by Tom Bierdz
“Are you okay?” Megan turned me around and pulled me away from the railing. She handed me the drink from which I swallowed greedily.
“Yeah, a little bit of vertigo. I’m uneasy with heights.” I guzzled the drink down. When Megan disappeared to get me a refill I composed myself, sucking in large breaths of air and focusing on the moment. I set the new drink down, gazed into Megan’s eyes, felt the deepening electricity surging between us.
A clap of thunder broke open the clouds and rain began to pelt down on us. I reached for Megan’s hand to take her into the bedroom, out of the rain, but she pulled back, resisting. Her smile hit me like the waves below, surging through me, sweeping me off my feet in its swell. She bent forward, pressing her lips against mine. Her sensual touch dissipated my anxieties, and as I drew her closer I felt as if my fears about proper behavior were fantasies, and the only meaningful reality was the here and now of the two of us wrapped together
She ripped my shirt off my back and we watched it sail off the balcony. The unrelenting rain fell cold, melding the clothes to our bodies. But inside my flesh was on fire. Together we frantically undressed, assisting one another, stripping the wet clothing that stuck to our bodies. We fumbled, looking amateurish as virginal teens, laughing, then exploring with our eyes and hands. She was stunning, everything that I imagined. She pulled me down onto the mattress, hungrily attacked me, clawing, biting my neck, drawing blood. A bolt of lightning illuminated the feral-like spark in her eyes. She craved danger. She was in her element with the violent storm. I felt engaged in some kind of strange, primitive mating dance, as if our copulating channeled the thunder and lightning spirits. Sex was furious, frenzied, all-consuming. Spent, I slept on the mattress oblivious to the rain.
When I awoke sometime later, with the lower half of my body covered with a blanket, Megan took my picture with her cell phone. The rain had stopped. “Hey! None of that,” I said, shading my face with my hand.
“Just the one. You look so endearing.” She put the camera down. “You’ll notice I covered your private parts. Such a shame, I might add, but I do have the vision locked in my memory.”
She wore nothing but a see-thru swim wrap and I became aroused again. I stood, put on my underwear.
“Let me put some cream on those scratches,” she said, smiling. “Looks like you were attacked by a tiger.”
I grinned. “Something like that.”
7
I was consumed by Megan. My dreams and all of my thoughts this morning were on my afternoon with Megan. The sex was unbelievable, the best I ever had. I was bitten, my libido luxuriating in the experience and demanding more. But the professional part of me was flashing warnings, like one of those over-the-freeway signs blinking DANGER AHEAD. There was the whole ethical thing about sleeping with a patient. I rationalized that Megan was not the patient. Her sister, Sasha, was. Still, Carrie’s words about my seeing Megan professionally reverberated in my mind. I was hoping she’d forget to research it. But I couldn’t for the life of me see how consorting with Megan could hurt her. She was single, available, worldly, capable and wise. Our connecting wasn’t a matter of transference in the usual sense where the kindness, empathy, and the dependency of the therapeutic experience, fostered the patient’s redirecting unconscious feelings from a significant person, usually one from childhood, to the therapist. Simply, we were two available consenting adults attracted to one another. And I didn’t believe countertransference was in play here either; my transferring unconscious feelings to her. But what did I really know about Megan? Then, again, what does anybody know about the new person they’re dating? Isn’t that what the dating process is all about, to discover who this other person really is, to see how compatible he or she is to you? Knowing I had a tendency to question everything I did, one of the hazards of self-awareness which I believed was essential for successful therapy, I shook off the self-examination. It was one of the things Hanna faulted me for. I could hear her in my head, “Do you have to slice and dice everything? Be more spontaneous.”
Carrie was on the porch smoking when I arrived. “When are you going to give it up, Carrie?”
“You think the smoking will stunt my growth?’
I smirked. Carrie was just barely five feet tall standing on her tip-toes.
“I’m down to five a day,” she said, blowing out a stream of smoke.
“You had five at O’Reilly’s.”
“You mean I wanted five. You can’t smoke at O’Reilly’s. It’s getting to be where you can’t smoke anywhere in Washington.”
“You’re right. I guess I was honing in to your impulses.”
“Uh-uh, if you had we’d been doing more than karaoke.” She gave me that ‘gotcha’ look.
“That was a good time. We have to do it again.”
“Without the karaoke.” I meant I didn’t want to sing again, but after I said it I realized she could have taken it differently. I always looked forward to that little interaction with Carrie as it brightened my day and I experienced a loss on those days we didn’t have a chance to talk. It became part of my routine, one of those events that provided a structure in a chaotic world.
I opened up the office, beating Bobby here today, and checked my calendar. There were still too many gaps in my schedule. My DUI and reckless behavior was still keeping patients away. There had been no new patients since Megan. Even the doctors, who were a major referral source for me, hadn’t sent anyone to me lately. I had called a consult, Dr. Schullman, and casually questioned him, but was told he simply didn’t have any current patients needing psychotherapy. True? Maybe, but when the flow abruptly stopped, I had to wonder. Eventually, my practice should get back to normal. In the meantime, I may have to dip into savings to meet my overhead and Hanna’s alimony.
