Текст книги "Hope To Escape"

Автор книги: Jack Parker

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CHAPTER FOUR

Dr. Roden had a very small office, but that gave him the perfect opportunity to make it cozy. Since he had started seeing patients out of his own practice six years ago, he actually noticed an improvement in communication with those that had followed him from his last position. When he had worked for the state, his old quarters were all angles and stiffness. The fluorescent lights were glaring, the thirty-year-old fake leather chairs were a sickening shade of orange, and the walls were a dirty canary yellow that clashed with the ochre linoleum floor. Roden had never gotten used to it during the eleven years he met with patients there. State funding was very frugal; and his salary had been proof of that, as well.

Now, though, he had his dream office, or as close to it as he could ever have hoped for. The location was in a newly built medical practice building near the city hospital; and he got a smoking deal on the rent because the owners couldn't fill the available spaces. The waiting room barely fit the two dark wood chairs and small end table he picked up at Pottery Barn, and the front desk was so narrow that Roden couldn't squeeze behind it when Martha sat at her computer. The chart room was little more than a closet, and there was no room anywhere for a kitchenette, so Roden found an enclosed bookshelf for his office, where he hid a microwave and a mini-fridge.

Other furniture in his office consisted of a small mahogany desk with a chair that matched the two in the waiting room. Roden and Martha took their lunch at this desk, or occasionally ran to the noodle shop down the next street. The room also contained a camel color micro-fiber armchair for him to sit in while his patients took the matching couch. Chocolate brown curtains complimented the khaki green walls and the beaded suede throw pillows; and the overall décor had an Asian feel, because World Market was having a sale at the time he decorated this space. The final touch of comfort owed itself to the lighting, affected by several low watt lamps to give the space a warm glow. All in all, Roden felt very satisfied with his work.

Only three of the patients from his previous state funded practice were able to follow him to his new office, and that was because he gave two of them a hefty discount. The third one, he had become very close to, and didn't want to lose all the success they had worked to attain over the years. This particular patient, scheduled to show up in the office for their weekly meeting, was now six minutes late. Roden felt a bit bothered by this, as lateness was not a common characteristic of this individual.

Finally, his patient came into the room, but rather than his usual quiet entrance, the young man bounded through the door in an uncharacteristic semi-dramatic way. He didn't knock. He had no greeting. He simply came in with a rush, and collapsed on the couch, an action that peeked Roden's curiosity.

Instead of the young man's typically relaxed and controlled conversation, this time he began a hurried tirade regarding his agitation. His degree of restlessness concerned Roden, but not nearly as much as the developing subject that turned out to be the cause of it.

"You'll never guess what's happened," he stated half shouting, half whispering. "I saw her. I can't believe it." He paused for a few seconds, wheels turning in his head, before he continued, "You know, at some point in the last few years, I started to convince myself that maybe she was only a dream after all. I used to look for her everywhere I went, hoping I'd come across her face in a sea of strangers. Well, you know all that; but anyway – I gave up. I gave up, and then she appeared. I jus' – I still can't believe it!"

Roden forgot to restrain himself from displaying his shock and upset. He knew exactly who the subject of this rant was. He knew that he needed to calm the young man's high spirits; and he needed the details. "Max, you saw Esther? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes, at the gallery." Max replied, taking turns clasping and unclasping his hands or running his fingers through his tousled brown hair in his excitement. It had been five days since he first saw her, but he was bursting to tell his friend about this pivotal event.

The gallery? "Max, you never go to the galleries. You hate the galleries. What were you doing there?" That didn't sit right with Roden. The worst part of witnessing this disturbance became the knowledge that he was most likely the fault of it. He made a mistake, and now that he knew it, it was his job to make it right.

Max looked at him, and then rolled his eyes to the floor with a slight grimace that broke the animation on his face. Clearly, he still didn't like to visit the galleries. "Angoli wanted to meet me there to discuss purchasing my works. He said they were my best yet, and he wanted them badly. I knew they were my best, and I didn't want to part with them, but he threw me a hard bargain. Eighty thousand dollars. How could I possibly turn that down? Man, but I tried to." He paused again, thinking. A thin smile started to form.

