by Sheila Lowe
“So d’you delete all the dirty pictures?”
She handed him the camera bag with a grin. “Sorry, but there’s nothing the teeniest bit exciting, just stuff from work.”
He feigned disappointment. “Damn, you know I was hoping...”
“Thanks for all your help, Zach. You’re a lifesaver.”
“What are neighbors for? I’ll get this one fixed for you.”
Hefting the flat tire with a grunt, he carried it to his Dodge Ram in the next stall and heaved it into the truck bed, where it landed with a clatter.
“Hey, you wanna hang out after you get back from Venice? I rented a couple of flicks.”
His manner was casual, but Jenna had an intuition there was something more behind the invitation. Something it might be interesting to explore sometime, but not tonight. After her visit with Dr. Gold, she didn’t know whether she would be in any mood to watch movies and socialize. And there was still the issue of the mystery man to be resolved.
s e v e n
Zebediah Gold opened the four-drawer cabinet in the locked closet where client files were stored and pulled the folder labeled “Jenna Marcott.” He carried it to the low-slung armchair in the area of his office where he saw clients and flipped it open to review the notes he had written about his next appointment.
Starting with the intake sheet, he got down to the business of refreshing his recollections of the Marcott girl. Woman, he reminded himself—she was closer to thirty than twenty. But he had not forgotten the vulnerability that came off her in waves when she arrived for her sole appointment. Small and slender, she weighed maybe ninety-eight pounds with boots on, which added to the impression that despite her chronological age, she was little more than a girl.
Since that day a couple of months ago, Jenna Marcott had made and broken several appointments, always cancelling by voicemail at an hour when it was unlikely that he would answer the phone. After each cancellation, although Gold had not required it, she had sent a check to cover the appointment, with a note of apology for wasting his time.
He had not heard from her in more than two weeks, when out of the blue she phoned, swearing that if he would give her one more chance, she would show up; she badly needed to see him.
. He was still scratching his head over her abrupt departure from that first appointment, but it was Gold’s philosophy that when the client was ready, she would keep the appointment without him having to apply pressure.
So, once again, he had mailed her an appointment confirmation card and hoped that this would be the time
That the young woman intrigued him was undeniable. The fact was, all of the clients he saw these days were worlds apart from the mentally ill offenders he had treated in maximum security prisons over much of his career. Since taking semi-retirement and moving to a guest house in Venice Beach a few years ago, he saw clients by referral, and he limited his services to those he believed would respond to short-term therapy. Prison work had not allowed that luxury.
From the start there was something different about Jenna Marcott. Had it been a sexual attraction he would have referred her to another therapist. No, there was something indefinable that he could not quite put his finger on. A vulnerability that made him want to protect her. Gold would have to monitor himself and make sure he crossed no boundaries in their therapeutic relationship.
Jenna Marcott had come to him by referral from his friend and colleague, Claudia Rose. A professional handwriting analyst, Claudia had been demonstrating how handwriting analysis worked for visitors to her client’s booth at a pharmaceutical trade show in San Diego. Jenna was one of those visitors.
Squinting to make out his own odd brand of scribble, Gold re-read the notes he had written on the intake sheet after the appointment:
JM at trade show w/boss. Claudia analyzed her hw. JM, unfam. w/ handwr. analysis, very impressed. Confided unspecified “serious problem,” Claudia ref. to ZG
Gold’s recollection of Jenna’s single session was that she had reminded him of a young Princess Diana in the way she glanced at him from under her lashes as she slipped past into his office.
She had taken her time getting settled on the couch, where he offered her a seat.
She had fussed with her clothing, picking at the hem of her crisply pressed blouse, pinching the knife-sharp crease of her slacks between her fingers. She had shifted her purse several times before placing it next to her.
At last, when she was satisfied, Jenna became motionless, hands clasped in her lap. Her stillness sounded an off-key note oddly at variance with her earlier fidgeting.
Anxiety, Gold surmised, evaluating every movement she made, every word she uttered. He took note of how stiffly she held her thin shoulders, as if she had left the hanger inside her blouse.
He gave her the little speech he was required by law to give: Everything that passed between them was confidential unless she gave him information that indicated she was planning to hurt herself or someone else. She listened without comment, then signed the form that stated she understood and agreed to the terms.
A full minute of unbroken silence lapsed after Jenna handed back the clipboard. Aware that she was waiting for him to begin, Gold asked his standard opening question: “How may I be of help, Jenna?”
Her silky blonde hair fell forward, hiding her expression as she considered her hands in her lap. Gold could see her lips working, seeking the right words.
After several seconds she gave a little sigh of resignation and shook her head. She spoke in an almost-whisper. “I shouldn’t be taking up your time, Dr. Gold. Nobody can help me.”
Nobody can help me.
This was far from the first time Gold had heard those desolate words in his practice of psychotherapy, but the hopelessness they conveyed never failed to evoke his deep compassion. He leaned toward her, resting his elbows on his knees so that his client could sense his genuine interest in her plight. “It sounds like you’re in a lonely, scary place, Jenna. But you came to see me, so I believe there’s a small part of you that hopes I can help.”
