Blood Therapy, page 2
In some ways, I got what I wanted. I was a couples therapist. Unfortunately, just not of the caliber I’d set out to be. My current position required me to play pretend with ideas of empathy and sympathy. A way of earning a living that was always just one case away from a malpractice suit.
There was irony in this I suspected a psychologist—a real one—would have had a field day with. I was drawn to couples and their problems the way passersby were drawn to a car crash. The same wonder at its intimate detail. The same interest in its violent end. A patronizing look at something that happened to “other people.”
Mike was right. I had never believed in this thing called love. I had my reasons, but I think that even on an intellectual level, I could make an excellent case that love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, I’d seen its power at work, but in my opinion, love does not do good work. It renders people weak. Rips them apart. Makes them vulnerable. Love is dangerous, and it’s probably to this danger that I am drawn.
Nothing philanthropic or saintly about it. Not a life calling. Just me, a witness to car crashes.
Through my open door, I spotted Roger standing in reception and I made sure not to acknowledge I’d seen him. I made it my life’s mission not to feed Roger’s ego, considering the role he played in my history. Not that his ego needed any feeding; Roger’s own opinion of himself remained undiminished over the years. Given his healthy self-image was undermined by being a short man that scurried rather than walked, talking through a large nose that was permanently blocked, there was perhaps something to be admired about the man for his unwavering confidence. I would just leave the admiring to others.
The phone on my desk rang, and I let it ring for a good five seconds. Jess knew I wasn’t doing anything so important, and I could feel them both looking at me through the windowed wall while I stared at my laptop screen, pretending to type before I picked up.
“Ollie, Mr. Khan is here to see you,” Jess said, the phone’s limited audio bandwidth doing nothing to diminish her sultry tones. Still, I detected a note of irritation in her voice. Knowing Roger, he’d have spent a good deal of time letting Jess know what a beautiful woman she was, how she was wasted in a place like this, what on earth was she doing working for Ollie Jones, and so forth.
All good points, really.
Problem is, Roger would have said this with a back held straight by self-importance and a wink that was as delusional as it was lewd. Jess never stood for it; gave him an earful that would make most men run with their tail between their legs. But not Roger. He was missing the part of the brain that could tell when it was a lost cause. Probably what made him a good divorce lawyer.
“Please send him in,” I replied.
Roger entered the room the way he’d no doubt read somewhere was the way a man should enter a room in order to establish presence. Chest out, with purpose, as if he belonged. Thing is, Roger came around so often, he kind of did belong. The way some cats belong to your house because you throw them scraps from your kitchen window.
“Ollie.” Roger extended a sweaty little hand. This was a proper meeting. We were professionals.
I ignored him and got up for a practice putt.
“They have decided to reconcile,” I said, concentrating on keeping my shoulders relaxed, head still over the ball. I took a shot. Too hard. It bounced right out of the turned-over coffee cup I used as a target.
There was silence as Roger digested this news. I didn’t favor him with a look, but knew him well enough to know his neck would be flushed red, as if he were about to explode.
“Dammit, Ollie! This was a sure thing! What happened?”
“Love happened, Roger. True love.”
“Love? What the—Ollie, you better start being serious. You know you won’t get a penny from me this way. Even if they become my clients much later, once ‘love’ has run its course.”
I gathered the ball back with my putter and had another go, this one too soft, the ball doing a sort of shy turn to the left before rolling short.
“I know the terms of our agreement,” I said. “No need to remind me how it works. I’ll give you a final verdict in a few days.”
“So it’s not over? There is still a chance?”
This time I looked up at him. “Roger, do you have any idea how messed up those questions are in light of the fact that—as far the Watsons’ marriage is concerned—you want it to be over and there to be no chance?”
Roger appeared to compose himself with some effort. “Ollie, you know what I mean. This is our play, it’s how we do things, how we’ve always done it. You and me. Partners. Do I want them to be unhappy? Of course not. But life sucks. Things don’t work out. I might as well make money from the fallout.”
“You’re such an inspiration, Roger. A true contributor to society.”
I’d obviously touched a nerve, as Roger came around to my side of the desk. Enemy territory: he must have been feeling brave. Or really pissed off. He took the putter out of my hand, and I let him. He carefully leaned it against the desk and craned his neck into my field of vision, placing both hands on my shoulders like a concerned father figure. But he had to reach up to do this, somewhat ruining the intended effect.
“Ollie, these couples might as well belong to a different religion. I am tolerant, but have no sympathy when their illusions are shattered. If anything, like any good divorce lawyer, I am there to help them pick up the pieces. I do a good thing, Ollie. Don’t make me feel bad.”
He clutched at his heart and mock-pouted. I slowly reached up, took the other hand that remained on my shoulder and lifted it away from my body, before reaching for the putter again and lining up another ball. The confined space behind my desk made this an awkward move.
Roger sighed and moved for the door. “I’ll be waiting eagerly to find out if my next paycheck has tried to make his or her marriage work. I still don’t mind saying that I hope it’s a ‘no.’ By the way, have you used my guy yet?”