"And as we stood there debating over it, Esther appeared, in the flesh; and she was much lovelier than I could ever have carved her in stone. I tried to imagine her as a grown up, – as a woman – but my art is obviously flawed. It just pales in comparison."

He looked up; his elated brown eyes meeting Roden's concerned blue eyes. "She was there. It was fate." Then he shrugged and broke eye contact. "I didn't need the statues anymore, so I gave in. I shook Angoli's hand and accepted the eighty thousand."

"Shit – I mean – wow, eighty thousand!?" Roden exclaimed. "That's incredible. That has to be more than you've made off of all your previous works combined. Congratulations!" Roden really was rather impressed by the news, and proudly thrust out his stout hand to shake the artist's skilled one.

"Yes, I know, that is good, very good. But, really, I'm more overwhelmed about seeing her."

Then Roden saw a bittersweet look in his patient's eyes. This didn't bode well. Roden knew this young man since he was the age of ten years, a little over one year after he had become a ward of the state. His file was stored in the chart room, along with all of Roden's other patients, but Roden never had it pulled. He didn't need it. Everything he needed to know about Max, he remembered. Max seemed almost like a little brother, or even a son; and he knew that he was Max's best friend.

Max had had a very difficult childhood, extremely difficult. During his early years, he never had any contact with the outside world, except for drug addicts who associated with his abusive prostitute of a mother. At least this had been the assumption Roden made from early sessions with the boy. No one had ever attempted to claim him after the police picked him up. He had no real name that he was aware of, so the guys at the police station just called him Max, and it stuck. He picked out his own last name later.

His rather limited language capabilities and unfamiliarity with the world made for quite a culture shock. Max was at least five or six years behind other children in his education, and he had no idea how to behave in society. He proved to be special, though, soaking up knowledge as if he was a dry sponge. By the time he became Roden's patient, only a year of schooling separated him from his peers, and he quickly gained on them. Two years later, by the time he turned twelve, he had the learning level of an average sixteen year old. Roden really felt quite proud when Max graduated high school at the age of fifteen, and started college at the state university on a scholarship. He double majored in Anthropology (his culture shock apparently turned into culture interest) and Engineering; but, oddly enough, his joy in life centered on his minor: Art. He never lived off of it, though. Until now, it proved never more than a hobby. Eighty thousand dollars! That had to be at least one and a half times more than the young man made in a year as an engineer at the small electronics design firm he worked for.

Truth be told, the real concern of Roden all these years was not Max's adjustment into the world; but his obsession with the person who bestow on him the first act of kindness he had ever known: Esther. Due to his mental and physical condition and lack of known family, Max was cared for in a state run facility rather than placed into foster care. The state employees treated him well enough, provided for him; but he rarely benefited from sincere kindness. This, Roden thought, made him cling all the more to his image of "Esther the Kindhearted". To Max, she was the epitome of virtue and decency. Before her, he didn't know what it was to be treated humanely. When this girl showed him consideration, she introduced him to a euphoria of compassion. It worked like a drug for him, and he never forgot it.

He mentioned her a lot during his psychiatric sessions as he grew up. Only with much time and effort, did it seem that in the last several years her name hardly came into conversation. Of course, as his latest collection of works indicated, she still dwelt in his thoughts.

"When you saw her," Roden decided to test the field, "how did that make you feel?"

Max's wistfully nostalgic look suddenly changed into amused laughter. "How did that make me feel? Oh, Mike, come on. You're a psychiatrist, not a social worker. When you ask such silly questions, it makes me think that I should have gone into psychiatry myself. That would be an easy living, asking pointless open-ended questions! 'It's raining outside. How does that make you feel?' 'Your cat just died. How does that make you feel?' Mike, come on. I thought you knew me better than that."

This little speech made Roden a little bit perturbed, but he knew that Max enjoyed teasing him, and he wasn't about to rise to the bate. "Seriously, Max. You saw her. Obviously it stirred up some emotions. So . . . how did it make you feel?"