She was stroking the zebra-striped fabric of her purse as if she were petting a cat. The motion arrested and she shook her head. “No. I shouldn’t have come.”
“I’ve been in this business for a long, long time,” Gold said, “And what I’ve learned is, there’s a solution to most problems.”
“Not this one.”
“Even this one. We’ll work together to find the right solution.”
She looked up, her lips twisting. “But you don’t know what it is, my problem.”
“Even so.” Gold considered whether, with that level of hopelessness, she might be suicidal. Following his intuition, which had been honed over a forty-year career, he asked, “Jenna, has someone let you down who should have been there for you?”
At his words, she drew a sharp breath and put her hands out in front of her as though she felt the need to defend herself. Gold noted they were shaking. Her shoulders shook too, with the effort to control her emotions.
How tightly she was strung. He stifled an entirely inappropriate urge to gather her into his arms the way a father might a small child, and assure her that everything was going to be all right.
Jenna’s hands dropped back into her lap and she locked her fingers together, one thumb rubbing the other with enough vigor to chafe the skin.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s making you afraid, Jenna?”
Her answer seemed a non sequitur. “Have you ever betrayed anyone, Dr. Gold?”
“Who betrayed you, Jenna?” Seeing tears come into her eyes, Gold took the box of tissues on the table between them and offered it to her, noting that even in her distress, Jenna folded her tissue with great care, lining up the ends so they matched.
She dabbed at the tears trickling through her lashes. “I thought he would protect me,” she said. “But they’re going to kill me. He wouldn’t—” she broke off.
Adjusting his impression of her, Gold evaluated
the possibility that she might be delusional. She seemed reasonable enough, but delusional people often did. “That sounds pretty scary,” he said, leaving her space to elaborate.
Jenna plucked another tissue from the box and delicately wiped her nose, then folded the soiled tissues twice more before depositing them into her purse and snapping it shut. When she looked over at him, her eyes had knowledge far older than her twenty-seven years. “I’m in big trouble, Dr. Gold. I’ve become dangerous to someone very powerful and I—”
She broke off and jumped up off the couch. Giving him no chance to protest, she hurried over and opened the door, throwing her last line over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, this was a mistake. I can’t put you in danger, too.”
e i g h t
She opted for the coastal route over the freeway’s endless sea of brake lights.
Miles of agricultural land stretched as far as she could see; rows of stooped migrant workers in broad-brimmed straw hats picking strawberries. She drove parallel to green fields and brown fields, past a lot of nothing. Ten more minutes of driving south and the brown hillsides swelled in front of her. Soon afterward, a green highway sign pointed to State Highway 1.
PCH. She spoke out aloud, automatically identifying the name the locals gave Pacific Coast Highway. Taking the entrance marked Malibu and Los Angeles, she drove past the Point Mugu Naval Complex, crossed the bridge over Mugu Lagoon. Soon, rocky crags rose on her left. On her right, the road dipped so close to the ocean that she almost believed she could reach through the passenger window and wet her hand in the sea spray.
Unaccountably, her spirits lifted and she was tempted to stop at the side of the road and soak it all in. But her foot stayed pressed on the accelerator. She had an appointment to keep.
She had expected to find an office building, but Dr. Gold’s address was on the corner of a street in the middle of a neighborhood of sizable homes.
The street number on his card was followed by “?,” which confounded her until she understood that his office must be behind the big Asian-style dwelling surrounded by a tall cedar fence.
Space was at a premium in Venice, vehicles jammed nose to tail. You could stand on one sidewalk and touch the other without much of a stretch. Jenna’s eyes darted from one side of the narrow street to the other, anxiety mounting as she searched for somewhere to park. She drove around the block twice. There wasn’t a spare inch to shoehorn the Nissan.
What if I can’t find a place to park?
Her breathing grew shallow—the first sign of a panic attack. Her hands on the steering wheel were beginning shake. Every breath was a half-breath, as if something physical stopped her from filling her lungs. If she could just get enough air.
This is just stupid.
I know it is.
She was plenty early, but without a place to park, she would miss the appointment, and then.... the lifeline was slipping away, even as she reached for it.
Her ear was buzzing again. She hadn’t noticed it since leaving the train yesterday, but the angry wasp was back with a vengeance.
Crazy. You must be crazy.
No!
This is ridiculous. Is this my life? Was I always such a wimp?
Checking the rear view mirror to make sure no vehicles were behind her, Jenna braked, right in the middle of the narrow road and began her mantra.
Breathe. Relax. Focus.
She repeated the words until her breathing slowed and the buzzing receded.
With a final cleansing breath to center herself, she looked around and almost laughed. She was around the corner from Dr. Gold’s address. What she had failed to see in her panic was the alley that ran behind the house.
An alley where there was a parking space and a sign on the wall declaring it “reserved for clients of Dr. Gold.” Unauthorized persons would be towed away. Jenna drove into the slot and unbuckled her seat belt, glad for the time to take a walk and gather her thoughts.
