his eyes, a red headed woman who was across the aisle turned to watch him for a moment before facing back to the front of the plane again. She kept a watchful eye on Jack throughout the flight. He never even noticed her getting on the plane.

  Back in England, Jack stepped out of Heathrow and looked up at the morning sky. This was a chance for him to begin putting the memories of Madeline behind him. The thought of leaving her behind tore him in two. But he had to. She wouldn't want him to live dwelling on the past. That he knew for certain.

  He had finally slept a few hours on the plane, so he was thinking a bit more clearly. The taxi took him to his new flat, which had come fully furnished. It looked like something out of the Victorian era, and he loved it. He hoped it would spark his creativity to start writing again.

  He walked over to the market up the street from his new home to pick up some food to stock his bare cabinets with, and maybe a bottle of scotch to make sure he would be able to get some sleep. He passed by Nana's on the way to the market, and a pang of sadness hit him harder than he expected.

  The weather was unseasonably warm and sunny, but Jack spent the next few weeks buried in boxes. He rationalized that he needed to unpack. He still hadn't written a single word when his boss came by to see if he needed anything.

  Mark knocked on the door and heard some shuffling before Jack called out, “Who is it?”

  “It's me, Mark. I came by to see if you needed anything,” Mark paused before trying the door knob. It was open, so he walked in. He looked around in shock.

  Take out boxes, dirty laundry, and empty scotch bottles littered the floor and on top of unpacked boxes. Mark looked around taking it all in before finding Jack in the middle of it, sitting on his sofa among piles of photos, looking disheveled and like he hadn't showered in weeks.

  “Oh Jack, you're a mess, mate,” said Mark as gently as he could. He knew losing Madeline was a devastating loss, but he had no idea how bad it really was.

  “Huh?” Jack looked up at Mark, confused and clearly drunk.

  Mark took the bottle out of his hand and dragged him to the bathroom. Jack smelled as foul as his apartment looked. Mark put him in the shower fully clothed and turned on the water, keeping it at cold.

  “BLOODY HELL!!” Jack hollered, trying to climb out of the shower but Mark pushed him back against the wall, keeping him under the cold spray.

  “This is for your own good, Jack. I'm sorry,” said Mark, having worked with this man for over ten years, knowing he was a calm, easy-going guy. He knew Jack wouldn't hit him or do anything to hurt him. However, it looked like he was on the verge of doing serious harm to himself.

  “Mark, you fucking berk, let me OUT!” Jack struggled clumsily, the cold water soaking him to his skin.

  “Nope, sorry mate, you are gonna stay here until you can handle a shower yourself. When was the last time you took a shower? In New York?” asked Mark.

  “I don't know and I don't care. Just let me out,” Jack said, dejectedly.

  Mark gave him a smack across the face, “Snap out of it. You have work to do, and first on the list is washing your dirty arse. And it will be a cold day in hell before I do that for you.”

  Jack hang his head, shamed that he had sunk this low. Madeline would be so disappointed. He nodded to Mark and pulled off his t-shirt, “I'll shower, and meet you in the living room when I am done.”

  Mark released him and said, “Okay, I will start cleaning up a bit.” God, what a mess. Jack needed help, and it was way beyond his expertise on how best to approach it. Maybe he should see about setting Jack up with a psychiatrist. He could probably use some antidepressants at the very least.

  After Jack showered, he joined Mark in the living room, which was pretty much cleaned up. The windows were open, curtains flowing in the sweet smelling breeze. Jack was still wrapped in a towel, as all the clothes he had unpacked were filthy. He went to a box to pick something out and said, “Thank you for snapping me out of this funk, Mark. Madeline would be so disappointed to see me living like this.”

  “I hate to say it mate, but you need help. Like professional help,” Mark said, the note of seriousness making Jack look over at him.

  He was surprised that Mark cared so much, but then he remembered about eight years ago that he had lost his sister in a tragic accident. He knew exactly how Jack was feeling, he had been there. “Yeah, you're right,” Jack reluctantly agreed. He went to get dressed and returned, flopping on the couch.

  “I took the liberty of calling Marcy,” Mark said, referring to his wife. She worked at London Bridge Hospital, and agreed to research some names to give Jack. “She will be calling you with some names of good psychiatrists, ones with experience in grief counseling.”

  Jack nodded, as he sat down next to Mark, “I'm sorry I haven't been writing.”

  Mark shook his head, “Don't worry about it. You have bigger things to worry about than writing some shite for me.”

  Jack cracked a smile, “Are you calling my work shite, mate?” Mark returned the smile, seeing shades of the Jack he knew and loved in that smile.

  “Nah, but it made you smile, didn't it?” Mark chuckled. “Let me take you out for some lunch, you need to get out of this flat for a little while.”

  “That's probably a good idea,” Jack agreed, looking around for a pair of shoes.