Mike’s not your guy, asshole.
“Roger,” I said.
“What?”
“Don’t ever touch my putter again.”
He stood frozen for a second, then just before he let himself out he said, “Ollie, don’t be under any misconception here. You and I are the same. We think the same, we believe the same things. Just because I shovel sand onto the coffin doesn’t mean you can forget you helped dig the grave!”
He slammed the door and my putt went wide of the cup. Again.
2
A note of caution
As I drove to work the following morning—as always, in no hurry—I thought about how Roger’s annoying visits reminded me of the sketchy nature of my work. They were a reliable reality check, just in case I thought I was doing well, or doing any good at all for that matter.
It’s not that I hated him. Not at all. It was just if ever there was a person who served as a reminder of the part of me I didn’t like, it was the vulturous divorce lawyer. We met when I was in a fix and like any good opportunist, he offered me an arrangement that, at the time, I couldn’t refuse. One that, admittedly, had worked out okay for us both.
Despite this, and despite the slight anxiety around the Watsons and their foolhardy insistence on “trying to make this work,” I was in a good mood. I drove as slow as traffic would allow me, blasting some good old emo rock on the car audio system. In my car, I had no Roger to deal with. A blessed fifteen minutes of ignorance.
I soon approached the business complex I rented our office from. Driving down into the basement parking lot, I cursed silently as I navigated tight turns around concrete pillars. Whoever designed this place had an evil sense of humor, and no respect for the body paint on a car. Good thing I didn’t much care about my incredibly average Volkswagen Estate.
I made my way up the elevator and onto the third floor, greeting Jess with a wave as I walked into the office. She was on the phone, deeply engrossed in some conversation, and returned my wave half-heartedly. I briefly considered how familiar the sight of Jess in that office across from mine had become. How, in some ways, it had become a comfort. Jess’s mere presence gave me some credibility and made me more efficient, possibly even more confident. As I entered my consulting room, her eyes flicked up and caught mine. I wondered whether “comfort” was the right word.
When not with clients, I always left my door open. It wasn’t a symbolic gesture. God knows it was not an “open door policy.” I guess I just wanted to feel a bit more connected with the outside world. In contrast, when I closed the door as a client or clients would take their seats, it was as if I’d thrown myself into a prison with them. I would get to know these people, whether I wanted to or not. Human nature dictated that—given enough time and proximity—people will open up to each other, tell stories, display emotion, confess to things. Not always a great experience, but then again, it was something I’d signed up for. What bothered me more was how much of myself I was losing in that room. What was I showing? With a careless nod, a misplaced analogy, an escaped sigh. What was I confessing to?
A soft rap on the open door made me look up from my laptop. I hadn’t been reviewing case files or making notes. I’d been looking at a picture of the most perfect little beach bar, somewhere in Tenerife.
The burly frame of Charles filled the doorway.
“Sorry to disturb, Boss. Got a delivery for you.” His gravelly baritone would have been perfectly suited to a life of dishing out therapy. More so than mine.
“Charles, do you think we should swap professions? I think you’d do a fine job. Granted, I would be useless at fixing things, but my inadequacy would be more than compensated by the good you would do in the world. What do you say?”
Charles chuckled, a sound low and full of earthy goodness. “No, Boss. If you don’t mind me saying, that’s a terrible idea. I fix things. You fix people.”
This wasn’t the time to confess I did nothing of the sort, so I went with:
“Is there a difference?”
Charles’s smile was wide. “You’re right, Boss. No difference.” He indicated the parcel, dwarfed by his large hands. “Where do you want this?”
“Just put it on my desk, Charles. Thank you.”
I wasn’t Charles’s boss. He worked for Lockhart Holdings LTD, the company that owned the building. He’d started two years earlier, just after I’d opened my practice, and was the caretaker and maintenance man for the entire building. I had no idea whether the other residents in the office complex felt this way, but for Jess and me, Charles had quickly become something familiar, a part of the fabric of the place. Walking around in his blue overalls, big body and big beard, he seemed to be always present: ready for a friendly chat, philosophical and wise in his delivery, the way older men can be. I assumed he was in his late fifties, but he had one of those ruddy, pockmarked-scarred complexions that made it hard to tell. He struck such a grandfatherly figure that it wasn’t long before both Jess and I found ourselves telling him things around the water cooler, just so we could hear that throaty chuckle or receive a raised bushy eyebrow in sympathy. The man was an institution, and unlike Roger, a welcome one.
Charles put the parcel on my desk, along with a few other pieces of mail, and left. The door still open, I could hear Jess giggling and made out snatches of conversation as she gave Charles the lowdown on her life, probably something to do with her latest boyfriend. Greg… Cameron… Carl… whatever his name was. Whereas my conversations with Jess consisted mainly of sarcastic jokes and meaningless anecdotes, Charles got the royal treatment. Jess told the old man everything, like he was a priest and she was in confession. Apart from the joyous laughter, of course. It had been a while since I’d been, but I don’t think you’re supposed to laugh in a confessional.
