by Edward Lee
From there, they talked a bit more, Holly foisting more of the same conative analysis, as Matt shaped up.
“Go home now, Matt,” she told him, “we’ll talk some more in two weeks.”
Matt stood up, adjusted his tie.
“If you start to have another problem, if you start to feel as if you want to do it again, call me, and if you can’t reach me, then call the SAA hotline. But remember what I said.”
“Forgive myself,” the man repeated.
“Yes. It’s easier than you may think.”
“Well, uh, Dr. Ryan, thank you. I—I feel much better now. I feel like I can beat this thing.”
“I have no doubts that you can. ‘Bye, Matt.”
The patient left. Holly believed in what she’d told him; she’d seen these therapies work scores of times, but now she was wondering…
Would it work for herself?
I’ve got to forgive myself…
Her next patient, an aquaphobe, came and went with no difficulties. Obsessive-compulsives were easy to treat once the root-nascent had been revealed. As with her overeater, Holly had used age-regression via hypnosis and narcoanalysis to discover that the woman had nearly drowned at the beach as a child. Now the patient was fine, but of course, initially, as someone fearing water, those early sessions hadn’t been easy, as the woman had routinely gone months without bathing.
All the while, however, as with Matt’s session, Holly couldn’t focus. I’m ripping these people off, she thought.
They’re paying me money to analyze their problems, and all I can think about are my own…
Forgive yourself, Holly…
And forgive yourself for everything else. For getting drunk, and for—
But she couldn’t even think about Alice. That would be like a famished person thinking about food, or, more appropriately, someone in prison with a life sentence and no parole—
—thinking about freedom…
Holly gulped at her desk, put her head down. At once her skin felt prickly with hot sweat. She—she—
She wanted a drink.
I want a drink…real bad; she could not fight the thought.
It was all backfiring, an ashcan in her hand with a fast fuse. Her own philosophies and beliefs, which worked for her patients, weren’t working for herself at all. They were melting, then exploding.
How could she forgive herself—for anything? How could she ever do that?
Suddenly her past seemed to be standing behind her, looking down like a specter and gently touching her shoulder.
Her sessions were over for the day. She stood up and walked to the door, her car keys jingling in her hand.
She knew what she was going to do even before she began.
I’m going to drive to the liquor store. I’m going to buy a bottle of Dewar’s. I’m going to go home. And I’m going to get drunk—
Just as she had her hand on the door to leave—
Oh, shit!
—the phone rang.
Don’t answer it, was her first thought. It’s probably a patient, wanting to talk. Or, worse:
Maybe it’s a patient who wants to come in right now…
But in her faltering, and even in the midst of this new craving to drink, she simply couldn’t.
“H-hello?” she said into the phone.
“Hi, Holly, this is Alice…”
Holly’s joints seemed to lock, and for a moment so did her mind. Joy diced by terror hit her like a wave.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Alice said cheerily over the line.
“Oh, no, not at all.”
“I was just wondering if you’d like to come over tonight for dinner. There’s a new sushi place on Main, and they do takeout. Can you imagine that? Takeout sushi?” Alice laughed cheerily. “Anyway, they also deliver. Sound good? Or do you have other plans?”
Holly stalled, unable to sort her thoughts. “Oh, no, Alice, I don’t have any plans. What time should I come over?”
“How about seven? Is that all right?”
“Yes, yes,” Holly replied, if a bit stiffly. “I’ll see you then.”
“Okay. ’Bye.”
“’Bye, Alice.”
Holly hung up. She must’ve stood there staring at her office wall for a full five minutes, speechless, thoughtless, numb…
Then she left, locked the office behind her, and headed for the liquor store.
