The Last Resort

by Marissa Stapley

  “Think, think back to your childhood. Tell us: Who hurt you? Perhaps someone in your family.”

  She had just been thinking of Garrett a moment before, of the two of them as little kids, only two years apart, in the backyard of her family’s Jacob’s Well split-level with its garden, of golden afternoons that stretched and stretched, running on sunbaked grass and on warm asphalt, barefoot, soles of feet blackened, faces hot. Once, Garrett had taken the truck he was playing with in the dirt, a metal truck with one wheel loose, and smashed her on the head with it. She can’t remember why. They fought once in a while, but it was normal, they were siblings. She feels weak from having almost thrown up, from the fear, from the certainty she is trying to push aside that these people are not here to help her.

  “Garrett,” she says, involuntary, wishing her brother was there, or better yet, that they were off somewhere together, swimming the day away in their favorite swimming hole.

  All three at the table, Pastor Kesey, Don and Janet, lean forward, blurt a collective, “Yes?”

  “No! I didn’t—I was just thinking of my brother. Something stupid, when we were young, he hit me with one of his trucks, but it was just—I mean, you asked if I’d been hurt. And I haven’t been really hurt, no. That’s all I could think of. The truck. He felt terrible.”

  “You played trucks with your brother as a child,” Don says, writing something down in the notebook he holds. “Was this a common occurrence?”

  “Playing with my brother? Yes. We’re close to the same age.”

  “But was it often his games you played? With trucks, maybe with army figurines?”

  She wishes she hadn’t said that, about the truck, because now the memory, of a perfect afternoon, of all those afternoons, innocent childhood and no church basements because back then her family didn’t go to church as much, is sullied by the tone of Don Cleary’s voice. “What other games did you play with your brother?”

  No matter what she says now, it’s going to sound wrong. Dirty. Her brother got Barbara Moore pregnant and is, as she overheard her father saying, an adulterer. “Am I an aunt now?” she had asked her brother, and he shook his head sadly. “That baby is gone, don’t you understand?” Then he left the room, carrying this new adult sadness on his shoulders. “It wasn’t like that,” she begins, then presses her lips together. Maybe it will be better if she doesn’t talk, if she just listens. Wasn’t that what her mother said? Just go, please, Gracie. Just listen to what they have to say. They’re not going to hurt you. They’re your church family. You can trust them.

  But Don is leaning in, he has his hand on her hand, and his hand is warm and moist and it seems like he does want to hurt her, but he’s holding it inside. “We need to talk about who hurt you,” he says, his voice shaking slightly. “It was your brother?” The sickness in her stomach rumbles and boils like an earthquake from hell.

  “I think I’m going to be sick again,” she murmurs, and in an instant, there is that bucket again; it smells of bleach and sulfur. Janet is behind her, holding her hair back. She can hear Don’s voice and Pastor Kesey’s. “Depression...he came to me...not very stable...no, I wouldn’t say this is a surprise.”

  “Praise the Lord,” Janet says, rubbing her back. “Praise Jesus. Be with this child, we pray, as she expels this dirty demon from her soul.”

  * * *

  The sound of a throat clearing. Grace snapped back to the present. She picked up the notebook and turned to the man in the doorframe. What was his name? Ben Reid. She struggled for footing in the present moment.

  “Did we get the time wrong?” he asked, hesitant.

  “No, no, sorry,” she said. “I was just—my notes. Please, do go ask—” she swallowed, hard “—Johanna to come in, too, and we can get started.”

  A moment later, Grace was in her chair, sitting across from Johanna and Ben. She smoothed her skirt across her thighs and was almost surprised to find that she was wearing silk and linen, not jeans and a T-shirt, that her hair was smooth and flowing down her shoulders, not in a ponytail, one that frizzed around her temples and neck, that went kinky in the heat. Her mind was still almost completely blank, aside from the shadows of the past. Focus, Grace. Panic nipped at her heels.

  “Let’s begin,” Grace said.

  The sun was behind Johanna, filtering through her hair. For a moment Grace felt a grasping sense of déjà vu. The church basement receded. Something was here in this room, in the here and now, that needed her attention. Something that, just maybe, wasn’t awful, wasn’t harmful. “Let’s begin,” she repeated, and her voice was her own again. Too late, though, she noticed the two tissues there on the floor, the ones left over from Ruth’s tumultuous visit, blackened with mascara: evidence. She picked them up, tossed them in the trash. Grace had missed half of what Ben had said.

  “I love her so much,” he was saying. “I just want her to be okay again, I just want us to be okay again.”

  “And what exactly does that mean, being okay again? What does it mean for both of you? What do you want?” Silence in the room. “I’ll start with you, Johanna. What do you want?”

  Johanna had a small frown on her face. You asked me that already, her eyes seemed to say. When we were alone. Grace tapped her pen on her page, tried to beat away the panic.

  “That’s a big question,” was all Johanna said.

  “Then give a big answer.”

  Johanna appeared to measure Ben up and consider him, as though she were trying to figure out what he wanted instead of herself. But when Grace tried to write this observation down—Johanna seems more concerned with his needs than her own—her hand was still shaking too much. Her pen made a black dot on the page.

