You gobble up the books like you’re eating M&Ms, highlighting passages in different colors. With a ruler. Is there another way to do it? You consume books by Leo Buscaglia, Shakti Gawain, John Bradshaw, Wayne Dyer, M. Scott Peck, Shirley MacLaine. You call Audrey to talk about it. She’s read a few of the same books; some of them have helped her, too. Shirley was a little too out there for me, Audrey says, with some hesitation. You laugh, you know it’s true, but you can’t help think that some trauma from a horrible past life could explain a lot about this one, because you still haven’t come up with anything conclusive, trauma-wise. What did you think of the Louise Hay? That kind of blew my mind. I mean, under “high blood pressure” it says, “Longstanding emotional problems unresolved!” That is totally Victor! And under “arthritis” it says it relates to feeling unloved! Audrey’s a nurse. She has a spiritual life, but she believes in modern medicine. I don’t think you gave yourself arthritis, Lois. But what if I did? You’d never given any thought to a mind-body connection prior to this, but now all your aches and pains make sense. No wonder you bruise so easily. You haven’t just been bruised literally, you’ve been bruised figuratively too. Your world is now cracking open with possibility. Finally. There are affirmations for this. You have found something here.
Celeste, the masseuse/Reiki student, is thoughtful in explaining her practice and gentle in her touch, often not even touching but simply hovering her hands over parts of your body that she feels drawn to. You can feel the energy and heat from her hands going directly into you; you are sure that evil cells are breaking up and dissipating with each passing second. Never having done anything less than full-bore, you tell Celeste after one Reiki session that you feel better already and ask where you can take the training yourself. It feels like this is something you could do that would be useful to people, something that could help mitigate the worldwide conspiracy against you. Of course, you could never give up music, but you do feel you’re on to something here. A year later you’re a Reiki master. Even your skeptical daughter has to admit she feels better after you treat her minor aches and pains. You take on a few clients, referrals from the center where you took the training, an overworked waitress, an elderly woman, a couple of AIDS patients. They, like everyone, adore you. You’re moving in the right direction, you’re sure now, though you’re still depressed, and you haven’t — won’t — give up singing, although you’re somewhat choosier about accepting dates now. You won’t go back to Memphis to work with that cocksucker J
, won’t go back to Stuttgart if they put you up in that shit hotel where they sassed you about using your coil to boil water after you spent good money on an adapter, won’t go back to Houston unless you get an apology from the conductor about the way he let that no-name whore muscle you out of an aria that should have been yours, you won’t you won’t you won’t. Victor is disappointed that you’re turning down jobs, especially in pursuit of this hippy-dippy voodoo stuff; when he sees you wearing crystals around your neck or smudging the house with sage, he puts on a baby voice to ask how your widdle magic is coming along, and you’re disappointed that he doesn’t get it, though you’re not surprised. He’s never really gotten you. He loves you and takes care of you, and you thought that would be enough.
One day you wake up and you almost, almost wish you hadn’t. You don’t exactly know where this came from, it’s a new feeling, and it’s frightening. Best to stay in bed. You tell Victor you’re tired, you’re just going to take it easy today; he doesn’t think anything of it. You don’t call Audrey, and you let the dog pee on wee-wee pads in the house — nothing new — but you almost forget to feed him until he comes up to you whining, nearly an hour after feeding time. This is somewhat alarming, so after you feed the dog, you set the clock to wake you for his dinnertime and go back to bed. You can’t read, can’t even focus on the TV, though you leave it on; the shades are still drawn from the night before. Victor is concerned when he comes home, but for now he’s still buying the story you’re selling about not feeling well, even though the description of your symptoms is vague. I don’t know, just ecch-y, you say, he cracks up at your made-up word. He giggles and asks if you want him to call the doctor about your ecchi-ness. No, you tell him, I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.
This goes on for the better part of a week. You’re frankly baffled by it, because you haven’t been crying; you know what crying means, at least. Right now, what you are is vacant. That’s not technically a feeling, but it seems like all the parts of you that care about anything have turned in their keys and checked out. You have no energy for or interest in anything, and no matter how shitty you’ve felt in the past, you’ve always been motivated to whip up a new concert gown or screen porch as needed. Right now, zero. Victor finally insists on taking you to the doctor, so you make an appointment, but the doctor can’t find anything wrong with you; he prescribes Valium, but that only makes you feel worse; still, you put it in the big plastic bag with the rest of the stash of pills you keep on hand — and you call the doctor back and tell him you didn’t respond well to the Valium and he prescribes something else and that something else perks you right up. You’d be more than happy if there were a pill for what you have, and there might be, and it’s not for lack of trying; two of your shrinks have prescribed things that don’t work and sometimes made things worse. You’ve been saving all these pills in your Ziploc for years now — Xanax, Percocet, and so on — some make you drowsy, some make you feel nothing at all, which you’re discovering is no improvement — but who knows when something might come in handy, whether it’s a pill or a set of pearl buttons from a blouse that’s out of style. Betsy might need it sometime. Waste not, want not. Bonus, you lose five pounds, that’s always good, so by the end of the week, you’re not so much good as new as you’ve just gotten through whatever that was and now it’s over.
You Can Always Help It
When I call home from college as scheduled one Sunday afternoon, Victor answers and tells me that you took a last-minute job covering for someone in Santa Fe who got pneumonia, that you’ll be gone for six weeks. In fact, you’re in a psych ward on the other side of town.
— Hm.
— No? Never happened? I didn’t really think it did, I just wondered if maybe it should have.
— Well, let’s leave it there then.
Unbeknownst to me, and anyone else, you’ve had what you’re calling a spell and Victor and your best friend are calling one week of crying followed by three weeks of staying in bed. Somehow he gets you to agree to check yourself in. He’s tried everything he can to help you, and he is still no fan of psychiatry of any kind, but he’s worried enough now to force you to do something. He tries to help you throw stuff in a suitcase, but he has no idea how to pack. I won’t go at all if you don’t let me do it myself, Victor. You’re not going to the Ritz-Carlton, he says; you say Just go away! and neatly fold three cashmere turtlenecks from the outlet mall, a couple of nice pairs of slacks, a pair of jeans, plenty of undies and warm socks, nightgowns, perfume, a Robert Ludlum paperback, jewelry, scents, toiletries, meds, an afghan you’re half finished with, and a petit point of a pastoral scene that Grandma had given you to finish because the stitches were too small for her to see anymore.