HEALER
Thirteen years later
I stand in front of the floor to ceiling windows on the 25th floor in the One Magnificent Mile office on Michigan Avenue, shiver from the chill of the air conditioning, and pull the thin cashmere sweater tighter across my chest. I stare out at the upscale bustling urban scene below me.
Madame Germaine Marchand sits behind the Louis XIV antique desk in the corner office of Ma Maison Agency. She slides an elegant manicured hand over her short silver bob. “Did you figure out who’s been tampering with your mailbox?” she asks.
“Not really. Maintenance is putting in another security camera. In the meantime, I rented one at the post office. Anyway, that’s the least of my worries right now. I talked to Mom’s shrink a few days ago. He thinks she’s stable enough to travel.” I stare out the window. To the right traffic is thick on Michigan Avenue, even more congested on Lake Shore Drive, brake lights more solid than flashing. To the left choppy, white-capped waves on Lake Michigan crest far below on this steamy, summer day. I love Chicago. It’s beautiful. It’s my home. And yet I’m ready to shake all the ‘city’ off, and blow out of here.
“That’s terrific, Evelyn,” she says. “Check mom out of the clinic and take her someplace pretty for a weekend,” Madame says. “A quaint B&B filled with antiques. A parlor where they serve tea with homemade scones and fresh jam.”
“I rented a lake house in Wisconsin for a month,” I say. “Her doctor said some down time in the country will help her brain reboot.”
Madame Germaine frowns. “The timing’s not going to work. I have a new client for you.”
“Time in Wisconsin will do my family good.” I say, hearing the irritation expertly contained in her voice; feel the manipulation in the thirsty vibes radiating off her. “Everyone needs to mix it up once in a while. Foliage. Farms. Even healers need healing. Vacation’s not a dirty word.”
“Time off with your family sounds like the opposite of healing. Do you ever just take a real vacation?” Madame assesses me behind her expensive, tortoiseshell cat- eye glasses. “Fly off to Rome or Paris or Aruba for ‘me’ time?”
“Wouldn’t that be a luxury?”
I used to despise Madame but over the past two years I’ve learned to tolerate her. She’s cold and manipulative, but she’s pushier than usual today. I tune out the faint sound of traffic far below me, tune out Madame, and silently count backwards: Three. Two. One. I open to the intuitive layer that lies beneath the surface. The empathic layer. The layer where I access feelings that belong to other people and sense them in my own body.
The first emotion I tune into is obvious: disapproval. Clouds of disapproval billow inside me but I know they’re not mine. Madame owns all of that. If I squint I can practically see disapproval roll off her shoulders like a miniature tank.
She’s not thrilled I’m taking a break from work. And yet, master chess player that she is, she pinches out a smile. “Fall will be a terrific time to take a holiday. You’ll catch the changing colors.”
“I’m not going in the fall,” I say. “I’m leaving next week. I don’t want to miss out on all the excitement of mosquito season.”
“They’ll eat you up alive this time of year.” She is brilliant at bargaining. Quiet. Relentless. She could turn her talents to high stakes poker or chess, but chooses to be a madame instead. She has no biological kids that I know of and I suspect this is her way of mothering.
“Re-think the timing on your vacation, Evie. The new client requesting your services has specific needs,” she says, clicking off her tablet. “His people are not looking for an average escort. We ran his profile through the software and the results indicated that he’d best be matched with someone like you. Someone who heals.”
I cleared seven figures last year. I’m one of the highest paid escorts in Chicago. I’m twenty-six years old and on a good day I feel like I’m going on forty-six. I need a break before I explode in a million bloody pieces splattering everyone within splattering range.
Madame Germaine purses her lips and lifts a white 8 X 10 envelope from her desk drawer. This is where she tries to talk me into doing something I don’t want to do. Something that will earn us both more money in a month than most people make in a year. She clears her throat, a tell before she hard sells. But the last two years working as an astronomically-priced escort with a rare expertise has turned me into a decent negotiator.
“If they specifically requested a healer, Madam, a few other courtesans are excellent with that,” I say. “Scarlett is great with emotionally damaged men. Lily knows how to help those who are physically broken.”
“Yes, yes. The three of you are a small but potent division within Ma Maison,” she says. “But this client specifically requested you. Sit.” She points to the chair assuming she has schooled me like an expensive, well trained dog. Funny, I could say the same about her.