  “Let's go to Nana's,” suggested Mark. Jack froze for a moment then went back to tying his shoes. He could feel his heart pumping painfully and normally he would have jumped at the idea. Those sweet old biddies served up a tasty meal. He swallowed, realizing how dry his mouth and throat were.

  “Okay, let's do it,” he replied.

  Walking down the street, Jack began to sober up and feel more like his old self. The smell of Turkish coffee permeated the air as they passed a coffee shop. They walked into Nana's and sat down at an outdoor table. The sun was shining and for the first time since Madeline died, Jack felt okay.

  Being back at Nana's was somewhat cathartic. He had many memories of Madeline, but he also had many more. Unlike in New York where everything was a vicious reminder of his love, here in his homeland there were many more happy memories without ties to her.

  Jack and Mark kept the chit chat light-hearted over the course of their lunch. On the way back, Mark let him know that he could take his time getting back to work, but he expected to see something within the next couple of weeks. Not because he needed it, he had plenty of other writers, but because Jack needed to do something with purpose.

  Once Jack was back in the flat, he put on some Dizzy Gillespie and began unpacking. Madeline hated old jazz so there we
re no emotions tied to this music, except for his university days when he first fell in love with the music. He had received a voice mail from Marcy with the names of three psychiatrists for him to go see, and he decided he would call first thing tomorrow. For now, today was a good day.

  Jack had chosen Dr. Michael Brighton and made an appointment for the same day. Apparently Marcy had given him fair warning that Jack would be calling and he was a family friend. It hit Jack pretty hard in that moment that without Mark and Marcy, he would still be drunk in his flat and slowly killing himself.

  He opted to take the underground straight into the heart of London. The tempo of London was busy but still not nearly what New York was like. Jack was beginning to see how much being with Madeline really made him see all the good things in life, including having blinders on to how much he really didn't care for the Big Apple. All he cared about was being with her, it didn't matter where.

  On his trip into the city, he was unaware of a red headed shadow tailing him. He was too busy fighting back the rising emotions of grief, pain and heartache that were familiar friends now. The only focus Jack had was putting one foot in front of the other, it was all he could do when desperate sadness at losing his love gripped his heart.

  He arrived at Dr. Brighton's office, checked in and sat in the waiting room. It was modest and comfortable, decorated in soothing sage and lemon yellow colors, like spring. Jack thought about last spring, when he came back to New York after a trip to the London office. Madeline greeted him at the airport dressed in a red raincoat, showing off her long legs. He couldn't wait to see what was under the coat when he swooped in and picked her up for a long, deep kiss.

  The feeling of her tender lips on his were still a vibrant memory, as was the feeling of her soft, supple skin under his hands. They went back to the flat, barely able to keep their hands off each other in the taxi and again in the elevator. He discovered there was very little under that red raincoat.

  “Mr. Russell?” the receptionist called his name, shaking Jack out of his reverie.

  “Yes, here...” Jack stood up and walked over to the door she was holding open for him. She escorted him to another door, knocking before entering.

  “Dr. Brighton, this is Mr. Jack Russell, your three o'clock appointment,” she said with a professional air.

  The doctor stood up and came out from behind his desk with his hand outstretched, “Jack, it's nice to meet you.”

  Jack walked in cautiously, taking in his surroundings and returning the handshake, “Hello, Dr. Brighton, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  The receptionist left, closing the door behind her. Dr. Brighton motioned to a soft brown leather chair for Jack to sit in, “Please have a seat and call me Michael. It was my pleasure to fit you in. Marcy spoke very highly of you and explained a bit about your tragedy. My deepest sympathy on your loss, Jack.”

  “Thank you,” Jack responded, so tired of hearing how sorry people were. No one could understand the depth of his sorrow, and he doubted Michael would be any different.

  “So, this being our first session, I just want to hear a little about you, your life, whatever you feel I should know or feel is pertinent to what led you to be here today,” explained Michael, picking up a legal pad and pen.

  Jack chuckled sarcastically, “Well, I think that it pretty obvious, isn't it? I lost the love of my life in a tragic, senseless accident.”

  “Ah, yes, well that much is self-explanatory. But we all react differently to tragedies and heartache, and it is important to understand why you are reacting in your way,” Michael said gently.

  “In my way? Why? Is it not normal to want to drown your sorrows when the one woman you wanted to spend your entire life with dies? Isn't that enough to bring a man to his knees?” Jack's voice cracked, feeling the black hole that had taken residence in his chest expand.

  “Tell me what you are feeling right now, Jack,” demanded Michael, “I can tell by your voice you are feeling some strong emotions and sometimes it is helpful to put a name to them.”

  Jack laughed out loud in a nasty way, “Name them? Isn't that your job?”

  Michael put the pen and paper down, “Look, Jack, I know this isn't easy, but you have to work with me here. It's going to hurt, reliving this awful tragedy here in this room. But here is my promise, I will only push you as hard as I think you can handle and you will get better in time. I've worked with many grieving spouses, lovers, and families over the course of the last twelve years, not to mention my own loss.”