Stepping from the car into an afternoon made grey and damp by the low-lying marine layer, she walked a couple of blocks from Dr. Gold’s office to a main road. Electric Avenue. An old song echoed in her head as she crossed it: We gonna rock down to Electric Avenue, And then we’ll take it higher...
Did that song have special significance for her? Without context, everything or nothing could be significant. She veered onto Abbot Kinney, looking into the windows of boutiques, antiques stores, a new age bookshop with the enchanting name of Mystic Journey, feeling anonymous as she hurried past, pretty sure she had never been here before.
How would you know, when you’ve no idea where you’ve been?
At Jin’s Patisserie she ordered a cup of Jasmine tea and sat on the patio, warming her hands around the small cup.
Had Dr. Gold been her therapist for a long time, or was this her first visit? God, she hoped he could fill in the blanks—like Mystery Man and why she had kept the torn picture and broken frame in her lingerie drawer. Maybe he would know who Jessica Mack was and why her face was on Jenna Marcott’s driver’s license.
She paid for her tea and retraced her steps to the house where Dr. Gold resided and saw clients. Her heart rate picked up again as she entered from the street through the roofed gate into a Japanese garden. The plaintive strains of wind chimes jangled too loud in her ears; the vivid spots of color hurt her eyes.
Across the garden a miniature bridge spanned a lily pond. Jenna paused there just long enough to whisper a request to the stone Buddha kneeling in prayer under a Japanese Black Pine: Please let Dr. Gold help me find my life.
A small signpost in a clump of Temple Grass pointed to Dr. Gold’s office and she followed a path of smooth round paving stones behind the main house.
The door to a guest cottage opened as she approached and a tall, lean man stepped outside. Older, maybe late sixties. The kind face of a favorite uncle with a trim white beard and thinning sandy hair. His casual dress—a linen pullover shirt and khaki shorts with sandals—seemed casual for a therapy session, but suited him.
“Dr. Gold?” Jenna asked. Seeing a glimmer of surprise cross his face, she realized her error. Of course, this was not their first meeting. He had expected her to recognize him, as he recognized her.
Brushing off her faux pas, Zebediah Gold stretched out both hands with a welcoming smile and a laid-back approach that put her at ease. “Hello, Jenna, I’m glad to see you again. I like your new hairdo.”
She allowed him to take her hands into his warm, bearlike paws.
“I—I parked in the space around back,” she stammered, wishing her voice sounded steadier. “I hope that’s okay.”
He smiled again with straight white teeth and she detected the faint scent of mint on his breath when he bent down tp give her a quick hug. “It’s fine. Let’s go around to my office.”
Stupid! You’ve been here before. You’re supposed to know it’s okay.
Upon entering, her first thought was that the room resembled a sort of shrine. Dim light filtered down from the skylight, bamboo shades over wide windows lowered to three-quarters, a bamboo-filled urn in one corner. In the other, a Laughing Buddha on a pedestal stretched his arms joyfully, hands open wide to the heavens.
Water trickled through a series of suspended bowls, one flowing into the other, making it seem as if the garden had followed them inside. A great deal of care had been poured into creating this simple, tranquil space.
Dr. Gold took the chair that faced the door and left Jenna to choose between the couch and two comfortable-looking armchairs. A low table stood between them, providing a sort of barrier that allowed her to maintain an illusion of protecting herself. Against what? In this room, at this moment, her defenses seemed ridiculous and unnecessary.
As soon as she took the chair opposite him, Jenna could feel her body responding to the setting. Her muscles began to relax and for the first time since waking in this alien world, she could inhale a full breath without effort. In spite of herself, the stiffness in her neck and shoulders
began to drain away.
Dr. Gold was quiet, giving her time. Though he was subtle about it, Jenna was keenly aware that he was watching her wrestling with the right words.
On the drive down to Venice she had rehearsed her story over and over, but now, facing him across the table, all the clever phrases that had sounded so logical and easy in the car deserted her.
The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable before Dr. Gold spoke up. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to come back, Jenna,” he offered. “But you’re here, and that’s a big step.”
She pounced on his words, desperate to know the meaning behind them. Got lost in them. What had happened during their last session to make him think it would be difficult for her to return? Her eyes drifted to the Zen garden on the table: a few polished pebbles, a tiny mud man with a long white beard. Someone had raked the sand into concentric circles. His previous client? She reach out to the tiny rake.
Dr. Gold is sort of Buddha-like. Not Buddha-sized—he’s in good shape—but the way he sits, he looks so...serene, he...
“Jenna?”
She dropped her hand and sat back against her chair, worrying that her mind had wandered too far.
“You look a little pale,” he said. “Are you all right?”
She wanted to slap her ear and stop the damn buzzing. What was causing it, anyway? “I’ve been—sick,” she said, resurrecting the excuse Zach had given her. “I—I’ve had the flu.”
Why don’t you just tell him the truth?
Not yet!
“Would you like some tea?” he offered.
“Yes, please.” The words came automatically. She didn’t want more tea, but it would buy some time.
On the table was a cast iron tea pot on a trivet and two mugs. His hands made the pot look ridiculously small and for the barest glimmer, Jenna got an image of little girls playing tea party with a grownup man seated on a miniature chair.
