by Tom Bierdz
“This is your turn,” I yelled as Bobby entered the intersection. Yanking the wheel abruptly,
Bobby spun the car ninety degrees to the right, squealing the tires, and nearly knocking over a bicyclist.
“Christ!” I said, my heart hammering. “You could have gone around the block.”
“Then why the fuck did you yell?” He rolled up on top the curb and parked under a couple of mature, red maples. “I’ll wait here.”
I scooted out of the car, did some deep breathing to regain my composure, and walked up the narrow drive between the house and green space, about the size of a city lot, besides the next Victorian building. A massive, century old, Garry Oak on the far edge of the lot, stood watch over a metal bench, where Greg sat waiting my arrival. The surrounding area was a patchwork of hard dirt and grass struggling to grow in the shade.
“I’m proud of you,” I said, placing my hand on Greg’s shoulder while scanning the group home wall. I stepped closer into the shadow of the Garry Oak, whose thick-grooved, black bark limb stretched across the surface, to get a better look. “You even got the boards underneath.”
Gregory beamed. Compliments and adult approval were rare for him.
“The top half, the bottom half. Both equally good,” Carlos boasted, joining us. Apparently, he had seen me on the grounds. He wore a new navy cardigan that I wanted to interpret as simpatico; everything new and fresh–-the sweater, the painted wall, and the renewed relationship between Carlos and Gregory. “Gregory a future painter, no?”
Greg frowned and shrugged his shoulders.
“If that’s what Greg chooses to do,” I said, “but I think he’s got some other ideas.”
Carlos squeezed between, wrapping an arm around each of us, reeking of cheap aftershave. “I wanted both of you to know that Carlos appreciates that you both delivered. Now, if there was a way I could get you to paint the rest of the building.”
Greg and I both laughed.
Carlos went back into the building.
“Is it working out for you here?” I asked, bending over to tie the lace on my shoe.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Justin apologized, bought me a new magazine. We’re good.” His skin seemed to agree, shining with healthy luster.
“Come with me to the car. I got something for you.” We started down the narrow walkway leading to the street, where the car was parked, when I noticed that Greg wasn’t following. He stood still, his body angled toward the trunk of the Garry oak.
“Look,” he said, pointing. “A pileated woodpecker.”
Perched on the trunk, the woodpecker was black with a red crest and white lines down the sides of his throat. I had seen such a bird in the past but knew not what it was. I regarded birds as beautiful creatures, but never had any particular interest in birding, seeking out and identifying specific species. Gregory’s reaction surprised me. “I didn’t know you were into birds, Greg.”
“Yeah,” He talked excitedly as his eyes remained on the bird. “It’s a male. See the red line from his bill to his throat? In the female the line is black.”
With the birds we didn’t have to look at the underside to determine the sex. We continued onward when Greg was ready. Bobby was sitting in his Mustang with the windows open, playing with his smart phone. I introduced him to Greg, then reached into the back and pulled out a black bag which I handed to Greg.
Unzipping the bag, he pulled out a Canon SLR camera with a 100-400 mm IS lens. His eyes danced in the filtered sun. “Oh, a camera! For me?”
“For you. It’s film. I know the latest is digital but this one was Kevin’s. Laying around, not being used.”
“It’s a step up from the one I had.” He glowed, examining the camera. “Will you take me birding?”
“This weekend. I’ll get back to you on a time.”
He ran his fingers over the camera’s surface as if he were petting a dog. His eyes welled up as he placed it in the bag and handed it to me. “You keep it for me. They’ll steal it here.”
I took it and said my goodbye. Bobby and I went out for lunch before returning to the office. I shared with Bobby that I had no idea Greg was into birds, even though I had been seeing him for a while now. I was reminded, once again, that just when you think you’re beginning to know someone, you learn something new about that person that, somehow, should have been obvious in the beginning, had you not blurred your perception through the prism of your own reality.
My afternoon was full with patients, one after another, like in the old days and I felt a little washed out. I wasn’t used to my previous rigorous pace. Strange, how the body and mind adapt. Megan was my last patient. She came in wearing a blue sweater, blue skirt, heels and an attitude. A look of disgust replaced her usual smile. She plopped down on the sofa, crossed her legs and arms. “You said you were going to call me.”
No hello, how are you, or greeting of any kind. “I’m sorry, but I figured there wasn’t any need since we had this appointment today.”
“I don’t like being lied to.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you call this a lie?”
“When you promise to do something and you don’t, isn’t that a lie?” A bit of spittle hit the air. “Especially if there weren’t extenuating circumstances.”
“How do you know there weren’t extenuating circumstances if you never asked? You immediately accused me of lying.”
“Were there?”
“Were there what?”
“Reasons you couldn’t call.”
“No, not really. I did get home late, but as I said before, I knew I’d be seeing you today.”
“At the end of the day.” She stomped her foot on the carpet. “End of the workday. There’s still a lot of day left.” This was not the way to handle a hostile patient. I let her suck me in. I took a deep breath, counted off a few beats. “Why are you so upset?”
