Your Song Read online

  I’m back in the office and the place is as silent as ever. Uncharacteristically, the secretaries don’t even look up from their desks or computer monitors when I exit the elevator and step onto the floor. I’m not at all oblivious to the looks I get from them when I usually enter their space. Who wouldn’t find it flattering to be gazed at by onlookers? Everyone likes a good ogle from time to time, don’t they? My strategy has always been to disarm the women with my quick wit and sometimes-droll sarcasm. When I get them laughing, I have them right where I want them. But today, something is amiss . . . no “Hello, Eric” or “How was your trip, Eric?” Not even my ever efficient and always friendly secretary Cate is biting. She gives me a curt hello and continues with whatever it is that she’s doing. What the hell is going on?

  I make my way to my office door and notice that it’s unlocked. I turn the knob and push the door and the first thing I spot on my desk is a huge bouquet of the darkest roses I‘ve ever seen. I step closer and see that the large crystal vase they are sitting in takes up the whole blotter space on my desk. There must be at least three-dozen black roses in there. I touch one and feel the velvety softness of the petal. I’m floored! Who the fuck sent me black roses? I read somewhere once that there’s technically no such thing as a black rose but these happen to be the deepest and darkest shade of red I’ve ever laid eyes on. I search for a card and find one nestled within the long stems. I remove the card quickly from its tiny envelope.

  It seems that you are playing hard to find, ERIC.

  And I don’t like it.

  Holy shit. Where’s Rajiv? I am fuming, spinning and out of control.

  “Cate, when were these flowers delivered?” I bark at her from the doorway. Cate runs to my office door. The look on her face tells me I’ve startled her.

  “They arrived first thing this morning, Eric,” she replies as quickly as she can. I think she is afraid I’m going to blow.

  “And who delivered them?” I snap and as soon as I do, I regret it. This isn’t Cate’s fault.

  “It was a florist delivery person. He insisted that he be the one to place the vase on your desk. So, I unlocked your door and let him in. I didn’t leave his side the whole time. He just placed the flowers down, asked me to sign the delivery invoice and then he left.” Cate is as professional as always.

  “I . . . I’m sorry that I snapped, Cate. I’m just a bit upset, as you can see,” I feel better now that I’ve apologized. Cate nods her head slightly, letting me know that my outburst has been forgiven. I’m lucky to have her.

  “That’s all for now, Cate. Thanks. And by the way, if ever someone else comes poking around here with a delivery for me or snooping around, please alert me right away. And tell the others out there the same. No answering questions about me or sharing any information about me, please,” I say and turn and walk towards my desk. I can sense Cate’s departure behind me.

  I step closer to the bouquet and lift one of the roses out of the vase. I pick off one of the petals and feel its softness beneath my fingers. Smooth as velvet. I lift the petal up to my nose and take a sniff and I am instantly reminded of the scent from my grandmother’s rose bush when I was boy.

  Who’s trying to find me? Who would do such a hate-filled thing to another person? Work colleagues exacting revenge? One of my exes? My ringing cell phone in my jacket pocket interrupts my thoughts. I read the call display and see that it is Dr. Leung’s office again.

  “Hello? Eric speaking,” I answer.

  “Hi, Eric. It’s Dr. Leung calling. Glad to have finally gotten a hold of you in person,” she says. Why the hell is my doctor phoning me in person? Aren’t doctors too busy to be making individual phone calls to patients these days?

  “Is everything all right?” I ask staring at the black roses in front of me. First I get sent death flowers and now I get a phone call from my doctor with a potential death sentence? What the fuck is going on in my life?

  “Yes, Eric. Everything is fine with your blood and lab work. All your results came back normal so there is nothing to worry about,” she tries to reassure me but I can tell there’s still something left unsaid.

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” I say not really knowing how else to respond.

  “Eric, the reason why I am calling is because I’ve been giving some thought to our talk from your visit last week,” she begins. Without saying a word, I allow Dr. Leung to continue as I walk over and shut my office door. There’s been enough excitement on my behalf in this office for one day.

