“Not everyone is on the Internet twenty-four/seven like you.”
“True.”
“Why do you think he has a potbelly?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. He said he weighed 260 pounds, and based on the background in his bio, he might have muscular arms and stuff, but he’s probably soft around the middle. Right? I mean, that’s like a hundred pounds more than me.”
“Oliver weighs a hundred pounds more than you and there’s not an ounce of fat on him anywhere.”
“He’s a football player. They work out every day. This guy eats donuts in his office.”
“You have made some weird assumptions.”
He needs to be average. Really average, because the only way some guy would ever be interested in me was if he had no other options. My fantasies have always been weirdly realistic. Like I never fantasized about running into Ryan Gosling at the airport and having him rub his fine form against mine, but I was guilty of inserting a few random guys from around the city into my sexier thoughts. That was back in the day when I actually got outside and could see random people on a regular basis.
And these days all I have are fantasies. I don’t, of course, imagine being in a crowded rave, but I do dream of a day when I can walk outside, go to a bookstore, see a movie.
There are a whole host of things I could be doing, like visiting the set of my book’s movie, to which I’ve been invited more than once.
But I can’t and so my life has shrunk to the four walls of my apartment, three people, and the things I can conjure in my own head.
Today and yesterday, Jake is playing a big starring role in those imaginary happenings.
It’s completely harmless—for both him and me.
Outside there is only the regular traffic. I see all these people and I know—I know—that not one of them down there would hurt me, but the minute I try to go outside, my heart seizes. I can’t breathe. I start sweating like it’s 110 degrees and I’m running wind sprints. Even getting near the front door can cause me to hyperventilate. All that Jake will ever be is a fantasy. “It’s so fucking stupid, the power our minds have over us.”
“It’s also what makes you a great writer. Your imagination is big and powerful and sometimes it’s too powerful for even you.” She sets down the magazine.
“Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
The chair squeaks as Daphne pushes out of it to join me at the window. “Think of it this way. Two weeks ago you were telling me you couldn’t write another word. Since the note came, you’ve been writing like you were possessed.”
“Because I am a madwoman. I have the actual crazy person diagnosis.” I don’t tell her that last night I got out of bed and wrote the steamiest scene I’d ever put on the page. My readers would probably be shocked, and in the end, I probably won’t include it, but damn, had it been hot.
“You are not mad. I know Dr. Terrance doesn’t like you to use that word. Hell, I don’t like you to use that word.”
I don’t like it either, but sometimes when I take a good hard look at myself, I can’t shake that I am not right in the head. The glass feels blessedly cool against my skin. I’m somewhere along the scale between normal and not, otherwise I could step outside my apartment without wanting to puke. I need to force myself. “Daphne, would you—?”
“No!” she nearly shouts. Hurrying, she tries to explain, but there’s no explanation necessary. I know what she’s going to say and I don’t blame her. “We are not going to the elevator again. I’m sorry, Natalie, but I just can’t. That was terrible. I know you want to recover, but what’s the rush?”
“It’d just be nice to go to Barneys. Try on shoes. Maybe go eat a Shake Shack burger.” See Jake Tanner in person. Put on a sexy dress and seduce him. Have some intimate contact with a real human being for the first time in forever!
“All those things can be delivered here. Stay here. Write. Get better. Before you know it, we’ll be having lunch at David Burke’s in Bloomingdale’s.”
“I know. Isn’t New York great?” I say without enthusiasm.
After Daphne leaves, I heave the biggest sigh known to womankind and then slump down in front of the French doors that lead out onto the balcony. The room-darkening curtains are pushed to the side. The sun’s rays burning through the glass are about the only sunshine and outdoors I get. Two weeks ago, I was able to go up to Oliver’s penthouse apartment. We had dinner with his parents, who were visiting from Ohio.
Two weeks ago, I was standing outside the subway stop. Sure, I hadn’t been able to make myself go down the stairs and into the tunnel. That was my next goal, though. I would’ve made it—no. I’m going to make it.
It’s happening. In the future. All my progress isn’t relegated to the past.
What I need is for the good doctor to write me a prescription for elevator visits, because frankly with both Oliver and Daphne telling me that I need to stay inside, I’m beginning to wonder if I am pushing too hard.
Picking up my phone, I press the second contact on my Favorites screen. Favorites is a misnomer. If I never had to see or talk to Dr. Terrance again, I would be so happy. He’s not a bad guy but he’s a visible reminder of my psychosis. If I could, I’d make a list called “Un-favorites I have to stay in contact with.” I wouldn’t have gotten to the point of being able to stand outside without his aid. Even so, every visit and phone call is just a reminder of my weakness, my mental illness.
While another person might have fired him and found a new doctor, Daphne recommended Dr. Terrance, and I’ll admit that up until two weeks ago his methods have worked.
“Hello, Natalie, how are you today?”
“Not bad, Dr. Terrance. I was wondering about getting out of the apartment.”
He tut-tuts, the clicks of his tongue against the roof of his mouth as clear through the phone line as if he is standing next to me. It’s just as annoying in person.
“And what happened the last time that you ventured out?” he asks. Psychiatrists ask questions—at least that’s what I’ve learned. If I wrote a book featuring a psychiatrist, I’d wear out my question mark key. Were you sad when your parents died? When Oliver went away to college, were you upset? Why did you move to New York? When the person called you a whore and threatened to send dogs to rape you, were you scared?
Yes, yes, because Oliver came here, yes. He always knew the answers, but wanted me to say them, as if saying the answer, acknowledging my pain, somehow lessened the sting. It hasn’t yet, but I keep going back to him because I did get better. I was improving and I’m not going to let some note from some faceless neckbeard keep me from going outside again.
“I made it to the elevator.” I project as much gaiety as possible.
“And then you felt faint, vomited, and lost consciousness. You frightened your cousin, who called me in a panic and, had you not been revived, he would have taken you to the hospital where you would likely have been admitted—at least overnight—for observation.”
Hot-cheeked, I remain silent because his recitation is terribly accurate and nothing scares me more than being admitted. The feeling of suffocation inside the white walls of the psych ward with the antiseptic smells and the constant interruptions by the nurses and aides is a million times worse than the fear that overtakes me when I try to leave my apartment.
“Natalie?” he prompts.
Natalie with a question mark. I answer with my own query. “When do you think I’ll be able to leave my apartment?”