— | — | —
22
The hangover vanished after a single sip of the Dewar’s. Hair of the dog that bit ya, Holly thought, remembering the saying. No, she had not forgiven herself—psychiatric tripe, she thought now—and, no, she had not even attempted to reckon with all the things that were pulling her to pieces. All that mattered now, after that first belt of Scotch, was this:
Alice wants to see me. Alice invited me over for dinner. Alice…wants… to see me…
Her headache vanished. Her mind cleared. Wasn’t it wonderful how alcohol was able to do that? She wasn’t nervous anymore; she wasn’t apprehensive. She was, instead, very happy with her feelings, and, of course, with the pleasant buzz coursing through her now.
She drove the Circle, passing shops and bars, observing the routine of the city’s heart. It was almost funny now. Look at me. Holly Ryan. A successful and reputable clinical psychiatrist, driving a Maserati and making over a hundred thousand dollars a year.
She smiled.
Sipping Dewar’s from a paper bag. Like a rummie. Like a bum…
The early evening seemed acutely bright. Holly took the next corner, steadying the pint bottle between her legs. My parents would be proud, she mused in giddy sarcasm, if they only were alive. She dressed nicely, if not provocatively. A Scherrer fuchsia dress, hemmed at the knees, scallop-edged. A bit tight. And brand-new shoes that she’d bought at the Mall right after she’d stopped at the liquor store. I look as good as I’m ever gonna look, she decided, and it wasn’t bad. The tightness of the dress’s top accentuated her bosom, and its overall close fit made her feel sexy, even lewd.
But her alcohol-inspired confidence crumbled when she pulled up in front of Alice’s watch house. Watch house, she thought. When she shut off the motor her nervous sweat returned, that inexplicable bodily tension. At once she was terrified.
It’ll be the same as it always is. Idle chitchat. Idle bullshit. Just two girls having dinner.
Passionless.
Just friends.
Suddenly she wanted to cry, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Her eyeliner would run, and Alice would know. She’d probably realize everything. It’s amazing that she doesn’t know already.
But that suggested another possibility.
Maybe she already does…
She took one more sip of the Dewar’s, sat back in the leather bucket seat, and let the luscious, acrid heat spread in her belly. That’s it, she determined, eyes closed. That’s the last drop. No more.
Then she popped a Velamint into her mouth—she’d bought those at the liquor store, too, convenient—sucked it, waited another moment to let it begin to dissolve—
Then she got out of the car and walked up to the large, ingrained front door.
Her small hand poised over the knocker. What a strange thing to hang on one’s front door; it almost looked Dickensian. The knocker stared back at her like a face—in fact, it was a face. A brass embossment, just two eyes and the shape of a head.
No nose. No mouth.
Staring.
She winced, blinked, then knocked on the door.
Alice opened it nearly at once, dressed in jeans and an old baggy blouse.
“Hi! Come in,” she invited. “Look, I kind of lost track of the time. I was out working in the garden.”
“Oh,” Holly said. “I didn’t know you were interested in gardening—”
“And I need to take a quick shower,” Alice continued. “I’ll only be a minute. The sushi’s on the way. Just make yourself at home, and I’ll be right out.”
; Then Alice scampered away to her bedroom.
The watch room, Holly corrected for some reason. She remembered the day Alice had told her about the history of the house. Watchmen waiting for ships. Sentinels. She came in and closed the door. The air-conditioning, however welcome against the hot day outside, gave her a chill. She passed the foyer and entered the plush living room.
It really was a beautiful place. She’s done so much work here, Holly acknowledged. Her own place seemed lackluster in comparison; just a bunch of stark art-deco. Cold. No intimacy. Was that a reflection of the owner?
Christ, I need a drink.
Alice had scurried away so quickly. She had left her bedroom door open, and Holly could hear the shower squeak on. She intended just to look around while Alice was bathing, but something immediately snagged her eyes.
A bar.
Set back in its own sconce against the living-room wall. The bottles glittered as though they were tall, ornate jewels.
Christ…
Alice obviously didn’t drink much these days. All of the bottles were topped. Holly walked over to the bar without much conscious recognition, and next thing she knew her hand was extended.
