(Jacob)
The day after I found out she died was the hardest. I woke up with her fresh in my mind. She was in my dreams. We were talking... just talking, not about anything in particular, just life. Before I opened my eyes, her face clung to those last sleepy moments. She disappeared into the sunshine coming in through the window. I wonder where our dreams go when they fade away. Is there a Heaven for spent dreams?
A week later, my status hasn't improved much. I'm still dreaming of her. I speculate on the metaphysical, more than I ever have before. As I brush my teeth, my borderline spiritual musings interweave with self-punishment. I'm helpless to change the past and am therefore fruitlessly angry. I've squandered most of the blessings I've been given. I committed myself to books and studying. In the meantime, I cared so superficially for those around me that I ended up giving up some precious moments. I threw away Janelle. I threw away my friends from high school and college. Something must be wrong with me, I think.
In the corner of my kitchen is a two-person table. I'm sitting at it looking down at a piece of my mother's coffee cake. I haven't taken a single bite. I'm not even hungry, but I'd hoped if I cut a piece, I might get hungry smelling it or seeing it. I thought maybe if I sat long enough with the fork in my hand and my full mug in the other, I might want it. All it reminds me of is mom, Lisa, Janelle, all the other people I feel like I've left behind. My cell-phone taunts me from the charging station by the door. I could do it. I could pick the phone up and cancel my appointments for the day. There are only two of them, but every time I think of picking up the phone, I feel almost sick at the idea of wasting my day doing nothing.
I need to work. I need to get my mind off of it all. I can make up for my stupidity later. I have time now that I've graduated. No more excuses. Maybe I'll take mom and Lisa on a cruise or something, once things quiet down. Until they do, I will focus... as well as I possibly can.
I return the piece of cake to the uncut loaf, close the lid tight and put it away. I drink the last of my coffee, though it's turned cold. I'll have to brew a fresh cup later to make up for not enjoying this one.
I drive the normal route down the familiar streets. I come into my office and it looks like a graveyard in there, everything gray and sad. I definitely can't work like this, so I tune in to the classic radio station, turn on the coffee maker and begin planning my sessions. I drum my pen on the desk top, open and close my two files. For my adolescent patient, my problem is largely physical. Most of his issues have to do with physical therapy, so I make a bullet list of tasks to keep his muscles exercised.
For my second session with Ms. Andrews, the challenge is greater. I hate to resort to it, but I open the deep desk drawer to my right and fish through the bottom. I have a stack of blu-rays and DVDs. I could make an exercise out of letting her choose one and subsequently monitor her physical responses to the subject matter. I have yet to take extensive notes on her movements, the little twitches and tells that reveal what she might be thinking.
I don't think the key is to get her to talk. I think the first step is to elicit any kind of response. The drawing experiment was at least successful in relaxing her. I think under all that tough skin, under all that determination, is a foundry of pain. In it could be forged something new, a reconstructed human being with a restored spirit.
It's a delicate dance. I know it's not my job to fix her. The only way a person can change and heal, is if the person wants to. My job is to try and strengthen her resolve. I think she's given into the pain, instead of letting it out. She's letting it rule her instead of ruling it.
“That was the Georgia Satellites with Keep Your Hands to Yourself!” says the DJ, catching my attention. I frown at missing the song, while being lost in my thoughts. I love that song. “Next up we have a little Cat Stevens.”
“Well, if you want to sing out, sing out / And if you want to be free, be free / 'Cause there's a million things to be / You know that there are,” he sings and continues up to the chorus. I join in with him. I smile at the coincidence, that I'm working on a case for a patient who doesn't speak. Ms. Andrews’ intimidating eyes fill my thoughts. “Well if you want to say yes, say yes / And if you want to say no, say no / 'Cause there's a million ways to go / You know that there are.” He strums his guitar, his message riding the notes.
The song finishes just as there's a knock on the door. I check my watch. Has it really been three hours?
It hardly matters. That appointment flies by. My young patient is doing well, already showing improvement after three sessions. Not only is his mother ecstatic, but she says she has two friends whose children have similar disorders. She is going to refer them to me. It's a nice gesture since I'm relatively new to the area and only have two patients.
By the time the visit is over, I'm famished. Instead of going anywhere, I order a pasta bowl from the nearest pizzeria. When it arrives, I devour it until I'm scraping the bottom of the bowl with my fork. Now I have garlic breath. Not fun. Before I can get comfortable again, there's another knock. That would be Ms. Andrews.
I'm strangely happy to see her again. I never thought I would enjoy having this kind of challenge in my life. I can't fathom what to do with our sessions. I could easily be compared to a builder working without blueprints.
She steps over the threshold, ambles to the chaise and plops down unceremoniously.
“I thought we might watch a movie today,” I say.
Again comes her questioning look.
“Don't worry, there's a point to this.” I go into the desk drawer and fan the stack in my hands for her to look over. “Choose one.”
She looks at the stack, then up at me, the gold flecks in her eyes shining under the white overhead lights. From the very bottom of the stack she slides out a copy of The Goonies.