  “Eric, when I asked you how you’ve been feeling emotionally, your answers concerned me. You said you felt lonely . . . sometimes sad . . . tired and that apart from family, you haven’t socialized much with people, not with friends or co-workers. I’ve known you for years, Eric, and have never seen you this hopeless. Would you agree with me if I say that I think you might be . . . depressed?” What? Depression would be one of the last things I’d say I was feeling. Let’s try . . . anger, frustration . . . okay, I’ll give her lonely. But depressed, no. Not really. Maybe?

  “No, Dr. Leung, I’ve never really looked at it that way before. I have my days when I’m feeling sadder than others but that’s probably because this week just marked the third anniversary of my best friend’s death so I figure . . . I’ve just been feeling more . . . melancholic than usual,” I explain. But even as I try to rationalize these feelings, I think about what she’s said and wonder if she could be right. No, I haven’t felt like socializing much at all. I haven’t been sleeping very well either. Looking for Caroline and not finding her has brought me down. Watching Mr. Callahan slowly die feels like losing Danny all over again. And, let’s not even forget to mention the sick and twisted stalker in my midst.

  “I remember you telling me about your close friend dying. Wasn’t it right before his own wedding when he was killed?” She says.

  “Yes, it was. I’m not sure about this whole depression thing, though?” I make sure to say before she pulls out her prescription pad and starts drugging me up.

  “Well, maybe it isn’t depression, Eric. But I was wondering whether you might be interested in talking to someone? A professional?” she offers.

  “Like a shrink?” I ask.

  “No, not a doctor. I was thinking more along the lines of a counselor or therapist. Someone neutral who you could open up and speak honestly with. Maybe someone you could explore your obstacles around grief with.” Dr. Leung is not giving up. She goes on. Grief? Since when?

  “Eric, if you could start to talk now about what has been bothering you it may prevent you from falling into a deeper depression later on when medication would be required to help you cope,” she is making her sell here. I don’t respond. On my desk chair, I swivel the seat around to take a look out at the view of Toronto on this beautiful, clear June day. Dr. Leung continues. I consider everything she’s telling me.

  “Eric, I can refer you to a therapist I’ve heard wonderful things about from quite a few of my patients. In fact, you don’t need my referral to see her but I want to recommend her. Her office is a few buildings down from where you work. I hear she has flexible office hours so she can see you late in the evening or on lunch hours. Her name is Leslie and she is a registered therapist.”

  “Do you really think I’m that bad off? That I need to see someone?” I ask.

  “Talking to someone is one of the best things you can do for your mental health, Eric. I’m worried that you don’t have anyone to talk to. Try giving Leslie a call. If after the first session, you don’t like her then you don’t go back. Do you have a pen? Take down her number.” She is persistent if nothing else. I grab a pen and a note pad and scribble down the therapist’s number.

  “Keep me posted, Eric. I hope this works out,” she says and we hang up. I swivel my chair around once again and this time the damned bouquet of roses is in front of my face. This is so messed up. I need Raj more than ever. Not only do I want him to find Caroline for me, but also I need him to find th
e whack job that is behind all this craziness. Before I go crazy myself.

  I stare down at the notepad with Leslie’s number on it. I lift the handset off the phone and dial the number. After a few minutes, I’m told there was a cancellation of one of Leslie’s booked appointments for this Friday after work.

  It looks Leslie has herself a new client.

  8 “Heart Of Gold”

  Everywhere I look, I see signs of life. The colorful fish swimming in the aquarium. The large fern hanging majestically in the corner. The fresh cut flowers sitting in a vase in the center of the coffee table. Green plush chairs, a beige leather couch where rust-colored cushions lie at an angle. I take a seat in one of the green armchairs and sigh. Here I am inside the offices of Leslie Gillet and Associates. Within this peaceful environment, I sit in angst. What possessed me to book this therapist? Surely I’m not a manically depressed, obsessively compelled, attention-deficient, substance addicted, philanderer, or victim of abuse? So, why am I here? Dr. Leung’s words ‘Eric, you have no one to talk to’ pop in my head and I know that she is right.

