by Lisa Unger
“Anything else?” said the doctor. Jones wondered how long Dr. Dahl had been waiting for him to go on.
“I used to like woodworking. I was pretty good at it.”
The doctor sat up with interest, almost looked relieved. For the first time, it occurred to Jones that he might be a difficult patient.
The man can’t help you, Jones, if you don’t like him, trust him, and open up to him, Maggie had said to him as recently as yesterday.
What if I don’t need help?
A sad smile, a hand on his arm. What if you do?
“Since you have the time and the freedom, maybe you could think about taking a class,” said Dr. Dahl. “It might open a doorway for you.”
“Maybe,” said Jones.
Something about the idea of signing up for a class made him uncomfortable. He threw the doc a bone and said as much.
“Why do you think that is?” Poor Dr. Dahl was practically on the edge of his seat.
Jones looked out the large window to a parking lot edged by woods. The trees in the valley were a firestorm of orange, gold, yellow, and brown in the light of the waning afternoon. The truth: because he didn’t want to be part of a group that was looking for something, people who were seeking. He didn’t want to be lumped in with people who were looking to one individual for answers to a question. Come to think of it, it was the same problem he had with therapy. What qualifies you to teach me anything? he often found himself thinking.
But he didn’t have the words to say this. He knew it sounded angry and arrogant. And maybe it was that. But it made him feel weak and vulnerable to think about signing up for class, sitting in a room with a bunch of other sad, middle-aged losers adrift in their lives. Because that’s who it would be-the retiree, the empty-nester, the newly divorced.
“It seems like a waste of time,” he said.
He saw something flash across his doctor’s face-disappointment, concern, something. Then the doctor bowed his head slightly. Dr. Dahl put the notebook he’d been holding in his lap on the small table beside him and leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs. Jones recognized it as the body language of resignation, surrender. Then there it was: the headache that started in the base of Jones’s neck and would reach its clawing fingers over his crown, then start pressing on his eyes without mercy.
“Look, Jones,” the doctor said. His voice was soft, and Jones noticed, not for the first time, how young the guy was. Maybe he was in his early thirties. “Before our next session, you might want to give some thought to why you keep coming here.”
“I don’t understand.” But Jones did understand, and he felt some kind of dark victory, as if he’d won a game he hadn’t even realized he’d been playing.
The doctor rubbed his eyes with his right thumb and forefinger. “I mean that I think you’re resisting here, purposely not allowing yourself to find a path forward, a way to deal with the traumas of your past, even learn from them to forge a better future.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
The doctor seemed to force a smile, tilted his head a bit.
“Physically, yes, you are consistently here in my office. And you’ve been quite articulate about the things that have happened to you-your relationship with your mother, the abandonment by your father, the loss of your career. And that’s great. That’s progress. But now that you need to find a way forward into the next phase of your life, I feel like you’re shutting down.”
Jones found his shoulders relaxing as he sat forward, preparing to get up and leave. It sounded like the good doctor was getting ready to break up with him; the thought flooded him with relief.
“I don’t know what to say, Doctor. I’m doing my best.” The lie hung between them, bounced off the walls. “If you don’t think you can help me…” He let the sentence trail, giving Dr. Dahl the opportunity to fill in the blank and hand Jones his get-out-of-jail-free card. To say something like, Maybe you’d do better with someone else, or Maybe you should take some time off from therapy.
But he didn’t say anything like that. Instead he looked at Jones for a moment. Jones saw what he already knew, that Dr. Dahl was a good man, a kind and compassionate doctor, excited about his work-a lot like Maggie. And Jones felt like a heel, but he stayed silent.
“I’ll just ask you to consider one thing before our next session,” said Dr. Dahl. “I’m not here to give you answers, to tell you what road to take or what you should do. I am here to help you find those answers within yourself. When you walk in here, I don’t want you to give power away to me. I want you to find it right here.” He stopped a second and tapped on his chest. “And use it to make your life what you want it to be.”
Jones looked away, embarrassed by the other man’s obvious passion. He felt heat in his cheeks, a strong desire to leave and not come back.
“Okay,” Jones said. He knew that his voice sounded cold and professional, nearly sarcastic for its lack of feeling. “I’ll think about that.”
A beat passed where Jones looked longingly at his coat on the rack by the door, but where he couldn’t seem to lift himself from his chair.
“Fair enough,” said Dr. Dahl. But the other man couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. Jones didn’t look him in the face again as he muttered good-bye, grabbed his jacket, and left.
A few miles away from the office, he drove through at Burger King and ordered a mountain of food-a Whopper with cheese, a large soda, onion rings, french fries, a chocolate shake. The kid who handed him his sack had black-painted fingernails and a face full of piercings-nose, ears, eyebrows, and tongue. Jones dropped his change in the scratched plastic tip cup.