“Oh my god, how did this even get in here?” I laugh. “Have you ever seen this? It's a classic. I got this from—” I choke on the sudden realization as I remember who gave it to me. “—from a friend.” I leave the stack on the desk and take my time going to the TV. I almost want to ask her to pick another movie.
It was a birthday present from Janelle the first year we dated. She told me it was a shame I hadn't already seen it, that it was a movie every kid should watch. I open the case.
Can't wait to watch it with you.
—love J
I put the disc in and take a deep breath. It's a good thing I'm watching the patient and not the movie. I hit play before sitting at the desk. From there I get a good side-profile view of her. As the intro credits roll through the scene where the Fratellis are being chased by the police, she slowly turns and gives me a sideways, uncertain look.
“Just watch,” I say. “Don't worry about me.”
For a while I don't write anything. I just watch her.
I take an inventory of her physical appearance. She's easy on the eyes. Her shoulder-length, wavy black hair has dark-brown highlights in it. She's not petite or tall, but somewhere in the middle. She's not a heavy person by any stretch of the word. Then again, she is a dancer. She could easily be called skinny, though she's more top-heavy than any dancer I've seen. I swallow hard. I wonder if she has one of those tight, strong bodies. I shake my head and sit back in my chair. That's out of bounds. While I am a man, I never EVER get involved with my clients. There's not even a remote reason for me to go down that avenue of thought.
The Goonies, a group of mischievous children living in Oregon, have close relationships. She's watching their respective dynamics being revealed to the audience. I find it odd that she isn't laughing at the jokes. Maybe she's seen the movie before, or so many times, that they're not funny anymore.
My over-analytical brain begins calculating why she chose this film. There were a few others in the stack that, logically, would appeal to an American woman in her late twenties. I'm probably thinking too hard on it.
When the children discover One-Eyed Willy's map in the attic, a smile kicks up on her face. It's the first t
ime I've witnessed this event. I brace my chin on my left palm, scribbling with my right.
Character recalls bedtime story: patient smiles—possible connection with patient's own past or appreciation for the dialogue. Genuine smile, corners of the eyes wrinkled. Leg crossed, foot swaying, closed-off posture suggests her guard is raised against something.
I watch her foot draw lazy circles in the air. It stops moving and she turns to me again, her smile disappearing.
“Keep watching,” I say, lifting up off my hand. I set my pen down. She returns her attention to the screen. I notice her body has tensed up again. I've got to be as quiet as possible. She doesn't relax again until the kids are being harassed in the “summer restaurant”. She still looks mildly uninvolved. For the next half-hour, her face hardly changes. By this time, the Goonies are underneath an old well, ogling piles of sparkling pocket change.
The movie is proving more of a distraction than I first thought it would. I get caught up for the last few minutes in the kids' journey, watching as they discover hidden treasure, conquer the criminals, and come out richer—not just for the gems they find, but for the experience. I forgot how great this movie is. As the pirate ship sails toward the horizon at the end, I remember what was happening the first time I watched this.
My lips were firmly locked on Janelle's, my tongue in her mouth, young hormones in full swing. I can't believe how strong the memory is. My eyes sting again, my head beginning to ache. As the credits roll, I can't take it anymore.
“Excuse me,” I say, striding from the room. Down the hall is the bathroom. By the time I get there, my face is twisted into a grimace. I wet a paper towel and press it to my face.
Fuck... fuck... fuck...
I pound my fist on the sink. Fuck.
I wipe the towel over my face a few times, shut my eyes, and take some centering breaths. I turn off the water. As the steam clears away, I see myself looking back from the mirror. My eyes are irritated, my nose swollen up. Any idiot would be able to tell I've been crying. To try my best and canvas it, I straighten my shirt, wet another paper towel with cold water and press it to my eyes until the swelling goes down a bit. I've reduced the evidence some. Maybe she won't notice.
The minute I step out of the bathroom, my cell-phone rings.
It's my sister.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jake. Janelle's mother just called me. I think you should know what they found during the autopsy. They found poison in her toxicology report.”
“What?” I'm totally flabbergasted. “She couldn't have—”
“No, they don't think it was suicide,” Lisa says. She's hesitating again.
“So it was foul play? Who would want to kill Janelle?” I ask, leaning against the wall.
“They're not sure. They're still investigating.”
My surprise quickly turns to rage. “I hope they find the bastard.” My jaw is locked. “And I hope I never get anywhere near him... because I'll kill him.”
“You're scaring me, Jake,” Lisa says, her voice trembling.
“I'm sorry... I'm just... I'm just angry. I'm sure justice will be served properly.”
“I hope so. Look, I've got to get back to work. I'll talk to you later,” Lisa says. I can hear her desk phone ringing in the background.
“Me too. I'm in the middle of a session. I'll talk to you later.”
She hangs up before I do. I can't stop staring at the phone in disbelief, as if it will give me the answer.
Someone killed Janelle. Who could ever have a reason to kill her?