“Specialty. Ha,” I say, making my way toward her desk. “Teaching five-year-olds was a specialty.”
A few years back I was a kindergarten teacher with a Master’s in Education. It didn’t matter how much insight I had into what made people tick—my education left me with staggering student loans and creditors crawling out of the woodwork like determined termites chewing their way through a rotting fence.
I worked hard. I pulled a fifty-hour week, squeezed out the minimum loan payments every month, along with the last drops of soap from bottles, recycling them for cents on a dollar. I told myself that I was making a dent in my loans when the reality was 90 percent of that went to interest. I told myself I did it to save the environment, because plastic parts killed ocean animals. But the sad truth was I needed every nickel collected because the electric company had this sneaky habit of turning off the electricity on the exact date stamped on the pink notice.
One day over pudding cups in the teacher’s lounge my new pal, Amelia, third grade teacher and best margarita maker ever, confided she’d started moonlighting as an escort. Not only was she paying her rent in a timely fashion, she was squaring off her credit card debt, and hacking away at student loans. “I’ll set you up with my agency, Evie,” she said. “It’s just like dating. You don’t even have to have sex with the guys.”
“But they want to, right?”
She licked the remainder of the butterscotch from a spoon. “What guy doesn’t want sex?”
Being an escort sounded creepy. Tawdry. Dangerous. “Thanks, but I’m going to pass.”
“I hear the judgment,” she said. “Come on. If you join, I’ll get a commission.”
“Do I have to buy a three month supply of laundry soap too? No thanks. Everyone does whatever to make ends meet. No judgment. It’s just not for me.”
But a month later Mom’s insurance company doubled her premiums, stopped paying for half her treatments and a chunk of her pricey prescription drugs. As her proxy, I argued with them over the phone and fired off letters. When none of that made a dent, I scheduled an appointment at their local branch office.
I took half a day off work, and caught the bus downtown to plead Mom’s case. I wore my most sensible suit, fashioned my long hair in a neat bun, and waited an hour past my appointment time for the adjustor. He drummed his fingers on the particleboard desk and talked nonsensical bullshit for five minutes. He was just an innocent pawn in this difficult situation. He’d do what he could do, but please don’t be angry, he was only the messenger. We stood up and eyed each other.
“Thanks,” I said. “Anything you can do, I appreciate it.”
“You got it.” He passed me his card, but it slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. I bent to pick it up and upon arising discovered his dick had magically busted out of his zipper. He clutched it in his hand and yanked it to and fro in my direction, a ridiculous look on his turtle face.
“Ugh.” I gagged, raced out of his office, and tried to delete the ‘squishing’ sound from my brain. I made it home without puking only to find an eviction notice plastered on my door.
“Aw, fuck.” I peeled it off the threshold, pulling the paint along with it. Not only was I soon to be homeless, but my douche landlord would deduct the ‘property damage’ from my security deposit.
I was twenty-four-years old. I could either crumple into a ball on my sorry mattress, or clear my head. It was spring and the Chicago weather was a psychotic ride between chilly, spring showers, and warm, sunny skies. Home sweet home. Ha. Yeah, thanks a bunch, universe.
I hopped on my bike, pedaled on the path adjacent to Lake Shore Drive, and rode for miles like a madwoman. I biked past sailboats dotting the harbor and sleek condos – the constellation of wealth gathered like members of a private club hovering around a mahogany bar at Lake Michigan’s edge.
I braked at a stop light, watched the cars pass in a blur and wondered how, after four years studying to get a liberal arts degree, a year and a half to earn my teaching certificate, all the hours I’d spent learning alternative therapies and eighteen thousand different ways to meditate — how had I landed like last year’s fashion in life’s bargain basement bin once again? More importantly, how could I get out?
And then Amelia texted me:
Amelia: In a bind. Pretty please double with me tonight. 8 pm. No funny biz. I’ll pay you five hundred. Cash.
Evie: Yes.
I shot back.
I biked home, showered, and flipped through clothes in my closet at lightning speed wondering what kind of dicey situation I’d signed up for.