  I look around the waiting room and make note of the dimmed lighting and soft classical music playing through the speakers. On the coffee table a few comic books are scattered instead of the predictable magazines and newspapers. I thumb through them and surprisingly find some of my old favorites, Amazing Spiderman, Archie, Hulk. I glance around some more and that is when I spot it at the corner of my eye. I do a double take. Sitting on a side table next to the armchair opposite me is an avocado green beer bottle-shaped ashtray. A relic from the 1970s. Inside it lays a stack of business cards. I stroll over and take a pink card from the dish.

  Leslie Gillet, M.S.W. R.S.W.

  I lift the ashtray from the table and hold it. I am intrigued by its presence here. On the one hand, it looks out of place yet somehow, is right at home in this earthy setting. Typical design from the 1970s, heavy ceramic base and intricate curvy designs. Kitschy? Definitely. But perfectly nostalgic. I search around the room for more clues about this therapist I have yet to meet.

  The walls are painted muted beige and serve as the backdrop for an eclectic art collection. On the one wall behind me there is a framed vintage Jaws movie poster featuring Jaws’ infamous teeth jumping out at you. A unique image to find in a therapeutic setting, no? The wall across from me features an oil painting of two young children, a boy and a girl, playing by the seashore. The boy has his back to us and is running into the sea while the girl is bent over collecting seashells. To my left is a picture of a forest in early autumn just as the leaves are beginning to fall. No wildlife or human life to be found in the picture, I see and feel the stillness. And feel myself calm down.

  I reread Leslie’s business card again and slide it into my inside breast pocket. I turn my attention to the classical music playing and find myself humming to it in my head. I notice a bronze sculpture of a man in motion sitting on top of the receptionist’s desk. After a few minutes I glance down at my watch and it is right then at 6:30 P.M. on the dot when I hear the loud booming voice of Leslie Gillett. I walk over to this person who I will later come to see as my savior.

  “Gawd, you look so much like John F. Kennedy Junior!” is how she greets me and immediately starts laughing loudly. Her laugh completely puts me at ease. She leads me into her office where a bright white leather armchair awaits me. As I take my seat the first thing I notice is a white leather Kleenex box holder in the shape of a couch sitting on the end table beside me. A tissue is standing upright from where the seat cushions would be, almost inviting itself to be pulled . . . more kitsch . . . but I love it.

  I turn to get a better look at Leslie seated in front of me. The first things I notice are the biggest and brightest plastic peace-sign-shaped yellow earrings drooping from her earlobes. The peace signs, weighing heavily no doubt, must easily be two inches in diameter. Seated cross-legged on her chair, she’s wearing white cotton Capri pants and a brilliantly yellow V-neck silk blouse. On her feet she’s wearing a silver toe ring peeking out of, lemon yellow, flat sandals. Her face carries the same sunny disposition as her bright clothing. Sparkling blue eyes, clear skin, a thin mouth . . . she’s probably in her late forties or early fifties. All of her dark brown hair is pulled up to the top of her head and clasped together with a yellow hair elastic. I watch as she prepares her notepad and pen for our session. When she looks up and smiles at me I decide that so far, I like her.

  “Okay, it’s 6:30 P.M. on a Friday night in downtown Toronto and you’re stuck with the very loud Leslie Gillet for the next hour. So let’s get to know each other. I’m Leslie Gillet and I have been doing individual and couples’ counseling for over 20 years. I am honored to meet you, Eric.” She speaks quickly.

  “It’s very nice to meet you as well. Thank you,” is all I manage. I’m nervous but really don’t understand why. Maybe it’s because I’m anticipating the big questions that I’ve heard shrinks ask patients: are you depressed? Do you have any regrets? Who do you envy? Are you happy? More than anything, please don’t start off by asking me to tell you about myself. I loathe that question.

  “Eric, what’s your favorite song?” she asks tilting her head to one side looking at me straight on. My favorite song? I can’t believe she just asked me that. I eye her skeptically. I’ve never told another living soul what my favorite song is.