  Jack looked up at him, “Your own loss?”

  “Yes,” Michael stood up and came around to sit on the edge of his desk. It reminded Jack of something a professor would do. “I lost my daughter when she was only seven years old. And when she died, my marriage died with her. My wife left me six months later, blaming me for her death.”

  Jack stared at him in surprise. He was stunned how calmly he spoke of such a terrible tragedy, “I'm sorry for your loss,” Jack cringed, saying the one thing that he couldn't stand to hear from others. “I mean, that is terrible, but you seem so calm talking about it?”

  “Well, that took a few years to master. It still hurts, and I miss Claudette, my daughter, every day,” he pointed to a picture on the mantle of a beautiful, sweet little girl who was hugging a teddy bear and lighting the photograph up with her big smile. “I noticed you don't like to hear people say “sorry for your loss”, why is that?”

  Jack sighed, realizing that just maybe this man could understand his pain, “Because no one is sorrier than I am. I hate people pitying me, especially when they have no idea how it feels to lose the person you love most in this world.”

  “Well, I do, Jack,” said Michael quietly, “I know better than most people the pain you're going through.”

  “Yeah.. yeah you definitely do,” Jack said, glancing back over at the picture of Claudette.

  “So where do you want to start?” asked Michael.

  “I guess from the beginning, right?” Jack asked, settling himself in the chair.

  For the next three weeks, Jack went to see Michael twice a week. In their third week, Michael suggested that he attend group therapy.

  “Oh blimey, Michael, seriously? I am not exactly a fan of sitting in a circle with a bunch of teary women talking about how I feel,” said Jack.

  Michael laughed, “Well, you will have to share your story, Jack, but it is with a mixed group of people from all different walks of life, men included. And I think it would be great for your mental health.”

  Jack reluctantly agreed. Since he had been seeing Michael, he had been able to maintain some semblance of a normal life. He had started going to Nana's twice a week, was maintaining basic hygiene and keeping the flat relatively clean. He still had no desire to write anything, and while Mark was being patient, Jack needed to figure out how to take the next step and get back to work.

  Michael gave Jack the address for a group therapy session that met fairly close to his home at a meeting hall, once a week. The next meeting was that night. Jack was dreading it, but knew it had to be done. He trusted Michael and truly wanted to get back to the man he once was.

  Jack arrived a few minutes early to the meeting, scoping out the place and the people that were arriving. Michael was true to his word, there were a couple of men in the group who were also around Michael's age, though one was much younger, couldn't be more than 22 or 23. At that age, the biggest worry Jack had was deciding which bar to hit downtown. He couldn't imagine what horrible tragedy had befallen this young lad.

  There were a few women also, making a total of about nine people including Jack. One of the women was much older and reminded him of the lovely ladies at Nana's. He noticed an attractive redhead who looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her.

  “Good evening everyone,” the pretty redhead called to everyone, with a clearly American accent, “If you would grab a chair and make a circle right over here,” pointing to an empty space i
n the center of the hall, “we can get started.”

  Jack grabbed a chair and place it in the circle, having a seat with his hands folded in his lap. He was really trying to keep an open mind. He was oscillating emotions between memories of Madeline surfacing and wanting to trust Michael's recommendation on this group therapy idea. He took a deep breath and focused on the group leader, and her long, shiny red hair.

  “My name is Sandra, and for those of you who don't know me, I am not a doctor or psychologist. I am a counselor recently moved here from America, in case you hadn't noticed the accent,” she smiled and continued, “I am originally from Boston but have spent time in New York, Baltimore and other cities along the eastern seaboard. Most importantly, I have suffered tragedy in my life too, which I feel can help understand where you are coming from.”

  Jack was curious, as only a writer can be, about what tragedy she had lived through. Did she have her heart shattered into a million pieces like he did? It had been five months since he lost Madeline, and the pain was still sharp. He wondered what Anya's hair felt like to touch.

  Refocusing himself, the group was going around introducing themselves, saying something brief about what brought them here tonight. When it came to his turn, he said, “Hi, my name is Jack and I came here because my psychiatrist made me,” which made the group chuckle, he continued, “But seriously, I lost the love of my life in a tragic accident about five months ago.”

  The woman on his right put her hand on his arm, giving him an encouraging squeeze. Sandra looked at him almost with a sadness in her own bright blue eyes. He was struck by how familiar she seemed. He wanted to dive into her eyes and go for a swim in the clear blue water they promised. Tearing away, he turned to the woman on his right, who introduced herself as Mary when it was her turn. He needed to stay focused.

  Once everyone had introduced themselves, Sandra welcomed the newcomers. Apparently Jack wasn't the only new guy. The young man who was only 22 years old, and had said very little about losing his best friend, was also new to the group. “Noah, would you like to go first tonight,” Sandra gently asked the young man.