Vagabond, she cursed herself. Drunk…
She didn’t even use a glass; she picked up the bottle— the one that most resembled Scotch—took out the glass stopper, and brought it to her lips. Just a sip, she assured herself. Just one more nip, and then that’s it. No more. Ever.
Just a nip…
When she set the bottle back down, an alarm rang in her head. She’d probably chugged three or four ounces! Alice’ll see! she fretted. She’ll know!
Nearly frantic, she filled up the bottle in the tiny bar sink, then replaced its glass stopper.
Look at yourself, she thought in disgust. Alcoholic. Desperate. Out of control…
She walked around some more, popping another Velamint, until she found that she’d edged to the doorway of Alice’s bedroom. The shower continued to hiss. Against the wall, just to her left, stood a long antique dresser of dark wood, a jewelry box and some knickknacks aligned neat as a pin across the top. But something stood out—
Holly squinted, craning her neck left. Two slips of baby-blue notepaper lay atop the dresser, askew, beneath a small paperweight of a man’s head. For whatever reason, Holly’s curiosity dropped a blanket over her common sense.
She walked into Alice’s bedroom. One of the notes, in obvious, crude male scrawl, read:
Alice,
Sorry to leave, I didn’t want to wake you. Have a job at six in the morning. I’ll give you a call soon.
George
George. The plumber. An unbidden wave of jealousy swelled up, and suddenly Holly was gritting her teeth, her fist clenched. The goddamn plumber! He fucked her! That goddamn male son of a bitching PIG! She didn’t even want to think about it, she couldn’t—
But…
Here was another note.
Her jealousy caused her to nearly bite clean through her lip this time. This handwriting was much more articulate, well-spaced and neat, even artistic, but still obviously a man’s.
Another…man…
Again, Holly fought back tears. She was drunk now, nearly insensible. I’m the one who told her to go out and meet men, to break out of her shell. But look what I’ve done!
The note read, simply:
I’ll call ya soon!
Micah!
Holly could only stare for a moment. Who in the goddamn fuck is Micah! Just some other male PIG humping her!
Holly was mortified; she almost lost it right there. Of course she realized she had no right to be doing this, to be reading Alice’s personal notes—she had no right to be in her bedroom at all. But, but—
She steeled herself, let herself regain some calm. The Scotch was swimming through her now, but these notes, these revelations, made her feel stone-cold sober, and mad…
But she couldn’t lose control, she knew that. She couldn’t even tell Alice that she’d seen the notes; otherwise she’d lose her forever.
She set the second note back exactly as she’d found it, under the first.
Get out of this room, she ordered herself.
So she turned then. But only halfway.
The shower continued to hiss. In fact, it seemed unusually loud. Holly looked up, not where she perceived the bathroom door to be, but at the opposite wall.
And there she was, glowing in sharp silver veins.
Alice…
At first Holly nearly shrieked, but then, an instant later, she realized what it was. Not Alice at all, but—
Her reflection.
A full-length mirror, in an antique, carved frame, hung on the wall opposite the bathroom door. And the bathroom door stood open a foot.
No wonder the shower sounds so loud, Holly half-drunkenly realized then. The door’s open.
And in the gap she couldn’t help but see.
She tried not to look; she knew she shouldn’t. This was no different from Matt, the rich voyeur. I’m doing the same thing, she thought. If I continue to look, I’m no different from Matt. I’m no…less sick…than Matt.
But Holly, if only for an irreducible moment, could not avert her eyes. And an irreducible moment was more than she needed—
Holly sucked in a sigh.
—to see the woman she loved—
Naked.
In the flesh…
She’s just…so…beautiful…
And she was. Alice stood, obvious to Holly’s eyes, just out of the shower. Starkly nude. Glittering with gems of water. Very slowly and meticulously, she leaned over, her buttocks pointed toward the open door, and began to dry her legs, one real, one artificial. Then the towel in her hands began to rise.