I'm glad my session with Ms. Andrews is more or less over. I don't think I could concentrate anymore today. I get back to the office and she's lying on the chaise looking up at the ceiling. The movie's menu is looping. For some reason, seeing her reclined makes me relax.
“Sorry about that,” I tuck my phone in my pocket and turn the TV off. “I've made some good notes and I think we can end today's session, if you don't have any questions.”
She gives me a snarky look.
“No, of course you don't.” I say. I chuckle, though my nose is full of snot and I was crying not five minutes before. She sits up and gathers her purse and coat.
“I'll see you next week.”
She stops briefly, but is gone before I can blink.
(Carmen)
For six hours, my toes pound the floor of the Beaverton studio. Six times, my body collides with the floor; six times I get up and keep going. The seventh time, I stay down. I stare at the rotting ceiling. Dizzy with frustration, the only thing that keeps me going is my memory of how good it once felt. But as the pain surges through my muscles, I try to justify practicing anymore. I feel like I'm going to collapse if I keep going.
Dancing is killing yourself gracefully. Dancing is hard truth under a soft exterior, an exposition of the soul hidden behind a smile. I've never smiled during practice. The smiles are just for the audience, just part of the costume.
I get to my feet and tug my shirt away from my chest a few times. I'm dripping with sweat, a fact which grosses me out, but it's an unavoidable hazard of long practice sessions. I go into the changing room, pull my bag out of my locker, and consider taking a shower. Let's see how much time I have. I check the clock on my phone. I've been here longer than I thought. I'm going to be late for my third session if I don't hurry.
I sit on a bench and slide off my class pointe shoes. The tape from around my toes came loose hours ago, but my determination to work through the pain kept me from correcting that. I peel the tape away, wincing as the air hits my sores. My toes are bleeding and blistered. I take my tank top off and mop the sweat and blood from my feet. The cool air feels great. I might make practicing with just my sports bra on an every time thing. I throw the gory tapes away and strip down for a shower. I don't want to smell like corn-chips in therapy.
I think everyone stands under the shower and thinks, but I've caught myself doing it more often lately. Showers have become more about mental catharsis than physical ablution. I should be using therapy for that, I suppose.
I'm sure if people knew I was thinking of my therapist in the shower, they'd get the wrong idea. I'm not thinking about him like that, not really. Okay, maybe a little. He's a good looking guy; I can't lie about that, but I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in pursuing a relationship with anyone. I don't need the baggage and I'm sure the male population can do without mine.
He's a strange guy. As a doctor, he's had me draw and watch a movie. The sessions are completely different from what I experienced in Dr. Fishel's office. I have this nagging feeling I should have stopped going to him, but something draws me back. I think it might be because I'm not bored during our short time together.
My phone alarm goes off, signaling that it's time to get out. I quickly rinse the soap from my body and the shampoo from my hair. I towel off at light-speed, throw on my street clothes and sprint for my car despite the fact that my feet are screaming. It's all necessary pain.
The streets are relatively deserted and I start to get that niggling feeling again, like I'm being watched... or followed. This time I don't hear footsteps; still I speed up and reach my car before I experience any anxiety. The last time it happened, it wreaked havoc on my nerves. If not for the music and the drink, I may have ended up having a serious breakdown.
As I drive, I remember the songs I heard and the singer who, for a few minutes, stole my attention and eased my fear. Ms. Mabel was her name, I think. She had such expressive eyes. I could feel everything in the songs. I wonder how often she performs. I'd love to see her again, maybe even talk to her.
Before I know it, I'm at the doctor's office. I knock and he opens the door. He's smiling, like usual. I think I remember reading somewhere that a person who smiles all the time is a fool, but I can't remember who said it. It was probably someone infinitely wise, or a happy fool speaking out of experience.
“Come in,” he says. I take my usual seat. The doctor floats around behind h
is desk, pats his pockets, and lightly snaps his fingers before going to his bookshelf.
“I was thinking, today we might do a little reading,” he says over his shoulder.
Reading? What will that accomplish? It's certainly weird. But sure! Why not?
I lay back on the chaise. I'm exhausted and ready for a nap. It will be a struggle not to fall asleep.
“Do you have a favorite book? I might have it in my library.”
I don't care what you read. I close my eyes.
“How about Jane Eyre?” he asks. His footsteps come back and I hear his weight settle into his chair. “It's a classic. I've read it probably a hundred times.”
I've never read it all. So go ahead, man, read. I'm listening.
Though he can't have heard what I thought, he flips to the first page and begins.
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.
I was glad of it. I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons; dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John and Georgiana Reed.”
My mind compensates for the lack of visuals as he reads. I see a young Jane with her nose buried in a book, an obscure and isolated creature from the moment the book opens. He reads the story so well, that I hardly notice the time passing. Soon the sound of pages turning disappears. His voice is mesmerizing, its smooth baritone so relaxing that I have to fight sleep.
When John Reed attacks Jane, my eyes slip open. I watch the doctor's face as he intimates the details. His face is serious as John assaults Jane with a book, causing her to bleed.
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