She fixed me with a prickly stare. “Because you lied to me.”
I shook my head, rubbed my forehead. “It seems like you’re making much ado about nothing. Tell me what you’re really angry at me about.”
Her whole body seemed to tighten, her right hand balled into a fist. “I thought we were going to spend the evening together. Make love.”
“Did you feel I abandoned you?” I said the words softly, empathically.
“Don’t try to psych me!”
I wanted to grab her, shake her silly. “I am a psychiatrist, Megan, and you are in my office.”
“But I’m here for Sasha. If I want you inside my head, I’ll tell you.”
“I’m picking up a lot of hostility from you. You feel I lied to you. You were upset that I didn’t spend the evening with you...”
She started to object. Her lips trembled and I sensed she was holding back more recriminations, making an effort to control her anger.
“Wait! Let me finish. You were angry at me on the court. Those balls aimed at my head. You are too good a tennis player for those shots to be accidental.” I saw a flash of something in her eyes that I couldn’t quite read.
Her eyes searched mine, as if peering into them she would know how to manipulate her way out of this uncomfortable confrontation. Was she looking for a weakness? A roadmap? She began to walk slowly around the room, her gaze landing on one thing then drifting to something else. Meandering around the back of the sofa, she padded by my wall posters, stopping in front of Primal Fear as if her unconscious was sending me a clue. Finally she sat, crossed her legs, and gave her skirt a tug, her mouth twisting into a cunning thin-lipped smile. “You’re right. I have been angry. Upset. I apologize for taking it out on you.” Her tone was repentant, sweet. “It’s Sasha. She won’t answer my calls. She’s pissed at my interfering, saving her life.” Tears streamed down her face. “You’d think she’d thank me, be gratef
ul. But no, now she says she has to work up the courage to do it all again. After everything I’ve done for her.” She broke down, crying pitifully.
I sat beside her, held her, let her cry on my shoulder.
After a while she wiped her eyes with a tissue, lifted her head, and looked up at me. “Are you mad at me?”
Smiling, I shook my head, “No.”
She kissed me, pressing her lips against mine, sliding her tongue into my mouth. I quickly became aroused. She moved her hand to my pants, clenched my erection. Breathing shallowly, I pushed her away. “Not here. Not in this office.”
She was my last appointment. Bobby had already left. I locked up the office and we headed for Megan’s place to finish what we had started.
11
Greg wanted to shoot birds with the new camera, especially eagles. I had heard there was an Eagle nest out by Brawny Lake so that’s where we headed. Greg had his driver’s license so I freed my Porsche from storage, and we drove the better part of an hour on a brisk, sun-filled spring day, perfect for hiking even if we didn’t find the bald eagles. Greg had never been in a Porsche before and was thrilled to drive it. He fondled the soft ivory leather, had a hundred questions about the buttons on the dash, and would have played with them all, had I not prodded him to drive. We had a way to go, upwards of an hour travel time.
Away from the city we passed farms with tall silos, horses roaming and feeding inside white picket fences, lots of cows, some standing, others lying down. Someone once told me that when cows laid down it was going to rain. I was never able to test that theory, but from what I saw the chances had to be 50-50, about as reliable as some meteorologists.
“How come you never told me you were into birding?” I asked Greg.
“I don’t know. You never asked.”
“Not specifically, but I did question you about what you liked to do. And, I never saw you stop to look at birds before.”
“I did. You just never noticed.”
I just couldn’t get my head around the fact that I could have missed such a major part of Greg. After all, I was a therapist. Therapists observed, saw things that escaped the vision of most people. I searched for behavioral clues, read non-verbal tells. Yet, I missed something that should have been obvious considering the number of visits we had. “I didn’t see any bird books or magazines in your room.”
“It’s not something I want everybody to know about,” he admitted, quickly glancing for my reaction before turning his eyes back to the road.
“And, why is that?”
“Cause...guys make fun of me. Call me gay.”
“Are you gay?”
He stiffened, scrunched his face. “No!”
“There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”
“I know, but they call me a fairy, a namby-pamby, a loser.”
“I’m afraid many boys your age need to learn what masculinity is all about. Understanding and appreciating nature is part of it. I like that you’re into birds.”
The vrooming sounds of two boys, racing go-carts on a homemade track, grabbed our attention.
Greg dropped his speed.
He smiled. “Did your son photograph birds?”
“No, he was into sports. Used the camera to shoot pictures of baseball, football, basketball, hockey, whatever. He managed to get in some shots of girls, too.” I shifted my body because my leg was beginning to fall asleep. “How did your interest start?”
“My grandfather had a farm. I used to spend the summers with him until he died.”
“Your mother’s father?”
“No, my dad’s.”
“Interesting. Your father disappeared but your grandfather remained an important person in your life.”
“Yeah, it was a win-win. I helped him with chores and he taught me about birds. Things kind of fell apart after he died. Mom couldn’t handle me. She liked it better when I was gone for the summer.”