  “I don’t want to cause such stress anymore,” Johanna finally said. “I don’t want to be a source of pain for my husband.”

  “I appreciate you saying that,” Ben said. “About causing stress. I really do. I know it’s been hard for you, that the attack was...brutal...but something was taken away from me, too. When that man walked into your office, I lost my wife. I want her back.” He looked at Grace expectantly, as if she were supposed to conjure up the wife he had lost.

  Grace made a long, pointless line across the page. It wobbled. It reminded her of the road away from this place. “In what way, exactly, do you feel you’ve lost your wife?”

  “In every way. I mean, come on, she asked me for a divorce, she pulled away completely—we haven’t had sex since then. So when you say, what do you want? The first thing that comes into my mind is sex. I want sex. You told us to be honest, and that’s me being honest.”

  Johanna was looking down at her lap.

  “How do you feel about that?” Grace asked her. Silence. “Johanna?”

  “I feel—” She looked up and now her eyes were different. Guarded. “I don’t have any idea how to get our intimacy back. It feels impossible.”

  Beside her, Ben sighed. Grace turned to him. “Did you have something you wanted to say, Ben?”

  “It’s just that the other day, our first morning here, we had a really nice breakfast together. And when we got back to our villa, I think it would have been perfect. An entire day ahead of us with nothing on the schedule except a bit of reading. A beautiful setting, a king-sized bed. And she...left. She went off to do some sightseeing.”

  “Did she ask you to go with her?”

  “Sure. But markets aren’t really my thing and besides, we’re supposed to stay here, aren’t we?”

  Grace’s head was still filled with fog but there was also that tug. Pay attention. “It’s not a rule, no. You’re free to come and go as you please. Did you argue?”

  “Not really. Maybe for like a minute. I realized she really wanted to go, so I let her.”

  Grace managed to write the word let on her note page. The letters were shaky, like the penmanship of an old woman. Like the words in the
letters her mother never sent. She had found them, in the end. Grace, I’m sorry. Are you happy? Is he kind to you? You always deserved kindness. I was so afraid for you. She said to Ben, “Why didn’t you go with her?”

  “Because I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay where we were, make love, feel close again.”

  Johanna was leaning down and scratching her ankle. “Johanna, do you feel ready to move toward more physical intimacy with your husband?” Grace said in a voice that sounded like it was coming from another room.

  Johanna refolded her hands on her lap. Grace prepared for what she was sure she going to say. No, I’m not ready. No, it’s too soon. I have serious doubts. This was when the conversation would really start. And Grace would be able to help.

  “Yes,” Johanna said.

  “You’re—” Grace cleared her throat and blinked several times “—certain?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben was smiling. “Okay. Great. So, what do you suggest, Doc? How do we get back on track?”

  Grace closed her notebook. You’re disgusting, Ruth had said to her. But she wasn’t, was she? Surely, this was more disgusting, ignoring the truth of a person even when it was right there in her eyes.

  “Yes,” Johanna said, voice faint. “How do we?” And for a moment Grace had the sense that the person Johanna was trying so desperately to please wasn’t her husband—it was Grace herself.

  From where does my help come? It comes from nowhere. Grace thought of what she did, when Miles came to her demanding to have what was his, because her body was his body, to have and to hold. “Johanna, you know you’re safe with Ben, and it’s clear he adores you. Think of that and nothing else. Make that your sole focus. I am safe with Ben, and he adores me. And you...”

  “Adore him,” Johanna quickly finished, and only Grace saw the defiance in her expression, only Grace knew with certainty that Miles was right: she was not good at what she did. She wasn’t strong enough. She had caved.

  “Right. This is what you want.” She tried to make the final part of her sentence sound like a question, but it was far too late.

  “This is what I want,” Johanna repeated, voice flat. Then she scratched her ankle again and Grace saw it, the fiery red skin, the irritated patches just like the ones she had. She closed her eyes for a moment. The jungle. The brambles. The cenote. The flaming red hair. Her prayer, her bargains. The market, Ben had said. Grace opened her eyes and the sun was still shining in through the window and lighting up Johanna’s red hair.

  The fog lifted. Why didn’t you do better for her? Why are you telling her to go back to her bungalow and do what her husband wants?

  Because I want to protect her. Because I don’t know how to protect her.

  Johanna met her gaze and as she did, quickly drew her hand away from her ankle.

  “That’s all the time we have today,” Grace said, even though they still had ten minutes. I’m sorry, she wanted to say. Instead she stood and held open the door.

  Shell waited outside Miles’s office door for a moment. It was open a crack. Did that mean she should go in? A voice: “Please come in, Shell,” as if he had read her thoughts. He was sitting at his desk, writing in a notebook. When she entered, he closed the notebook, put down his pen and took off his glasses. “Good morning,” he said. “Or should I say, good morning again.” A smile.

  “Good morning,” she replied, tucking her hair behind one ear. “Again.” After their conversation on the beach, she had found herself in a mood so buoyant it felt foreign, found herself choosing her outfit even more carefully than usual. She felt dry mouthed and shaky but she also felt ready. Ready to talk. Ready to let it all out. Ready to be seen.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m not really sure. Terrible?”

