The Anesthesia Game

by Rea Nolan Martin

  Pandora’s had it with her. She can’t listen anymore, and it’s not just the late hour or the doobie smoke performing a tantalizing snake dance in front of her. The woman is plain and meddling and irritatingly sequential. Somehow she married a man who is none of these things and had a daughter who is already a mystic, though undeveloped, certainly. But still. Pandora already regrets telling Mitsy about Florence, even though it’s a truth of some kind. Not that Pandora knows what she’s going to do in Florence with Sydney, she doesn’t. Or really, if. After all, Pandora hasn’t figured out any of the mechanics. But it will be something, she feels certain. Something earth shattering, it feels like. Something seismic, whatever it is. Not that she’s in shape to do anything seismic right now.

  “You’re forbidden to discuss any of this conversation with anyone at all,” she tells Mitsy. “Do you understand?”

  “Well, that sounds ominous.”

  “It must float freely in abeyance in the universe.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s a wave,” says Pandora. “Waves collapse when they’re meddled with, and then we have nothing but a stinking, stagnant particle. Do you understand?”

  “Not really.”

  “No of course you don’t, but I need your word anyway. I need to know 100% that you will not breathe this to anyone, or even think about it.”

  “I can’t even think about it?”

  “No. Thinking is doing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Now go down and hug that puppy and let the healing begin. And Mitsy…”

  “Yes?”

  “Evenings are double rate, you know that, right?”

  “That’s…okay, sure. It’s worth it; you’re worth it.”

  Pandora just can’t have that woman calling her night and day without some compensation, especially since she’s her only client. And there has to be a penalty for cannabis interruptus. Not to mention all the interruptus on the quantum level that was in full force when the phone call came in the first place. Now where was she? Oh yes, the wave…

  The next morning Pandora looks in the mirror at her storm of white hair, uneven dark skin and the lines etched around her still startling topaz blues from that 19th century Dutch ancestor. A 68 year old caricature is what she’s become. But what does she expect after decades of dedication to the miseries of others? Three entire decades of trying to lift people up, or prop them up, is more like it. Not that she didn’t love her clients, or at least some of them, she did. And does. She hopes she helped them, but she doesn’t know. She can’t feel it at the moment. She’s not 100% in the game, or even 40%. She might not even be on the field.

  She quickly dresses her tall, fit body in a flowing Ethiopian caftan and flip-flops, hoping the freedom of this loose colorful outfit with its bold African palette will register with her imagination and help her write today’s blog. First she wanders across the wide-planked floor of her converted barn home to the open kitchen for a cup of coffee. The coffee cheers her up, just thinking about how defiant it is. She would never have done this a year ago, or even a month. Thirty-five years of insipid green tea. Blehhhhh! Even mystics need caffeine once in a while. After all, who needs to be more awake than an exhausted mystic in the process of sorting out the universe? Not just sorting it out, really, but reshaping it. Transforming it.

  She carries the warm mug to her desk at the other end of the open kitchen/living room arrangement where she situates herself on the comfy old leather desk chair. This coffee and all her recent indulgences are her reward for thirty plus years of helping the helpless, or really, fifty years if you count all that time without pay. All that time learning, really. Learning who she was and who she must become, sometimes at the expense of others. Others she loved. But how else does one learn?

  She places her mug on a cork coaster and slides her reading glasses on. The steam from the coffee blurs the right lens, and she removes the glasses to buff. Why just the right lens, she wonders. Why not both? Is there a message in this? After all, the right eye is the seat of the imagination—the mystical lens. Has her mystical side become blurred, as she’s long suspected? Or even blocked? While buffing the right lens, she stares out at the snow-capped mountains that surround the sapphire lake in all its majesty. This only cheers her up in theory, since theoretically she knows Lake Tahoe is the most exalted place a mystic could reside. The foot of heaven. Theoretically. At least for her.

  She parks herself in front of the computer and accesses the blog she was composing yesterday on the Theory of Everything, which is to say the Theory of Nothing, since that’s what she came up with. She sips her coffee thoughtfully and nibbles a half-eaten Snickers bar from yesterday—sooo good! As a little distraction, she googles Tuscany as a way of diving back into her work. The websites are so enticing—just look. Wow! An embroidered patchwork of rolling vineyards, quaint stone villas, and medieval hamlets complete with fortresses accessible only by high winding, stone staircases. So appealing and yet.