Max rolled his eyes at his doctor friend with a smile. "Fine. I'll play along." He sat back on the couch, thinking of his answer.

"Max," Roden said after a moment, "You shouldn't have to think that long about how you felt. Just say the first thing that comes to you."

Max sat up again, and his expression became stoic. Then, he began slowly, "It felt wonderful and painful all at once. After I finally convinced myself that she was really there, I felt like my heart was beating out of my chest; but I thought it might be breaking, too. I think it felt like that because it couldn't take the intense thrill." He smiled as if realizing it again for the first time. "She was there, and she was real. She is real." He became lost in his thoughts.

"Max, stay focused. How do you feel now? Now that your heart, I'm sure, has calmed down."

"I feel . . . I feel better than I ever have in my life. It must be endorphins or something. I've never felt so good." He thought a moment longer. "And it was just from looking at her; seeing her."

Wheels were turning in Max's head, Roden could tell. "What are you thinking, Max?"

Max's eyes flipped towards Roden as he ascended out of his reverie. "Nothing. I'm just . . . I just feel good." Roden studied his face a little bit longer, then Max suddenly decided to speak again. "It's fate, isn't it? It's a wonderful, incredible, perfect coincidence. I've thought about her for so long, and now she has come back into my life. It must be . . . destiny."

Roden became curious, and ever so slightly suspicious. "Did you talk to her?"

"No," answered Max, looking rather embarrassed. " I couldn't. I wanted to. I wanted to go up and – thank her. What she did for me has meant the world to me. She influenced me. She influenced my art. I wanted to thank her, and I wanted to – be close to her." He looked disgusted with himself, "But I couldn't do it. I was a chicken, you know? I had her on such a high pedestal in my mind that I just didn't feel good enough to even be in her presence."

"And now?" Roden prompted.

"And now, I regret it. I had the opportunity to re-introduce myself, and I blew it." Max's disappointment with himself was obvious. "But I have a theory. It was fate that she was there, that she happened to show up at the same place at the same time as me. Fate gave me a chance, and I screwed up. But now, I have an opportunity to make up for it."

"What do you mean?" Roden's suspicions grew.

Max looked guilty, but Roden was his psychiatrist and his friend, so after a hesitant pause, he answered him. "I followed her."

Roden's face betrayed his shock, and it made Max blush all the more with guilt. When he finally regained himself, Roden replied, "Max, you know that is a very bad sign. That is a very bad reaction." He took a deep breath and let it out. "You know that sounds a lot like obsession."

"I know." Max groaned. "I know that that's what it sounds like. Believe me, I'm aware of how my actions must seem. But it was fate, and I screwed it up. I just wanted a chance to fix it." He tried too hard to hide the shame from his face, making it all the more obvious.

Roden had started to feel a little guilty himself when Max first mentioned the words 'destiny' and 'fate', and he knew he needed to clear this up.

"I need to say something to you," Roden began. "I want to make some things clearer to you. You said it was fate that brought you two to the same time and place for a second time. Well, it was more of a coincidence that was enhanced by me." Roden looked at Max and saw confusion slowly working into his features.

He continued, "I happened to be dining at Benlevi's when I overheard a conversation. It was Esther speaking about a lemonade stand she had once, and a little boy in rags who she gave lemonade to." Max's eyes perked up at this. "I recognized the story, and decided to mention to her that I knew that boy, and he happened to be an artist with a collection of works dedicated to her."

"You spoke to her?" Max interrupted. Roden could read envy and a hint of jealousy in his voice, but it disappeared a moment later. "So, I have you to thank?"

"To answer your first question, yes, obviously I did speak to her," Roden answered, "I thought she might be interested in the collection; and, to be quite honest, since you hate being anywhere near the galleries where your works are being displayed, I thought she wouldn't have the awkwardness of bumping into you if she didn't want to." This information surprised and irritated Max.

