“You scared the life out of me,” she says as I approach. Then she seems to realize the irony of her statement because she slaps a hand over her chest, giggles, and says, “Oh, my.”
“I know,” I say, nodding and smiling. “It’s not the most inconspicuous ride, is it?”
“Hardly. Do you have to drive that thing as part of your new job?”
“No, that thing, as you call it, is my new set of wheels. I totaled my regular car, and for now, this is all I can afford.”
She looks confused for a second, then dawning hits her face. “I see. Things with David aren’t going well then, I take it?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, come on in. I have some great coffee and some fresh-baked muffins that might cheer you up.”
I follow Carla inside, realizing that the hearse might not be the curse I originally thought it was. It has helped to break the ice and lighten her mood, rather than darken it. She leads me into her kitchen, points to a chair, and then goes about setting up her coffeemaker. While her back is to me, I take a moment to examine my surroundings. The kitchen looks brand-spanking new and judging from the travertine floor tiles, granite countertops, cherry wood cabinets, and high-end, stainless appliances, her husband’s practice must be doing well.
“I was sorry to hear about you and David,” she says over her shoulder, measuring coffee into a basket. “You two always seemed like the perfect couple.”
“Yes, well appearances can be deceiving,” I say. “I imagine most marriages look good on the outside, but what goes on behind closed operating room doors is another matter.”
The statement is a test to see if Carla has heard the sordid details behind my breakup with David. Her next statement tells me she has because she knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Yes, an unfortunate choice for David,” she says, shaking her head. “You have to wonder what the hell he was thinking doing something like that at the hospital.”
“Thinking with the wrong head, I imagine,” I say. She lets forth with a warm, throaty chuckle and I decide to take advantage of her relaxed mood. “How are things going with you and Brian?”
She hesitates for a beat longer than necessary, and even though she still has her back to me, I know whatever she says next will only be a part of the truth.
“We’re doing okay.” She shrugs. “I wish his practice didn’t take up so much of his time, but I’ve learned to adjust.”
She has finished setting up the coffee, and after turning on the machine, she grabs a plate of muffins from the counter and sets them on the table in front of me. I note that even though her mobility appears fine, she does very little lifting with her right hand, making me suspect she still has some residual weakness on that side.
“How are the kids?” I ask.
“They’re doing great.” I can tell from the change in her tone that this is a huge source of pride and joy for her. “They’re both attending the U of Dub down in Madison. Carrie is a freshman majoring in business and Tom is one year away from finishing medical school.”
“You must be very proud,” I say, taking one of the muffins from the plate—raspberry with a crumb topping—and picking a chunk off the top. I pop it in my mouth and relish the flavors.
“I am,” She beams for several seconds, and due to her lingering facial paralysis, the smile is slightly lopsided. She takes a muffin for herself but she doesn’t eat any of it. She peels the paper cup from around it and then sets it on the table. Her smile fades and her expression turns sad. “I miss them.” Her gaze wanders about the room. “The house feels kind of big and empty these days.”
“Is that why you’re seeing Luke Nelson?”
It’s an abrupt segue and Carla’s slight flinch reflects that. She shoots me a wary glance and then quickly looks away. “Something like that,” she says vaguely. “I’ve been a bit depressed lately. You know . . . the kids being gone, Brian working so much, being alone all the time, getting older, losing my looks . . .” She lets out a mirthless laugh and makes a dismissive wave with her hand. “All the usual midlife crap I suppose.”
I sense her shutting down and scramble to find a way to reconnect. “Tell me about it,” I say over a mouthful of muffin. “My marriage has fallen apart, my finances are a wreck, and I’m living in a friend’s cottage that he had built for his ailing, aging mother. I’m at an age where I thought I’d either have, or be starting a family, but instead I’m facing reentry into the dating game.” She smiles sympathetically. “And to be honest, the whole idea of dating terrifies me. I can feel all my insecurities and the pressure of time bearing down on me. I jiggle in places that I never used to have, gravity is getting the better of several of my body parts, and in just a few more years I can expect my hormones to start taking extended vacations, which means my chances of ever having children grow smaller every day.” I pause and flash a wan smile. “So I think I understand what you’re going through, Carla. Growing old alone seems like a very real, very scary possibility to me these days.”
“So what’s the answer?” she asks. “How do we deal with all this stuff?”
“Hell if I know. I’m long on questions and short on answers these days.” I hesitate for the merest beat of a second before taking the plunge. “I’ve given some thought to getting therapy,” I lie. “But I’m a little wary. I’ve never done anything like that before and it seems kind of, I don’t know, scary.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. The whole idea of it scared me, too. But I figured it was worth a try and these days there isn’t as much of a stigma associated with that sort of thing the way there used to be. Hell, half of Hollywood boasts about their problems and their shrinks. It’s given psychotherapy a whole new cachet.”
The coffee has finished brewing and she gets up and makes herself busy pouring two mugs full. I finish decapitating my muffin and peel the paper away from the body of it as she sets the coffee cups on the table—one at a time since she apparently doesn’t trust her right arm to hold one of them—along with a little pitcher full of cream and a sugar bowl.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say, topping my coffee off with a dollop of cream. She leaves hers black and takes a sip of it. Her muffin is still sitting in front of her, naked but otherwise untouched. I pinch off a section of the body on mine, but hesitate before popping it into my mouth, not wanting to lose my momentum. “But even though therapy is more acceptable these days, it’s hard for me to shake off this belief I have that it’s all a bunch of hocus-pocus. Has it helped you any? Has Dr. Nelson given you any tips or tricks or wonder drugs to try?”
Carla frowns. “Maybe,” she says hesitantly. “I’ve only seen him a few times so far, so it’s a little early yet to tell if it’s really helping.”
“What does he do? What kind of therapy does he offer?”
She looks away from me, her expression thoughtful. “It’s a bit . . . unusual,” she says, staring at the wall.
I sense there is more to come so I scarf down the bite of muffin I’m holding and wait. It doesn’t take long.
“He uses some kind of hypnosis or something. Most of the time when I leave his office it’s as if I was there, but I wasn’t. It’s hard to explain. I can remember talking with him and feeling very relaxed, but something about it always seems surreal, like I was dreaming it, or watching it in a movie.”
“I’ve heard that hypnosis can be very therapeutic. How does he do it? Does he dangle a watch or something, like you see on TV?”
“No. Though he does have a wall clock that ticks rather loudly” she adds, managing a quick smile. She prods her muffin but still doesn’t eat any of it. “He has me sit back on this big comfy couch he has and gives me a cup of warm herbal tea to help me relax. Then he just lets me talk.”