  Shit. What is she doing?

  She crosses and uncrosses her legs, understanding she has thrown all reason aside. And not just all reason, but nearly all instinct and mystical process, because there is no googling in mysticism. That is not how one gets information! She sips her coffee. Even the coffee, please! Not to mention the Snickers. Who throws away thirty years of dedication to distilled lemon water and broccoli, not to mention tofu, for a month of caffeine and processed chocolate? That is, a month so far. But she will not stand in judgment of herself, as tempting as it is. A month is a spit in the glacial, bottomless lake of eternity. Maybe she’ll do it for a year, why not? It grounds her. Where are her cigarettes?

  No one understands how demanding the pure life can be. The only way to cleanse yourself of it is to plunge yourself into the murky pit of veniality. For a time. Not forever, obviously. Enough to remember what it was like to be tainted. To be real. Just think what she’s had to give up to hone her craft—all the potato chips, margaritas, and cheeseburgers, not to mention men. Half the time she’s on the phone with these knucklehead clients she wants to shave her magnificent crown of pearl white hair in abject frustration. So now they’re gone; the clients are gone. “I’m going on sabbatical,” she told them. From you! All but Mitsy, that is. Well, not Mitsy, really, but Sydney. Not that she’s ever spoken directly to the daughter.

  But in all this murky impurity, is the mystical gift gone too? No, it’s not. It’s marginal, but it’s there. A trace element. She distinctly heard the words “Tuscany.” Not high def, but still, Tuscany. Or was it Florence? What does it matter? Isn’t Florence in Tuscany? In either case, she was dead on, because Florence is where Sydney was still free. Unblemished. Un-taken. Pandora polishes off the rest of the candy bar and licks her fingers. Her gifts are here somewhere. A little blurry, maybe, but still here. Still here. She just hopes she can access them when she needs to.

  She opens the third drawer down on the left side, retrieves a pack of Virginia Slims, and taps it against the glass-topped desk. She chooses a cigarette thoughtfully, lights it and inhales. The lake is a bit choppy today, she thinks, staring out. Choppy is so interesting. Energies of all kinds abound in its patterns. Maybe after she writes her blog she’ll hike down to the lake for a chat with the native spirits.

  She labors on, typing random and disconnected phrases on Love as the fifth physical force, the unified field, but nothing cogent emerges. She’s gets nowhere. Disgusted, she wanders to the opposite wall of windows in her living room to feast on the thick forest and above them, the snowy diamond-crusted mountains to her west. So inspiring! Which thought leads her reluctantly to the old wooden easel in the back of the wide room, the contents of her last visual inspiration unfinished beneath a shroud of yellowed linen. She reaches for the corner, daring herself to peek at the canvas for the first time in how many years? Ten? Fifteen? Look at it! Understand what happened! Stop hiding!

  She shakes her head and drops the cloth. No. Not yet. What lies beneath this veil is
too bold, too real, too glaring. Too much to bear, even now. Too much life force! Let the memory fade and fade, and with it, her substantial talent. Let it disappear! Unlike poetry, philosophical theory, and mystical meanderings, painting is too concrete, too permanent. There are other means of expression that don’t arrest the artist, lock her in a cell, and force her to capture the tortured wild thing within.

  That’s it; she’s had enough. She throws the box of Virginia Slims in the pocket of her caftan, slips into an old pair of sheepskin boots and a long, quilted parka, and heads down to the village for an enchilada and a beer.

  Hannah

  It’s nearly dusk. The sky is steel blue, shimmering, and laced with high, wispy clouds. The air is frigid. Hannah’s nerves flash back and forth between high-anxiety—(what am I doing here?)—and the sheer exhilaration of the courage it took to come here in the first place. After all, one financial catastrophe after another does not induce serenity. But neither does this. This is just a case of trading one bloody mess for another. If she’s lucky, it’s a wash.