The drive didn’t seem so far, or seem to take so long, last time I was out here. But that was years ago. Apparently memory doesn’t take such things into account. Greg didn’t seem to mind. He was thrilled to be driving the Porsche and probably wouldn’t complain if it took all day to get there, which it was beginning to feel like. But I had entered the address in the GPS. It couldn’t be wrong, could it? I was considering how much of my life I surrender to technology when Greg shouted, “Shoot!” and punched the steering wheel. Appreciative that he said ‘shoot’ instead of ‘shit’, a sign he was trying to please me, I would have liked him to be a little gentler with my steering wheel. “What?”
“I don’t think I put the film in the bag.”
I had given him money to purchase a dozen rolls of film. “Pull over. Let’s check it.” He did, rummaged through the bag, shook his head and groaned.
“Check the camera.”
Clamping his lips tightly together, he examined the camera. “Fuck! Just as I thought. It’s not in the camera.”
I couldn’t expect him to totally curb his profanity. I remained calm. “There’s a store just ahead. We’ll get film there.”
“A mom and pop operation. What are the chances?”
“We won’t know unless we ask.” I mentally crossed my fingers. Taking photos was the reason we came out here. Greg would be sorely disappointed.
He started the car, drove to the Mountain View General Store, a small building with a fabricated log cabin facade that blended in with the surrounding environment. Inside the store, stocked with staples and camping and hiking equipment, we easily spotted the film on a shelf over the cash register. We got in line behind an attractive, leggy woman in white shorts and a tan polo. She had gathered together a bottle of Chardonnay and a few groceries, mainly fruits and vegetables. An elderly gentlemen, who I assumed was the owner, rang them up and after charging her credit card, said, “Thank you Mrs. Kovich.”
She had an uncanny resemblance to Megan, I couldn’t help blurting out, “Are you Sasha, by any chance?”
She smiled, looked at me curiously, “Yes. Do I know you?”
“No,” I said, offering my hand, “I’m Grant Garrick. Dr. Grant Garrick.” I thought by mentioning my profession that might jog her mind.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Garrick.” She dismissed me, reached for her bags.
“I know your sister, Megan,” I added, buying the six remaining rolls of film.
She turned toward me. I gave Greg the film, grabbed her two bags, “Let me,” I said. She opened the door for me. I surveyed the area for her car, didn’t see one. “Where’s your car?”
“I walked. That way.” She pointed in the direction of the woods, thick with firs and scrub brush.
She grabbed one of the bags. “Had I known I’d have help, I would have bought more.”
“We can go back.”
She smiled, continued walking. “Where do you know Megan from?”
Greg went to the car to get the camera equipment and followed from a distance behind.
Tongue-tied because I figured she knew, I wasn’t sure what to say. After a few beats, I chose to go with the truth. “I’m a psychiatrist. She came in to see me.”
Scrunching up her face, she clucked her tongue. “Was she having one of her temper-tantrums?”
Now I was totally confused. Out of synch. So far, she wasn’t at all like the mousy, whimpering, depressive I had expected. Not that Megan described her as such. It was a mental image I imagined based on what she shared, proving my original thesis that it was near impossible to conduct therapy from a distance. Even on level ground I was beginning to sweat, felt the strain in my legs as I fought to keep up with her. She moved quickly. Effortlessly. “Actually, she was concerned for you.”
She didn’t say anything the rest of the hike, maybe about three blocks long, over a dir
t path that wove through a tunnel of alders and firs, and a variety of bush and brush. I welcomed the cooler, shady areas. The trail opened to a clearing in front of a blacktop road with a rustic, brown, wooden cabin with skylights in the forefront and the lake in the background.
“So what brings you to my neighborhood, Doctor?” she asked, leading me up a flight of some twenty, uneven cement steps.
“Call me Grant.” I kept by eyes on my feet so I wouldn’t trip, my free hand on the pipe railing.
“Grant.”
“Greg is a photography addict. Heard there were eagles in the area.”
“Yes, there are. Come inside. I can point your son in the right direction.”
“He’s not my son. He’s a friend.”
She led me through the kitchen that had been completely refurbished, where we dropped our bags, to the expansive cedar deck surrounding the pool on the other side with a view of the lake.
While Sasha filled Greg in on where he might photograph eagles, I looked for the rowboat.
Although I had a good view of the shoreline and the calm water, I didn’t see it. I didn’t expect it to be in the boathouse where the cabin cruiser stayed.
Sasha appeared, followed my eyes. “Nick, my husband, is out with the boat. Takes it out whenever the weather is nice. She’s his mistress. I suppose I shouldn’t complain as I choose not to go along. I’m frightened of water. You’d seldom see me even in my pool. But the setting is stunning.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed, gazing at the cobalt water sparkling in the sun, and the deep, lushly landscaped lot.
Further down the deck, she opened the sliders to a two-story living area, and led me over the pine planked flooring, past an oversized, sienna brown leather sofa, that sat on a tiger skin rug with the tiger’s head still attached. A shiny, black, marble bar where ship models shared shelf space with a variety of liquor bottles flanked the wall. I sat at the bar, and stared at the huge TV screens mounted on every wall, while she placed some items in the refrigerator.