Bobby came in looking rough, hunched over with bloodshot eyes. His shirt was buttoned crooked and his tie askew. “You look like shit,” I said, starting to straighten his tie.
He slapped my hand away, worked on his tie.
“Your shirt is buttoned crooked.”
He rolled his eyes, loosened his tie and re-buttoned his shirt.
I poured both of us a cup of coffee, brought Bobby his. How many times I have felt like Bobby looked. A less loyal employee wouldn’t have bothered to come in. “I thought you could recover from anything at age twenty.”
“Give me a couple of hours. I ran into a couple of old buddies. We pissed away the night throwing down tequila shots.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m still planning on the game tonight.”
I had received tickets from Bruce for Bobby, Greg, and myself. “Good. How’s Hanna?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Hard to tell. For a while she seemed like her old self, perky, sort of excited, telling me what’s she’s been doing. EBay sales, shopping, that sort of thing. Then suddenly, she’s quiet. Somewhere far away. I’d have to engage her. She’d stay with me for a while then be a zombie again. She didn’t eat much, picked at her food.”
“Did she bring up Kevin?”
“No, and neither did I.”
“Did she ask about me?”
“No, only if I liked working for you. I said, hell no!”
I smiled, knew he was kidding. I couldn’t help thinking I was like an infatuated adolescent wondering if she asked about me. But I was also concerned about her professionally and as a responsible ex-husband. Her depression was serious and she could destroy herself suddenly as Kevin, or gradually slipping into reclusive behavior. And I still blamed myself.
Bobby must have been reading my body language when he said, “I’m confident she’ll eventually get it altogether. She’s a strong person.”
I wondered about that but agreed it was a good time to put closure on that discussion.
Mid-afternoon I received a call from Gregory. “I’m not going to make the game today.”<
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“Why is that?”
He took a couple of beats before answering, “I’m in detention.”
“At the group home?”
“No, the juvenile center.”
“What happened?”
“I started a fire at the group home...umm...I gotta go now.” He hung up.
I cringed, shook my head. I was disappointed in Gregory. It wasn’t always easy to get the baseball tickets and I thought we were making significant gains. Maybe, I had given myself too much credit. Problems that developed over years didn’t usually resolve overnight. Usually, it was two steps forward, one back. I called Carlos. “What happened with Gregory? He called me from the detention center.”
“He tried to burn the fucking place down. We give him a place to stay and that’s how he thanks us?”
I could hear his heavy breathing and felt his frustration. “Slow down, Carlos, and tell me specifically what happened.”
“He started a fire in the dumpster...”
“Outside...”
“Yeah, scorched the back wall. It’s black. Brought out the hook and ladder truck. Presents a bad image.”
“Other than that, the building is intact? No one is in danger?”
“Not this time! What if he sets fire to his room next, burns the place down? I’m responsible for Greg and seven other kids. I can’t let anything happen to them.”
“Of course, you can’t Carlos. I’ll look in on Greg tomorrow. Can he come back?”
“Something wrong with your ears, Doc? With his fire-setting, he’s too big a risk!”
I couldn’t convince Carlos of anything over the phone, and I needed to talk to Gregory and observe the damage. “Are you going to be around tomorrow? I’d like to stop in after I see Gregory.”
“You know I’m chained to this place. I’ll be here, but don’t think you’re going to sweet-talk me into anything.”
“See you tomorrow.” I hung up, checked my calendar. One good thing about sizable gaps in my schedule was that I could easily respond to emergencies and I didn’t have to move patients around.
It was a nice night for baseball with clear starlit skies. The temperature was only in the mid-fifties but fans expected it to be nippy this time of the year and dressed accordingly. No threat of rain, but with a retractable roof, games were never rained out at Safeco Field. Without a roof, with all the rain we got, the team would be forced to scramble to get in the required games, playing a series of double-headers.
Bruce was scheduled to pitch. We arrived early to our front row seats so we could talk with him.
There was something about being in the ballpark that made my heart flutter. So much of my young life had been devoted to baseball. Over the years I played many positions but gravitated to third base where I usually played. I was an exceptional fielder, gobbling up ground balls and whipping them across the field to first base with a strong arm. I could cover a wide area and at the instant the ball left the bat, dash to my right or my left to field it. I was near perfect, rarely making an error. But I couldn’t hit with the best of them. I had no problem hitting in the low three-hundreds in college but that didn’t translate into pro ball. I did have an opportunity to play minor league ball at the beginning A level, but I was realistic enough to know that I would have struggled in the system for years, never getting called to the majors. I chose to go to medical school instead. I don’t regret the decision, but whenever I step into a major league ballpark I still think about my dream and fantasize being out there by third base.