  “Let’s see what we can do about that. Have a seat.”

  She did, tucking her skirt around her legs. She had worn a floral wrap dress, one she had imagined wearing to dinner with Colin when she had had a single moment of hope that everything between them would work out.

  “What do you feel in your body right now? Not an emotional feeling, but a physical feeling. Can you describe it?”

  “My heart...it’s beating a little faster than usual,” she said.

  “I make you nervous?” He smiled. “Perhaps I should be flattered. But more than that, go deeper. Close your eyes. How does the leather of the couch feel against your skin? What do you hear?”

  “The leather feels smooth and cool,” she said. “I can hear the ocean, and I can hear you breathing. I can still feel the beating of my own heart.”

  “Good,” he said. “What else?”

  “I can smell the sea, in the breeze through the window. And I can smell... I can smell you. Your cologne.”

  “Do you like it?”

  She opened her eyes. “I...”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that. Sometimes therapists, we get insecure, too. I don’t normally wear cologne at sessions, but there was something going on inside me this morning. I wanted to impress you.”

  “You...did?”

  “We shared something intimate, on the beach this morning. Don’t you agree?”

  She found herself nodding, but she also felt a sense of disquiet. Her cheeks were starting to color. “Have you heard anything from Colin?” she asked. “Is he having any therapy sessions at all? What is he doing with his time?”

  “What do you think Colin is doing? Colin is working.”

  “He isn’t going to sessions with Grace?”

  “He hasn’t that I know of. But Colin is not your concern. How was your night, alone in your bungalow? Are you enjoying the time by yourself? Some women enjoy it, enjoy getting away from the bustle of family life. No one to look after.”

  Shell blinked a few times. “Well, we don’t exactly have—our house is not exactly full of life these days.” As she spoke, her throat feel like it was full of sharp rocks. “Miles, I—”

  “I don’t always feel such a connection to my clients. In fact, I don’t think I ever have. I feel a real connection to you and I know you feel it, too—don’t you? It’s exciting for me. I think I can really help you because of this connection we share. But I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she said, quickly. She didn’t know if the answer was really yes, not yet, but she knew she wanted to please him—because she wanted him to help her. Someone needed to help ease this pain inside her. She touched her hair again. The truth was that she was also flattered by his words. They had touched something deep and long neglected inside her.

  He stood. “Do you mind if I sit here beside you? I always find it so clinical, the patient on the couch. And especially after the intimacy of our conversation earlier, I think we’ve moved beyond the regular patient/client banality.”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer. Did it feel better, to have him there on the couch with her? Less clinical, more friendly? She tried to relax.

  “Ah, that’s better. I’ve always loved this couch. Maybe that’s really why I want to sit here beside you. You have the most comfortable seat in the house.” A wink. She sat still and tried to smile at him, and felt foolish for having to try so hard. It was okay. This was fine.

  “All right,” he said, when he was comfortable. “Why don’t we begin—” he pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling “—by talking a little more about last night. What did you do with your time on your own?”

  She thought of the hours that had stretched before her, lonely and empty, of how ill she had felt, of what she had wanted: alcohol. Oblivion. It was the last thing she wanted to talk about. “I had a bath. I read a book on the terrace. I slept.” All lies.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Not really,” she allowed. “I’ve been having trouble falling asleep. I thought I might sleep well. I like how clos
e my new bungalow is to the ocean. I like listening to the waves.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “But it doesn’t relax you?”

  “I don’t know...if that’s quite the right word. I feel tired. Exhausted. But not relaxed.”

  “Why do you feel so exhausted?”

  “I think being with Colin has become exhausting,” she said. “When I’m with him, it sometimes feels like we’re trying to swim toward one another in a current but we’re both...we’re both just so tired. Just too tired to do it. And then it starts to get frustrating. I’ve been able to see that now, with a little distance. I was upset at first, but maybe it’s part of what we needed.”

  “Maybe,” Miles said, and Shell, who had been looking out the window at the waves, turned her head to look at him. She felt a prickle of something. All at once, his body felt too close and she wondered again where her husband was.

  “I never thought about how infrequently we’re apart,” she said. “Some business trips, but often I’d travel with him, and then—” she swallowed “—Zoey, when she was born. The three of us would travel together. I knew a lot about what he did. I had a similar job once, too, until we started having trouble conceiving and I took time off. We were close, once. A family. A team.” She paused. “Look, how’s he doing? Can’t you just—it would be really nice to know how he’s feeling about this separation.”

  “You really do have a way with words, you know,” he said. “It’s refreshing. You know yourself. You know your relationship. I can see you. How deep you hurt, how hard you try. And I can also see your power. A businesswoman, you say. Impressive. Would you call yourself a leader?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You’re incredibly strong.”

  “I feel weak, like a complete failure. Like I don’t know anything about being a wife. Being a mother.” Her voice broke. “I can’t.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to do or be anything in here. You are not a wife or a mother. You are just yourself, in this room. You are the focus. The strong you.” She was crying. She wished he would stop calling her strong. She looked up at him, embarrassed by her emotions, but he didn’t seem to notice. She reached for a tissue.