“Hey, thanks so much,” the kid said. For some reason his friendly smile and chipper attitude left Jones unsettled, as if he were being subtly mocked. As he pulled out onto the street, the familiar salty-savory smell, that engineered delight, filled the car, and he felt a palpable relief of tension as he unwrapped and bit into the burger. He ate it all mindlessly as he drove, not really tasting it, then sank into the fat-absorption stupor that inevitably followed a large fast-food meal. By the time he got home, he felt vaguely sick but mercifully blank.
chapter five
The cat was missing, and that wasn’t really like him. He was fat and lazy, rarely moving at more than a snail’s pace from couch to food bowl, food bowl to bed, bed to window seat. Even when he could be bothered to heft his frame through the kitty door, he did not, once outside, chase birds or rodents. He observed squirrels and finches, mice and robins with studied indifference. Eloise had never even bothered to put a little bell on his collar, knowing that it was the sun alone that drew him outside. He did not have a hunter’s heart. He was a creature designed for, and dedicated to, luxuriating. He cared only to lie on the stone bench by the sundial and let his ginger fur soak up the heat. Then, having reached some unknown limit, he’d trundle back inside and replant himself.
“Oliver,” she called. She stood on the back stoop. The wind made the various chimes, hanging from the eaves and trees, sing. Eloise hated the cooling air of autumn. It heralded the arrival of snow and black branches, the death of everything green.
“Oliver.”
Eloise felt an anxious flutter as she gazed about the yard and then shut the door. The cat could be under one of the beds or down in the basement. He’d come back when he was hungry, she told herself. Lord knew he couldn’t survive in the wild.
Back inside, she heard her cell phone ringing. She walked over to the kitchen table and dug the phone out of her purse, even though she had no intention of answering it. Ray Muldune, the blinking screen informed her. Again. She put the phone down on the table and watched it skitter a bit with its vibrating.
Ray wanted her to tell him things that she couldn’t tell him. She was cold, stone cold, except for her dreams of Jones Cooper. This happened sometimes, a mental loop excluding all other signals. That’s why she’d gone to see him, knowing full well how he would react to her. She figured she’
d get it out, deliver the message. And maybe that’s all she was supposed to do. Maybe. She never knew.
Eloise was about to open a can of food for Oliver. Doing so, she knew, would cause him to lumber from wherever he was, near or far. But as she pulled open the cupboard, she heard the crunching of gravel on her driveway. She walked over to the bay window and looked out to see Ray Muldune’s ancient Caddy in the driveway.
Her phone issued a single buzz. She pulled it from her pocket.
YOU’RE AVOIDING ME, his text message accused.
“Oh, Ray,” she said out loud, though there was no one there to hear her. “You never could take a hint.”
Then he was on her porch, his authoritative knock causing the panes to rattle. She went to the door and looked at him through the glass.
“I’ve got nothing for you, Ray,” she said. She didn’t move to let him in.
“Okay,” he said. He gazed off to the side of the house. He did that a lot, talked to her but looked elsewhere. He did it with everyone, as though he were always scanning the area for threats or problems. “I get it. How about a coffee? You got that for me?”
She felt the smile bubble up from inside her. It was rare for her, a true smile, true affection for another. She and Ray had worked together for a long, long time. He was the closest thing she had to a friend.
She gave him a scowl that she knew neither fooled nor daunted him and let him in. His energy was big, caused her to back up and bow her head. His size-six-four and, he claimed, 210, but she knew better-dwarfed her. His aroma-stale cigar, though he promised to quit-overwhelmed her. And rain. Beneath the smoke he smelled like rain, something pure and fresh from the air. He was losing his hair, a spreading shine on the back of his head, a retreat at the widow’s peak. But somehow he was handsomer, more virile than the day they’d met, many years ago. The deep lines around his eyes, the gray in his stubble, only served him. She, on the other hand, had withered and dried, looked ten years older than she was. She knew this because the mirror didn’t lie and photos didn’t even bother to be kind about it.
Ray wanted to talk. By the time she followed him to the kitchen, he was already in her cupboards, pulling down the coffee can and filters.
She pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and sat. She traced the grain of the wood with her finger. She still wore her wedding and engagement rings, though her husband was long, long gone. She was glad she’d remembered to put her prescription bottles away in the cabinet over the sink. If she’d left them out, Ray would have noticed them, because he never missed anything. And that was a conversation she didn’t want to have, not tonight.
Ray made a lot of noise-banging mugs, turning on the faucet full blast to fill the pot, slamming the refrigerator door. That was his way. He was physical, expressing his frustrations through movement. He was also prone to bear hugs and big gestures with his hands. Beside him she felt small and unnaturally reserved, like a plain wooden shack weathering his storm.
“I told you I’d call if anything,” she said. “By now you should know how it works.”
He stopped moving for a second to look at her pointedly. “I don’t know how it works, and neither do you.”
“Well,” she said. She raised her palms in surrender. “We both know that stalking and nagging don’t help.”
He grunted and pushed the button on the ancient Mr. Coffee. “Get a new machine, Eloise.”
“It still works,” she said. “Why should I replace it?” The pot gurgled its agreement.
“Because your coffee tastes like axle grease.”
“I’ll take this opportunity to remind you that you were not invited for coffee.”
He sat at the table, across from her, the chair whining beneath his weight. Then he took a tin of breath mints from his pocket and popped one into his mouth, rattled the box at her. She lifted a hand to decline.