  After a two hour drive from the Westchester Airport in crippling traffic, she has finally arrived at the chateau, as she calls it. The grand and impressive Michaels estate in Darien. The limo pulls up the long, wide driveway of neat, gray pavers lined with stately Belgian block. No expense spared. The terrace is a blanket of white, and the branches of the old cedars hang low with snow. The driveway and slate walks are as crystal clear as if the snow had been ordered not to fall there and obeyed. Everything in its place.

  Hannah takes in the five wooded acres and white-washed brick of the stately mansion set back at least two hundred feet and lined with fragrant junipers. It wasn’t Mitsy with all the designer taste, Hannah knows. It was Aaron who provided the class and ingenuity to re-imagine this grand spectacle in the middle of a forest. Not that there aren’t other impressive homes in the area, there are. But this one, like Aaron, stands out. How Mitsy got a hold of this man and all his, well…everything, Hannah will never know. How Mitsy manages to keep him is the deeper mystery.

  “Here we are,” barks the squat and otherwise silent driver beside her. He hops out and fetches the two garment bags that consume the back seat and oversized suitcases from the trunk, all of which cost a small fortune in baggage fees. But who really cares since Aaron paid for the trip anyway? Aaron and Mitsy, that is, with their combined fortunes. Let’s not forget all the money Mitsy inherited when their parents died. She got all the money, or at least most of it, since Hannah inherited the farm. But how was she expected to keep up the farm, for God’s sake? To maintain it ad infinitum? To be fair, there was a maintenance fund, but still. How far could that really go with all the improvements she wanted to make?

  As the driver awkwardly navigates the garment bags and one of the rolling suitcases up the walk, Hannah wraps her new mink scarf around her neck and buttons the top of her black cashmere coat. Brrrrrr! Thank God she saw the scarf and coat at the Oatlands fashion show last week! Thank God she happened to be there at all! It could just as easily not have happened, and she would have been woefully unprepared for this trip. What would she have worn—a parka? Such shabby couture for the Northeast, even though the weather warrants it. It must be 10 below. And she thought it was cold in Virginia! Maybe she should just rethink this whole East Coast weather thing and consider Santa Barbara or LA. Somewhere where real writers live—entire communities of them. Salons!

  She scoots up the slate path on her stiletto-heeled boots, adrenaline pumping. “Helloooooo!” she calls out. “Helllooooo! Anybody home?”

  Who will greet her first, she wonders, the dashingly gorgeous financier, Aaron, or the unsuspecting Syd? After all, her arrival is supposed to be a surprise for Syd, isn’t it? Isn’t that why they sent a limo in the first place? It won’t be Mitsy, no. Never. Shrinking violets don’t answer doors. If Hannah’s phone hadn’t run out of juice she could have called them, reported her slow progress. But what the hell, she’s here. She rings the bell. Hopefully someone’s home.

  Standing there for a minute, the driver scoots the last two suitcases in front of the massive carved door, tooled in Thailand, probably, or Tibet. “Shall I wait?” he asks.

  “I guess so.” She shrugs. “I have no idea who’s here or how we’ll get the bags inside if…”

  The door opens and Aaron appears in an impeccably tailored charcoal gray overcoat. “Hannah,” he says warmly. “It’s been a long time. So grateful you’re here.”

  She hugs him. “Mmmm,” she hums. “Happy to do it.” She pulls back. “I’m looking very forward to spending time with y’all.”

  He grins, glancing at the bags. “You must be staying for the weekend at least, eh?” he teases, and pulls out a few bills for the driver as he hauls the bags inside.

  “A woman needs choices, Aaron. You don’t want to see me in the same outfit day and night, do you?”

  He ushers her into the vast marble foyer. “So you’re staying for a while, right?” he says, almost anxiously. “We do need an upright citizen here.” He winks. “Somebody who can pay the bills.”

  Hannah shrugs out of her coat and hands it to him, smiling. “Well, I wouldn’t say Mitsy isn’t upright. Not to mention you. And speaking of upright individuals, where’s my spectacular niece?”

  “Mother and daughter are at the clinic,” he says as he hangs up her coat. “They’ll be back in a while. Syd had a tough night, so…just some extra blood tests.”