I twisted and pulled the brown and shoe-box sized package towards me and read the printed label on top:
OLIVER JONES - COUPLES THERAPY
Strange that it wasn’t addressed to my practice by its name. Instead, the words read like a cheap ad in a newspaper.
As a general rule, I received little mail. I suspect the volume was directly proportionate to the number of people who came through the door and unfortunately, the smattering of clients I’d gained the last couple of years had come chiefly because of Roger. Possibly the reason he acted so entitled.
So, a package like this certainly made me curious, and I tore off the brown wrapping paper. I lifted the lid—it was an old shoebox—to reveal two golf balls, one red, one white, stuffed among pieces of packaging material.
Loose inside lay a small typed-up note, so small I could have easily missed it. It read:
* * *
FOR THIS REASON A MAN WILL LEAVE HIS FATHER AND MOTHER AND BE UNITED TO HIS WIFE, AND THE TWO WILL BECOME ONE FLESH. SO THEY ARE NO LONGER TWO, BUT ONE FLESH. THEREFORE WHAT GOD HAS JOINED TOGETHER, LET NO MAN SEPARATE.
KEEP THEM TOGETHER.
LET THIS BE YOUR FIRST LESSON.
* * *
Let what be my first lesson?
I dropped the note on the table and hesitantly reached for the box again, lifting out the golf balls carefully, as if they might explode in my hands. That’s when I noticed. Crudely cut into the surface resin were tiny letters: ‘A’ on the red ball and ‘T’ on the white.
I’d been useless at remembering their names up until now, but this time, I had no trouble recalling that my current clients were named Angel and Todd.
* * *
The sound of Charles and Jess conversing faded into the background. My body tensed and my skin ran cold. I stared at the golf balls in my hand for what felt like forever, then put them back in the box, much more quickly than I’d taken them out.
My hands shook as I picked up the note and re-read it. A biblical reference, obviously connected to my profession—there was something vaguely familiar about the language. It stirred something from my memory, but so faint as to be useless. And though I wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic of Bible readers, of course the language should sound a little familiar, any Bible verse would sound that way.
The moment passed and I threw the note in the bin. If God really had joined any of these couples together, he needed some quality control on his handiwork.
I leaned forward onto my desk, my knuckles supporting my weight as I stared at nothing on the opposite wall. A subconscious gesture: I was laying claim to my desk, my practice and my life. I felt protective over these things without understanding why I would feel the need to protect anything. I straightened and shook my head as if I could dislodge the discomfort that had settled in my body.
I’d closed my eyes—again without being aware that I’d done so—and when I opened them, Jess stood in front of me, cradling a bunch of files in one arm, the other raised as if she were about to reach out and touch me.
She dropped her arm quickly. “Are you okay? I just saw you throw a note in the bin. Ollie, you’re as white as printer paper. What’s going on?”
“Nothing—”
But she was already next to my desk, fishing out the crumpled note as she glanced at the box and its contents still on the table. I made no move to stop her. I didn’t care whether she read it. Being a therapist—especially a lousy one—came with risks. She knew them.
“Ollie!” She turned towards me, her brown eyes swimming, her normally tanned complexion becoming less so.
Or maybe she didn’t know the risks after all. “What? It’s just a note. You know there are crazies out there. In part, that’s why people like me have a job right?” I grinned for emphasis.
Jess searched my face intently. “I don’t understand. What does it mean? You’re not worried?”
“Not at all. Honestly, Jess, it’s no big deal. I get a few of those occasionally.”
“You’ve never told me,” she said, and I inexplicably felt annoyed. Why was she looking at me as if I’d somehow betrayed her?
“I—like I said, they’re harmless.”
Jess frowned as she appeared to ponder this, then gave a timid smile. “Well, okay, but don’t try to hide things from me again. We’ve never kept secrets, let’s not start now.”
She must have noticed me gulp before I replied. “No, I won’t… keep anything from you.”
Two years ago, Jess had applied to be my assistant along with several candidates—okay, two other candidates—and had stood out straight away. One, she was undeniably beautiful and I would have noticed her even had the other applicants been beauty queens in a pageant. Two, she showed none of the desperation the others did. To be fair to them, anyone would have had to be desperate to apply for a job at a practice that demonstrably had no clients. But Jess marched in that day and took no notice of the shoddy sign on the door, the sparse furnishings, or my cheap suit. She said she would work for me until we landed our first client, then we could work out what her payment structure would look like.
I don’t think I even pretended to hesitate.
I did hesitate when she asked me what my plans were for drumming up new business. That’s when I told her my first lie and the lies have been building on each other ever since, like a snowball of deception, gathering size and strength as it hurtled towards an end of some kind.
Her face hadn’t stopped searching mine. As if she didn’t quite believe me, but wanted to anyway. And as much as I loved pondering on the exact shade of summer brown in those eyes, I was starting to feel cornered. She thankfully let me go. “Roger seemed a bit out of sorts when he left yesterday and I couldn’t hear what you guys were saying,” she said, her head cocked to the side.
She’d definitely recovered, and was using the moment to capitalize.