“Seems like 1987 was a hundred years ago,” she said.
“Not to our client. To him it was yesterday.”
Ray slid forward on his elbows, frowned at her. He thought she’d grown jaded, cold. No, she wasn’t that. He stood up quickly then, banged around in the kitchen some more, and then came back to the table with two mugs.
The coffee smelled rank-bitter and acidic. It reminded her she hadn’t smelled anything that even remotely stimulated her appetite. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been hungry.
“You used to care,” he said. He put the cups on the table, sat down again heavily.
“I still do.”
She wanted to explain to him the difference between apathy and acceptance. She, unlike most, no longer labored under the delusion of control. She had released most of her attachments. And in doing so she had found, if not peace exactly, then at least calm. To others, still grappling with their misconceptions about the world, their relationships, their lives, this could look like depraved indifference. They still suffered. She did not.
“I have nothing for you, Ray.” She looked down at the second cup of coffee poured for her today that she had no intention of drinking.
“You’re not trying,” he said. “You’re all wrapped up in this Jones Cooper thing.”
“I went to see him.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “Really? You told him?”
She recounted the conversation for him.
Ray shook his head. “That guy is a closed door.”
“Yes and no.”
“Well, good. Maybe that’s what you needed to do. Maybe it will free you up.”
“That’s my hope. You’re not the only person who wants something from me.” She found herself staring at the kitty door, willing Oliver to squeeze himself through, mewing for dinner. The sun was getting low. Where was that stupid cat?
When she glanced up at Ray again, he looked chastened. “I’m sorry, Eloise.”
“I know you are, Ray.”
He reached across the table and touched her hand. And that’s when she saw it: a flash of light, a breathless run through dead leaves, a spinning fall, then a night sky above the trees. Then there was only the fading wallpaper of her own kitchen, Ray looking at her intently.
“What is it? What did you see?” he asked. His eagerness exhausted her.
“Someone running…” She couldn’t say more. It just wasn’t clear.
“Where?”
She shook her head, her heart still racing. “I don’t know.”
“But that’s good, right? It means you’re clearing up.”
“I suppose I am.”
He was the first one to do that to her, to touch her and make her see. Before him it had always been scattershot-dreams, day visions, breaks in her consciousness. Not all her life. She did not descend from a long line of witches and seers. She was not one of a clan of aunts and sisters, mothers and grandmothers who mixed purple potions and sprinkled stardust spells for love.
No, it was an accident. A terrible car accident that had taken her husband and one of her children, left her in a coma for five weeks, left her with… what? On the bad days-and there were so many really, truly bad days-it was a curse. On the good days, it was a gift. For a while she thought she’d lost her mind. And then she’d found Ray.
“Has it occurred to you that I’m a nutcase?” she asked. “That all these years you’ve been running around according to the rantings of a madwoman?”
Ray gave a little laugh. “So many years and more than twenty cases solved that no one else could have solved. Not crazy. Troubled, maybe.”
He smiled at her, warm and sad. Years ago that smile would have had them upstairs tearing at each other’s clothes. But that appetite, too, had waned to nothing. If she didn’t have to eat to survive, she wouldn’t.
He got up, brought the cups to the kitchen, and rinsed them in the sink.
“Call me if you dream tonight,” said Ray.
“I will,” she said. She felt a weariness settle into her body. “You know I will.”
She stood up to gaze out the win
dow and saw Oliver making his way up the yard. She felt a surprisingly strong wave of relief. So she hadn’t given up all her attachments. Animals were easy to love, to live with. They wanted so little… just a bowl of food and a warm body to sit on, to sleep with, and they were forever loyal. That was about all she had to give.
chapter six
Why does it get dark so early here?” Willow had perfected the art of the miserable slouch. Her whole body got into it, slim torso scooped, shoulders folded, head bowed. Bethany was pretending not to notice.
“It doesn’t get dark any earlier here than it does in the city,” Bethany answered.
“Yes it does.”
“No it doesn’t.” She had been trying to keep that annoyed edge out of her voice when talking to Willow. But the kid didn’t make it easy. Everything was an argument. “There’s less ambient light here,” she went on to explain. “Fewer streetlights, buildings, cars.”
“Tell me about it.” Her daughter stared at the window hopelessly, like some character from The Road looking out over an apocalyptic wasteland.
Bethany had also promised herself to start ignoring Willow’s comments about The Hollows. They lived here now. And that was that. Willow would learn to accept it in time, even love it. I don’t know, I certainly never accepted it when my parents moved me to the burbs in the eighties, Philip had said. I never fit in, ran screaming after graduation. She really needed to stop talking to her agent about these things-he didn’t have any children, and the only way he was leaving Manhattan was in an urn.
They drove up Main Street. The bustling town center had sold her on The Hollows before she’d even seen the house. Bethany loved the picture-postcard look of the place-the cute little bistro and the bakery, the yoga studio, and the small art gallery. Just off the square was a pretty church, a decent library. Some of the bigger chains like Crate & Barrel and the Gap had taken up residence among the cute boutiques and the Hollows Brew. But everything seemed to fit together nicely, a happy blend of small and large businesses, all nestled in restored historic buildings.