  Hannah nods. “But it’s ok, right? She’s ok?” Hannah’s not sure she can stay if things aren’t solid with Syd. It would just be too much to ask. Way too much. She shivers just thinking about how much she would suffer in such a situation. It’s her niece!!! Her goddaughter!!! No, Hannah isn’t made of titanium, like Mitsy. She’s sensitive. People have to respect that.

  Eyes darting left and right, Aaron says, “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, things usually stabilize.” He shakes his head. “It’s amazing what you can get used to. How low you can go without disintegrating.”

  Hannah can’t imagine this, but what peace can she really offer? “And you?” she says. “Where are you going with that coat on? Running out on me already?”

  “Just got in myself—through the garage. You’re lucky anyone was here!” He pauses meaningfully. “But don’t get used to me; I’m as good as gone.”

  Hannah cocks her head. “That sounded dire. Where are you going? Afghanistan?”

  “Work,” he says chuckling, “work, work, work. On the plane to Austin tomorrow. What can you do?” He shakes his head.

  “Somebody has to pay for all this!” says Hannah. “Business is good?”

  “Business is business,” he says, shrugging. “But come along, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He removes his coat and tosses it on the settee. Underneath the outerwear he’s all perfectly fitted dark wash jeans and a snug navy sweater, the slick version of male perfection—Jonah’s city doppelganger.

  He leads her through the grand living room with its broad-beamed cathedral ceiling, massive stone fireplace and diamond-pane doors; past the wide hall of cleverly hidden pantry and utility closets to the expansive French country kitchen where Hannah hears a “yip yip yip” somewhere in the beyond. “What’s that?” she asks.

  Aaron rushes into the mud room and returns with a wooly pile of brown fur, a round little snout, one blue eye, one brown. “Yip!” it barks. “Yip yip!” and Aaron holds it nose-to-nose for an Eskimo kiss. Endearing, really. Insanely endearing, in fact.

  “Our new dog,” he says proudly.

  “He’s not a dog!” says Hannah. “He’s a stuffed animal! The cutest damn thing ever!”

  “She,” he says. “Godiva. Sydney named her Godiva.”

  “Godiva,” Hannah repeats slowly, approvingly. “And how is this little truffle going over with my big sister?”

  He snuggles the cub and says, “So so. Better though. At first she was pretty adamant, but then.” He looks at Hannah, frowning. “I don’t really know wh
at happened, as usual. We had a disagreement and she went into the bedroom and reversed.”

  “Reversed?”

  “Well, she doesn’t really like Godiva, but now she pretends to.”

  Hannah sighs. “I don’t know what happened to that woman along the way, do you? Once upon a time she was the consummate animal lover. How I ended up pitching manure and she ended up in, well…” she gestures grandly, “…this! I’ll never know.” She shakes her head. “Makes no sense.”

  “I can’t see you mucking stalls,” he says, laughing. “Not in those clothes, anyway.”

  Hannah raises her chin, happy that she’s impressed him with her smart gray Lauren tweeds, classic country back-belted jacket and kick-pleated skirt. Fashion brilliance. “Well, now that I allow the riding school to use the barn, my mucking days are over. A girl can only take so much.”

  “Fair exchange,” he says. He offers Godiva to her at arm’s length.

  Ordinarily Hannah wouldn’t agree to hold anything this untidy, biologic and untrained in her present finery, even something this admittedly scrumptious, but considering it’s coming from Aaron, she says, “Come here, baby girl. Come over here right now!” She grabs Godiva, but the little creature squirms out of her hands and falls face forward on the marble floor. “Oh! Oh no! So sorry!”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “They’re flexible. See? She’s already on her feet.”

  “You can see why I don’t have kids,” she says. “Too clumsy.”

  “You would have done fine.” He turns and opens a cabinet. “Almost five o’clock. How about a cocktail?”

  “Um…oh, I don’t know.” She’d promised herself she wouldn’t indulge around Syd, but then again, Syd isn’t here. “Maybe just a glass of chardonnay?” She leans down to play with Godiva, rolling her over and patting her belly. “Or maybe I should wait for Mits.”

  “She’ll probably be another hour,” he says. “Let’s get you relaxed and feeling at home.”