"What would be wrong with bumping into me?" He retorted. "I've wanted to find her again my whole life. You know I used to drive all the neighborhoods in the city just trying to find her home again." His anger slowly grew. "Why would you keep such a thing as finding Esther from me?"

"That," Roden countered, "is exactly why I wasn't about to let you know that I'd met her. Listen to yourself. You're as obsessive about her as you ever were."

"I am not obsessed!" Now Max's rising anger returned to shame. "Why can't I have a chance to show her my thanks? I remember her, and I am grateful to her. And I'm not the only one who remembers, either. She remembers me. You heard her yourself."

Roden was stunned at this realization. He kept messing up. First he confronted the woman to tell her he recognized her childhood story and to recommend Max's artwork, then he told Max that she remembered their previous encounter. He was doing a very bad job at being a psychiatrist right then, and he never felt so disloyal to his profession. He needed to smooth it over.

"Max, listen to me. I had no right to meddle, and – quite stupidly – I thought that telling her about the statues you sculpted of her would be a nice gesture without interfering with your life. Now I see that I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry you interfered? This could be the most important thing that ever happened to me, and you're sorry that you made it happen? And here I thought we were friends."

Roden looked at his patient, and saw the disappointment on the younger man's face. "The coincidence of overhearing her was one thing, I should not have acted on it. I should have left it alone. It was none of my business and against my occupational ethics." Then, trying to divert the topic, he suggested, "Maybe we should discuss the obsessive feelings a little further."

"Like hell," Max's response came with quick disgust. "I'm done with this discussion." He rose from the couch and headed for the door. "After all these years," he turned around before heading out of the office, "I can't believe you'd think that of me."

The door slammed shut. Roden just sat in his armchair staring at the void where his friend and patient had been only seconds before. After a moment, the door slowly reopened a crack and Martha popped her head in. "Is everything okay, Doc?"

"Ah," Roden came out of his stupor, a headache starting to form in the back of his head. "Yeah, Martha, just fine. We just had a very emotional session, that's all."

Martha looked a bit puzzled and disbelieving, but she started to close the door. "Martha," Roden spoke up just then, "Could you get me Max Esther's charts? I think I want to review them."

"Certainly."

CHAPTER FIVE

Two weeks after the naked art horror, Ess walked out of the McKnight Building on 51st street and Jackson, where her job practically incarcerated her for ten hours a day, five days a week. It was Friday afternoon, and she strode with a feeling of exhilaration coursing through her veins and tickling her nerve endings. This exuberance seemed a strange sensation, and it made her laugh. She hadn't felt so giddy to start the weekend since college.

Not that she had any plans for the weekend, but she had felt out of sorts for a while, and needed the free time to really unwind. She had a few neglected books piling up on her coffee table that were making her feel guilty; and there was supposed to be a documentary on Saturday evening on the Peloponnesian Peninsula. After the Greek history class she had taken in college – which felt like forever ago now – she developed a keen interest in the ancient country, and was determined that she would visit someday. Of course, unless she could convince Jill or tolerate Manda to go with her, she would have to find a more suitable, and preferably male, companion to accompany her. Until then, she had to content herself with documentaries.

Typically, the weekends were saved for running errands, paying bills and whatever other personal tasks she didn't have time for during her workweek. This weekend, though, she decided to dedicate as a recuperation weekend. She had motivated herself and put extra effort in the last few days after work to get anything and everything accomplished that she would have otherwise put off for the weekend. All she had left to do was to stop at the market to re-stock her food supply. She guiltily recalled that she was out of ice cream . . . again. Exercise would definitely have to be stepped up on her agenda. The block and a half walk to and from the light rail station near her home could not possibly counteract her recent increase in ice cream consumption.

At least this evening she would have to get off the rail one stop early so that she could hit the market before getting to her apartment. That meant she would walk a whole three blocks loaded down with grocery bags. Still, she knew that wouldn't be enough. Ess had to face the reality. Birthday's no longer meant getting wiser and gaining privileges, they meant getting older and gaining body mass; and her mother used to warn her time and again that with age goes metabolism – meaning it goes much slower. She probably should start listening pretty soon.