Now, two years later, in Ma Maison’s posh corner office, I take a seat next to Madame Germaine’s desk. The white envelope resting on her immaculate table contains details of a potential client – a high profile client. I can feel her desire for coin depositing into Ma Maison’s bank account with a hefty clink.
“He probably doesn’t even need me,” I say. “Most of these guys just need a good therapist or someone who can mother them, not an astronomically-priced ‘girlfriend’ healing immersion.”
“He wouldn’t have requested you if he didn’t need you. Money is nothing to these men,” Madame says, templing her fingers. “They see their shrinks, go to church, synagogue, prayer services. They pay for pricey escorts for events, or kink, or whatever bug is up their ass. Yes, they come to Ma Maison for that, but they don’t request someone like you unless they want a girl who can help them with their darkest, deepest concerns. A girl who can help them heal.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “He’ll do fine without me.”
“Maybe yes. Maybe no.”
The night I accepted Amelia’s request to go on a ‘date’ for $500 cash, I was a big, fat bundle of nerves. I met Amelia and two well-dressed, thirty-something guys for drinks at a trendy River North restaurant. They were in from Kansas City for a trade show. We chatted and flirted. No one pulled down his pants in the middle of dinner. No one snuck their hand under the table in a shady attempt to slide it between my legs and cop a feel. I had the best meal I’d eaten in years. Two and a half hours and four courses later, Amelia and I hit the ladies room and she slipped me five bills.
“Was that so awful?” she asked.
“No,” I said, my fingers trembling as I tucked the cash into my wallet and zipped my purse up tight.
“Told you.” She leaned into the mirror, fluffed her hair, and applied a fresh coat of lipstick.
“It’s not always this easy, is it?”
Amelia was always impossibly coiffed, had everything together, and I was the weirdo, sweating the details, not knowing how or if I’d pay the next phone bill.
“It is tonight. Say goodnight to your date on your way out. Take his card to be polite. No, you don’t have to call him.”
I thanked the guy for a lovely evening and accepted his card. No wizened penis wanking in my direction. Instead he shook my hand, a perfect gentleman. I stared at the ceiling that night on my lumpy mattress and imagined all the debt I could pay with those five bills. It was so easy. I was smart. I was better educated than the vast majority of people making a better living than me. Why couldn’t I become an escort?
‘Bah, who becomes an escort?’ My old pal Queasy, opined. ‘You want some ancient man peppered in liver spots feeling up your private bits?’
Er, no. What was wrong with me? Was I losing it like Mom did? This idea was batshit crazy. I could get another job after my twelve-hour work day. Sell something weird on eBay and make a fortune. Become a Walmart greeter on the weekends.
The next day Mom’s shrink phoned and told me she was a candidate for TMS.
“What’s TMS?”
“Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. It’s similar to ECT. The next wave of technology for re-setting the brain,” Dr. Winters said.
“But electro convulsive therapy never worked in the past.”
“This is different,” he said. “They use magnets. Early study results are amazing. If we get your mom into a study program it could turn her life around. She could live on her own again.”
“You mean live with me again. She can’t live with my sister Ruby – she’s in college.” As much as I loved my mom, we were like oil and water when it came to living under the same roof. It’s a wonder we hadn’t killed each other all the times we’d tried to make that work.
“No, Evie. If successful, she might be able to live on her own.”
“What’s the catch?”
“It’s pricey.”
“How pricey?”
“Six figures pricey.”
“Got it,” I said, my throat closing.
“I already spoke with the program’s administrator. She’s a friend. I’m almost certain I can get your mom in.”
“Great,” I said, my skin turning hot like someone had doused me in alcohol, lit a match, and tossed it on my head. “Then we have to do it.”
“Excellent.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “The down payment is due upon program acceptance.”
“Right. I’ll get to work on that.” I hung up the phone and sobbed, kissing my life as I knew it goodbye. I called Amelia, catching her on a night between dates. We ordered pizza at her place, drank beer, and binge watched Alfred Hitchcock movies.
“Want another slice?” she asked.
“No. Thanks to you I can’t get fat ever again,” I said, smelling the fresh basil mixed with freshly grated cheese, my stomach growling. “I should still do this, right?”
“Yes. Do you really have other options?” she said. “Besides, some guys love curvy girls.”
“Fuck you. Give me a slice of pepperoni.”
She grinned and passed me a plate.