  “That’s an interesting first question,” I reply grinning at her. “Why do you ask?” Is she going to analyze my psyche by reading into the lyrics of my favorite song?

  “I’ve got like the world’s largest collection of music on my iPod and thought I’d start off by playing your favorite song. That is, if I have it on my playlist, of course.” She hesitates. “It’s how I start off all my sessions with new clients,” she says. She rises up from her seat and walks over to her docking station. She looks over at me, waiting to hear my selection. She’s always smiling.

  “Anything from the 70s would be fine,” I answer watching her thumb through her touch screen pad. Seconds later Leslie makes her way back to her chair as Neil’s voice echoes.

  I close my eyes. Isn’t this my song of the day? Neil Young’s ‘Heart of Gold’. A man at the edge of despair . . . grappling with finding self-compassion. Eric Martin, miner for a heart of gold. I sit there and allow Neil’s lyrics to soak in. Leslie reaches over for her remote and lowers the volume on the iPod.

  “So, you like 70s music?” She asks.

  “Do I ever! I’m a pretty nostalgic guy and I like things that remind me of my childhood. Like that ashtray out in your waiting area,” I reply.

  “What exactly does it remind you of?” she asks.

  “It reminds me of . . . growing up; of home . . . of my mother’s trinkets scattered throughout the many surfaces of our home. When I saw the ashtray out there . . . I just . . . I . . . found it . . . intriguing.”

  “Did anything else intrigue you?” she asks.

  “The Jaws poster isn’t what I expected to see on the wall of a therapist’s waiting room . . . .” I smirk.

  “Great point,” and she laughs.

  “And just as I was expecting to catch up on some Psychology Today or The Economist magazines, I find comic books in your waiting room. And my favorite ones, too,” I add. I’m feeling more at ease in her presence. Leslie is guffawing.

  “So, I note that everything that grabbed your attention out there comes from another decade. How old are you, Eric?” She asks.

  “Thirty-two . . . an old soul in a youngish body. But, like Neil says, I’m getting old.”

  “So, what makes you feel old?” Leslie asks. She has tucked the smiles away and a look of curiosity comes over her face instead.

  “Loneliness,” I murmur. The conversation has taken a 360-degree turn. Leslie nods her head in understanding. Neil has stopped singing and the room is now silent. I look around me and like what I see. Books of all kinds: hard covers, soft covers, psychology manuals, and vintage books. One title in particular c
atches my eye. “Les Miserables,” by Victor Hugo. “Les Miserables”? Really?

  “May I ask why you have a copy of Les Miserables?” Quite the number of synchronicities I’ve encountered here tonight. Fascinating.

  “Eric, I’m a therapist for couples and individuals. One of my greatest resources for my couples’ therapy is Victor Hugo. He is the source, my man.”

  Interesting.

  “Okay, tell me a story about something that has happened to you recently,” Leslie says shifting positions in her seat. Her pen is poised. As much as I’m taken aback by the question, I’m excited to answer, curious to see where this is going.

  “How recently? Like a month ago, a week ago, this morning?” I seek to clarify.

  “Whatever you want. I’m easy,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders. I scan the room looking upwards at the crown molding. Several images come to mind; watching Mr. Callahan on his palliative bed, receiving that white hand towel, redheaded and fiery Amber, David asking me if he could drive my car when he’s older, Dr. Leung calling me, Amy asking me to attend her thesis defense. What to choose . . . .

  “I laid eyes on a stranger in an airport and haven’t been the same since.” I take a deep breath.

  “Sounds like the beginnings of a foreign film to me. I’m hearing dark music playing in the background, low lighting and a sinister looking stalker in the midst. Ooohhh,” she croons in an attempt to lighten the mood. Stalker?

  “No . . . it was nothing like that. It was a woman . . . who was on my flight back to Toronto. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She . . . just . . . did something to me. A part of me that was a long time asleep . . . was awakened. That’s the only way I can explain it.”