Ess reached the light rail station just in time to make the current rail car. As usual, it was full at this point in the city, so she grabbed a pole and planted her feet, ready for the jolt when the car began to move. Most passengers would get off at the next stop by the mall where there were clusters of restaurants, so she felt sure she should be able to take a seat then.

The discomfort Ess had felt last week, when she thought people were looking at her and recognizing her face from a certain scandalous sculpture hadn't completely subsided, but it no longer felt as intense. She did still glance around her on occasion to make sure no one was giving her undo notice. All too often, though, she held eye contact with strangers a moment longer than comfortable, and her confidence wavered.

One gentleman in particular made eye contact with her more than once on the rail car, and she couldn't help but continually glance back in his direction. The contact became an ongoing cycle that made her more and more self-conscious each time. She felt herself blushing a little, and knew that she better refrain from looking his way again, because her blushes caused her cheeks to become bright red blotches. Very noticeable and obvious, and extremely embarrassing.

Soon enough, the next station came, and people started to get off the car. Having been extremely full when she got on, though, the stop did not free up as many seats as expected. The seat next to the gentleman had vacated, but she felt too awkward to take it. Having passed so many glances with him already, he might take it as advancement. Manda or Lisa would have found it to be a perfect opportunity to hone in on their next boyfriend (or, more appropriately, prey); but Ess always felt a little too introverted to be so forward. So, she just continued to clutch the pole and focused her stare out the window as the light rail began its next course.

Her stop came a few minutes later, and she departed with several other people. One last time, as she turned towards the exit, she unintentionally made eye contact with the same gentleman, and noticed that he had risen from his seat. Apparently, he was getting off at the same stop. Ess took this moment to think if she had ever seen him before. Maybe he was new to the area, and she would come across him again. That wouldn't be so bad. Eventually, she might work up the courage to start a conversation with him.

He looked sort of cute, with his brown eyes and short dark hair. The few wispy bangs that came down over his forehead gave him kind of a charming look. He wore slacks and a tie under his well-made trench coat, so he must be a businessman of some sort. That notion had promise, since it suggested success. It did seem a bit odd, though, that he wore the trench coat on a fairly warm September day. That certainly couldn't feel comfortable.

She walked on, thinking about smiling at him the next time they made eye contact, if there was a next time, of course. She didn't see which way he went, and didn't dare to look. If she appeared to look at him too much, she might encourage him to approach her, and she wasn't feeling poised enough for that right now. Or worse, she decided, he might not actually be interested, and she could give him a bad impression. The thought of rejection discouraged her further and made her stomach sink slightly.

Fortunately, it didn't take Ess's mind long to trail off towards another subject. She made a mental list of needed grocery items as she walked into the corner market. After grabbing a basket, she headed for the produce isle, her strategy always simple and routine: produce to meat to frozen foods and dairy, with a careful avoidance of the snack food isle.

As she made her way to the frozen foods to stock up on her microwaveable meals, her eyes happened to make contact with the same man she noticed in the light rail car. It took only a second to identify him, and she turned away blushing in recognition, while chastising herself for her inability to keep the redness from her cheeks.

He must live around this area, she thought. That could be convenient for running into him on future occasions . . . occasions when she felt a little more social and readily flirtatious. At the moment, though, her intended solitary weekend had stifled any desire to make anyone's acquaintance.

Therefore, she slipped out of the isle before she had a chance to peruse the ice cream. She'd have to backtrack to the freezer section before she hit the check out counter, because she wasn't about to go ice cream deprived all weekend.

After adding milk and half a dozen eggs to her basket Ess headed back to choose her ice cream flavor, relieved to note that the familiar stranger was gone. It took her more time to select the ice cream flavor that suited her mood than it had taken to do the rest of her shopping thus far, but she eventually made it to the checkout counter.