“Thanks. You’ve been doing this for a while. You know the ins and outs, no pun intended.” I tore into a piece of pizza. “I’m the new girl, and I doubt they’ll hire me for my ability to pull someone’s thumb out of their mouth, or convince a five-year-old to lay down on his mat and take a nap.”
“You’d be surprised how often the thumb in the mouth and the napping thing cross over.” She sat back on her sleek, designer couch and pointed to the TV. “Resume streaming please. I love Notorious with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman.”
I signed up for the Ma Maison agency the next day. I helped the tech girl fill in my fictitious bio, got my hair and makeup done and took the boudoir pictures. I reminded myself that sex with clients was not required because that would constitute prostitution. Ma Maison didn’t want to get busted and neither did I. Besides, I’d been assured that sex with clients was optional.
I’d date. I’d pay my bills and pay for my mom’s psych treatments. And everything went according to plan – for a while: Arm candy for middle-aged men in town for a convention, an engagement with a lonely guy returning for his high school reunion. Lots of prepping to look polished. Hair. Nails. Waxing.
I taught kindergarten in the morning and went on dates on nights and weekends when Ma Maison booked me. I earned decent money but didn’t get big tips. I didn’t make the big bucks because I wasn’t banging clients. When I had sex with a client. If I had sex with a client, I wanted it to be with someone special. Someone I’d always remember. Maybe that was old-fashioned. I didn’t care. I’d been accused of worse.
But everything changed when I met Dylan McAlister. Life shot a come to Jesus, Hallelujah sized hole through my chest when I met Dylan McAlister. Hard to believe that was nearly two years ago.
Now Madam Germaine pushes the envelope across the pretty antique desk toward me. “This man needs you.”
“You say that about all the men.”
“Open it. Take a look.”
I reluctantly pick it up, fantasizing about casting a fishing line onto that Wisconsin lake. Feeling the tantalizing tug on the pole when I get a bite. The satisfaction of reeling dinner in. Pan frying it over the BBQ on the deck. Tossing back a few beers with some friends and my sister. After debilitating, exhausting years of bipolar depression, Mom’s finally smiling again. I take mental snapshots, but when I hold one too close, one of her smiles threatens to melt my heart.
Now I hold the packet, solid in my hands, and suddenly my longing for fish fries, cold beer, and hanging with a relatively normal version of mom is replaced with a stirring of blood in my veins, goosebumps on the backs of my arms. And I know in my bones that this envelope holds the details of another broken man who – if the stars align – I’ll uncover the bitter belief that shut him down. I’ll help him heal.
I, Evie Berlinger, am no longer an average escort. I’m not paid to drop to my knees behind some shitty House of Pies and dispense blow jobs to sad men in town for a hardware show. My services are retained by powerful, privileged, wealthy men at the top of their professions who have lost their way; their self-confidence; the spark that made them great.
These titans could spend years in therapy paying brilliant shrinks to hack away at their issues. They could travel thousands of miles in their desperate search for answers. Vision quest to Peru, climb Macchu Picchu, drink the ayahuasca and trip the light fantastic.
Or, they could pay Ma Maison an ungodly amount of money to spend a few weeks with Scarlett, Lily, or me. We have the ability to help them uncover the screwed up core belief that shut them down and we do that quickly. If we take a liking to them they might have the best sex of their lives. Trip the light fantastic in a different kind of way.
“Do you mind if I look at this for a few minutes?” I ask and tap one finger on the white linen envelope. But I already suspect my vacation at the lake house is going to be put on hold. “Meditate on it for a few?”
“Take your time,” Madam says.
I stand, hold the packet tight to my chest, already absorbing who this man is. I leave Madam Germaine’s office and walk past her assistant. “Hey, Jay. Is there an open room?”
“Number four,” he says. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” I enter room number four and close the door. I shut the blackout curtains, settle on a chaise lounge with the envelope resting on top of me, put on earphones and hit shuffle on my phone. Whatever music comes up is meant to be. And then the song starts to play. The one that reminds me of the man who changed my life.
I close my eyes, memories tripping through my brain. Memories of how I got here. Memories of Dylan McAlister. I let them dance around awkward and breathless and exhilarating like they are happening again for the first time. I slide into the deliciousness of Dylan McAlister: gorgeous, brilliant, tormented player.