Holly could see it all in the mirror. A vibrant slice of Alice. Stripped to the skin. Wet, raw.
Holly’s gaze couldn’t stray from the mirror…
And the vantage point was nothing she could complain about; her knees went rubbery, her breath went short. Her eyes felt peeled on the mirror as Alice leaned over farther to dry herself with the pink terry towel.
Then Alice stood, turned.
Christ, Holly thought for the third time.
The image flashed, one second of vision that stole Holly’s breath away: Alice standing upright, her breasts large, high, firm, erect areolas pink as roses. The vision panned down, over the trim white abdomen, the Junoesque hips, the clean abundant pubis…
Holly, utterly breathless now, quietly slipped back out of the room, then stood a moment with her eyes closed, relishing the image.
Then she found herself back at the bar, secreting another nip of the Scotch.
“So how was your day?” Alice asked, appearing at the bedroom doorway a moment later. She was dressed now in a short terry robe, and her head was tilted as she dried her hair with the towel.
“It was…fine,” Holly replied. “Slower than usual, I should say. I saw a few patients, an aquaphobe and one of my peepers.”
“One of your peepers?” Alice inquired, now vigorously drying her hair on the other side.
“A voyeur, a peeping tom. In this particular case the patient happens to be a multimillionaire.”
“What an odd world. So you mean this guy looks into women’s windows while they’re dressing?”
“Yup,” Holly said. He probably also watches them while they’re showering… “It’s called visio-erotopathy. We get lots of them, believe it or not; it’s a rather common form of sexual aberration. Quite a few of these people are actually ordered to therapy by the court.”
“Wow.”
Holly, though by no means sober, was at least aware enough to notice immediately Alice’s unusual lack of apprehension regarding her prosthetic limb. This is the first time she hasn’t gone out of her way to hide it…
Indeed, as Alice stood there rubbing her hair with the towel, her robe, which ended at mid-thigh, made no secret of the prosthesis. It was a wonderful indication that Alice was getting o
ver her inhibition. In addition, this was really the first time Holly had ever actually seen it. She was surprised at how lifelike it appeared, the skin tone of its rubber nearly identical to that of Alice’s real flesh, the line of demarcation, where Alice’s stump met the cap, all but unnoticeable.
“I’ll be out in a sec,” Alice said then. “Fix yourself a drink at the bar.”
The invitation felt like a slap in Holly’s face. Oh, no, I don’t want anything, she wanted to say, and she was shaking subtly. What she said instead was, “Okay. What, uh, can I get for you?”
“Just some soda water.” Alice disappeared back into the watch room. “Lots of ice.”
Holly gave up. Hands down. To hell with it—I’m gonna drink. Just keep a leash on it, okay, Holly? she told herself, and poured herself a small, watered Scotch. Then she poured Alice’s soda water into a glass, listening to it fizz. For a fractured moment she thought she could almost see her own life fizzing away with the bubbles.
“I should’ve asked,” Alice said, reappearing in jeans and an old, loose blouse, “but I wasn’t quite sure what you liked. I ordered you a sushi assortment, got myself sashimi.” She’d combed her hair out into straight wet lines. She looked pretty and clean and casual, and smelled faintly of herbal soap when she passed, on her way to the kitchen.
Holly had scarcely heard what she’d said. “What, uh— what’s sashimi?”
“It’s sushi with no rice, just fish,” Alice said, tinkering at the table. “I’m trying to stick to this diet, so I thought I’d skip the rice. Lots of calories. But you’ll like the sushi, and, of course, you don’t need to be on a diet.”
“Neither do you,” Holly remarked before even thinking. She came into the kitchen, her Scotch in one hand, the soda water in the other. “You really have slimmed down.”
“I know. It kind of took me by surprise; I didn’t even realize it until I looked at myself in the mirror the other night. I’m going to stay on the right track, too; otherwise I’ll be a fatty again in a week.”