Mr. Baksheesh stood at attention in his customary position at the register. Ess smiled and greeted him, but Mr. Baksheesh, as usual, was all business. Even though Ess shopped there on a weekly basis, it seemed like he never recognized her, even after three years. Mrs. Baksheesh, however, smiled in recognition from where she stocked soft drinks in the cooler. She didn't seem to speak a lot of English, but she always communicated with a warm smile and a nod of the head. Ess smiled sincerely in return and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

She turned her attention back towards Mr. Baksheesh, and had to force herself not to grimace at his frowning features. What an unexpected pair Mr. and Mrs. Baksheesh made, she thought to herself. Apparently opposites do attract.

It didn't take long for the old grump to ring up her purchases. Ess waited as he bagged the groceries. She recalled one occasion that she had tried to help him with that task. She would never do that again. He reacted as though it was the worst insult anyone had ever committed on another person, even slapping her hand away from the bag she attempted to stuff. Ess wondered if that was quite possibly the reason he acted so cold towards her now. Then again, he wasn't exactly jovial before her former error of judgment, either.

After Mr. Baksheesh completed his task, Ess skillfully balanced the bags on each arm, and turned for the door. As she did, she nearly smashed her nose into the chest of the familiar stranger. This caused her to blush in mortification, yet again. She mumbled a nearly coherent "excuse me", and headed straight for the automatic door. As the door closed behind her, Mr. Baksheesh called out, "Thank you. Come again."

Once outside, Ess reflected on her humiliating display of clumsiness. Why on earth did that man make her so nervous? It was certainly true that Ess could be rather bashful, but it's not like she never associated with the opposite sex. She had dated, she worked with male colleagues, and she even had a few male friends in college, albeit they were gay. Still, there was no reason to be that ridiculously timid in his presence, or any one else's presence for that matter. She couldn't quite place her finger on where this nervous awkwardness came from.

In the three block walk it took for her to get to her apartment, Ess managed to let the incident go, and think of other things, such as getting the ice cream in the freezer before the precious substance liquefied in the predatory warmth that lingered into the late afternoon.

At the front entrance to her apartment building, Ess set her grocery bags down so that she could more easily fumble for the keys in her purse. Once she retrieved them and unlocked the door, she held it ajar with her foot and bent down for the bags. Stretching for the last one, she nearly lost her balance, and had to remove her foot from its post as a temporary door jam in order to right herself. She felt her frustration well up as the door began to close despite her efforts at a speedy balance recovery. Just before it slammed shut, a hand grabbed the door and swung it back open. Ess looked up into the face of her rescuer, and saw the familiar stranger once again.

Several thoughts rushed through her head just then. This man seemed to be practically following her; a convenient – and yet, embarrassing – opportunity that he was there, once again, in her presence. Could it be fate? Or some effort of her own subconscious mind to put herself in the path of this guy so that she could meet him – or perpetually embarrass herself in front of him? And much to her chagrin, she felt her face heat up with that horribly obvious blush.

"Allow me," the man said, holding the door for her. With an awkward half smile, she croaked out a thank you in reply and clumsily maneuvered her packages and person into the lobby. At the stairs she picked up her pace, wanting to be far away from the embarrassment that this man seemed to arouse in her as soon as she could.

Luckily, she noted, the man did not follow her up the stairs, but went for the elevator instead. She noticed that he entered the lock code to open the elevator doors, so he must be a resident of the building. It was a bizarre coincidence that she kept running into him, but if fate was involved, then Ess was not doing a very good job at rising to the opportunity. She thought on that with some extensive self-loathing while she entered her little third floor, white washed apartment, and closed the door behind her. She locked the dead bolt out of habit, and headed for the kitchen to save her failing ice cream.

* * *

It was late Friday evening. Max had no reason to think that Roden would get the voice message he left on his office phone until Monday morning. Max had Roden's cell phone number, so if he truly felt the need to get a hold of him, he could have dialed him there. This went through Roden's mind over and over again as he replayed the message, two, three, four times.

Roden didn't often come to his office after hours, but earlier in the day he had mistakenly left his house key in his jacket pocket, which he left behind for the raincoat when he saw some ominous clouds heading in from the east. Since he returned now for the keys, and found his message light blinking, he thought he might as well check it. Good thing he did, too.