Bruce Dieter was six-foot-two and a muscular two-hundred-twenty pounds. With that frame and his thick black goatee, he threw a moving fastball still in the mid-nineties. I imagined he looked intimidating to the opposing batters. He was a welcome sight to me as he strolled over to us. I always hit Bruce pretty well during inter-squad games at the University of Washington, but I don’t think he went all out, reserving his strength for the games that counted. And he continued to develop as a pitcher in the minors before reaching the major leagues. At 35, in the latter stages of his career, he was still a premier pitcher. Now, I’d be lucky to foul off one of his pitches. I was proud of Bruce and glad for his success, but I envied him. How magical to be richly rewarded and respected for playing a game you love. I made a good living–at least I did until recently–but it paled in comparison to the millions professional athletes are paid.
We bumped fists and I re-introduced him to Bobby.
Shaking his hand, he said, “I met you at Grant’s house a couple of years ago. Hanna’s brother, right?”
Bobby nodded, tongue-tied. He wore this look of adoration that athletes and celebrities seem to command in our society.
“How is she doing?” he asked me.
“Not good. She’s still stuck. Can’t seem to free herself.”
“Did you know that Nancy went out to see her? About a month ago. Urged her to see a therapist. Did she?”
I was in med school with Nancy, Bruce’s wife, before we veered off into our specialties. She went into pediatrics. Extremely bright, she finished number one or two in her class, was appealing and sensitive. I knew she’d become an excellent doctor. “No, I’m afraid I spoiled it for Hanna. She won’t be seeing any therapist.”
“I tried to tell her, there were some good ones,” Bobby offered.
I knew what Bobby meant although it didn’t come out right.
“She still blames you?” Bruce asked. He stretched, moving his shoulders back and forth, rotated his arm.
“Afraid so.”
“Too bad. No one has that kind of power over another.”
“There are things I could have done differently.” I felt that lump in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want the conversation to move in that direction. I wanted to forget about Kevin and Hanna, escape and enjoy the ballgame. I could understand Hanna’s need for solitude where no well-intentioned friends probed into areas still painfully raw.
“Of course, there were. Who doesn’t look back with regret, wanting do-overs? But deep down inside, you have to know it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Intellectually what he said made sense. I’ve said the same to patients, but I wasn’t totally convinced.
“Where’s the kid you were bringing?”
“He got into trouble. I’ll bring him another time.”
“Sure. Anytime. Look, I got to go warm up. Good to see you again, Bobby. And Grant, I’m there for you, too. If you need anything.”
“I know. Get out there and win one for us.”
The stadium was beginning to fill. Bobby and I got our food and beers and settled down to watch an exciting ballgame. Bruce pitched a good game, allowing seven hits and two runs in seven innings and leaving to a round of applause with a three to two lead. He wasn’t the pitcher of record as the Baltimore Orioles tied it in the eight before the Mariners won it in the ninth, four to three.
8
The juvie center was in the old, rundown, outdated and undersized, King County Youth Services Center which also housed the Juvenile Court, as well as juvenile division of the Prosecuting Attorney’s Office and the Department of Juvenile Administration. Due to its age and maintenance problems with the plumbing, electrical, and ventilation, movement was afoot to replace it soon. But even in the most modern facility built to be warm and hospitable, juvenile detention centers were depressing places; modified jails.
Greg was reading a magazine in the general area when I saw him first. He set the magazine down, looked at me sheepishly. “Sorry, Dr. Garrick, I was looking forward to the game. I read that the Mariners won and your friend pitched well.”
“I’m sorry, too, Greg,” I said, sitting on an adjacent chair. The large room was near empty. Another youth was pacing the floor with his head down. “This place is usually crowded. Where is everybody?�
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“Cafeteria.”
I glanced at my watch. I hadn’t realized it was lunch time. “You’re not eating?”
“I did. A little. Then came up here.”
“Why the fire?”
He clenched his lips, rubbed his elbow. “I don’t know. It was an impulse. I was angry. I found this book of matches in the street, and...”
“Who were you angry at?”
“Justin ripped up my photography magazine and Mr. Gutierrez didn’t do anything about it.”
“So you were angry at your roommate and Mr. Gutierrez?” I figured Greg played a part in this, too, but I didn’t want to confront him now. Plus, his explanation for the fire-setting was too simple. It was more complicated than that. “I talked to your social worker...”
“Big Bertha?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t set a court date for you. Because I went to bat for you, she’s willing to give you another chance–if...” I caught the glitter in his eyes, the anticipation. They defied his outward aloofness. “...Mr. Gutierrez will take you back.”
“And if he don’t?”
“They could possibly find you another group home, some place that’s willing to take a fire-setter. More likely juvenile court sends you to a home for delinquents like the school for boys at Chehalis.”
His eyes became glassy. “I guess I really screwed up this time.”
“Can I count on you not to burn the place down if I vouch for you?”
“Promise.”
“Okay, but I’m going to tell him you will paint the wall you damaged.”
“What! Not the whole wall! Those skinny boards?”
“That’s the deal, yes or no?”
“I guess I don’t have a choice.”
