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The next day when Jamie checked his planner, notes to call Kate and to see his doctor were scrawled across the other things on his list. At first, he thought Dr. Don had messed with his to-do list, but it was his own writing, bigger and sloppier than the layer that listed therapy, yoga class, and a meeting with his manager. He called Bernadette to suggest Kate could visit the support group and left it in her hands. The less he dealt with Sierra the better. Then he looked up his doctor’s number and asked when her walk-in hours were.
The receptionist replied, “She discontinued them two years ago. Would you like to make an appointment?”
Would he? Jamie felt flattened, but then, he’d had a few more beers than his customary one or two the night before. “Not really. I mean, is she ever on time now? Learned to smile, look up from her bloody laptop?”
“I’m sorry if you had an unsatisfactory encounter. I can pass that on. We have an opening at eight a.m. next Tuesday. That’s the only one until the week after that. We’ve got an eight o’clock on Thursday that week.”
“Nah. There aren’t two eight o’clocks in my day. And I’ll be out of town, anyway. Thanks.”
The successful avoidances brightened his mood. Jamie did a little housework, bathed Gasser and set him in the sunny spot in the spare room on a towel, gave him Reiki, and put the parrots in their cages with hugs and kisses, promising a good long flight practice later.
Riding his bicycle to Dr. Carl Gorman’s office, Jamie took back routes through residential streets for as long as he could, then turned onto six-lane St. Michael’s Drive. As always, he rode without a helmet, his straw fedora jammed down hard on his head to control his hair, and smiled and waved at people who honked at his wild shots across traffic to reach the left turn onto Calle Medico. There was something exhilarating about this little burst of risk-taking, though he couldn’t say why, other than it made him feel more alive.
He barely had time to catch his breath in the waiting room. Dr. G never kept him more than five minutes. As Jamie entered the office, the long, lean middle-aged Navajo man stood and shook his hand, saying, “Good to see you,” then settled back into his chair, one ankle crossed on his thigh, fingers interlaced so his silver rings clicked. Gorman didn’t exactly smile, but there was warmth in his benign demeanor, a sense that he genuinely found it good to see his client.
Jamie sat across from him, profoundly uneasy as usual. Gorman never put the desk between them. The open space vibrated with all the noise in the back of Jamie’s head, the things he never thought about but should.
Gorman raised an eyebrow.
Jamie put his hat on the table beside him, ran a hand through his hair, and noticed his heels drumming on the floor. “Um ... so ... think I’m doing all right, y’know, for me. Had Mae for the weekend and we didn’t fight. Met her kids and got on really well.”
The psychologist’s rings clicked. He moved his head in what might have been an encouraging nod.
“Took the workshop on healing and intuition. It was better for her than for me. Teachers were good, but I’m either too intense or bloody worthless. Dunno if I should have gone.”
“Too intense, or worthless.”
Repeated back, Jamie’s words sounded exaggerated and dramatic. But it was his genuine perception. Of course, if his perceptions weren’t distorted, he wouldn’t need therapy. “Worthless at medical intuition. And my healing work was too intense for me. Not for the people I was helping. It was great for them.”
Gorman allowed a medium silence, his head angled slightly to the side, inviting more.
Jamie took the hint. “It’s like something big comes through me and they have this huge catharsis, but I have it with them. Wears me out. At least it did this weekend. Been a little worn out anyway, though.”
Gorman’s posture subtly altered, as if an internal antenna had tuned into that last sentence.
His reaction made Jamie defensive. “Maybe I’m always that tired and I’m just starting to notice, y’know?”
“Always that tired.”
Jamie tried to recall the last time he’d been energetic. His bike ride. But that was adrenaline. His performances. Same thing. Between adrenaline rushes, he was tired. Exhaustion had made him sleep better than usual on the weekend, which had been good for his relationship, since it meant he’d let Mae sleep, but it hadn’t left him with any greater energy. Being with Mae and finally meeting her children had been wonderful. He should have been dancing on air.
“Yeah. It’s strange. Nothing’s wrong. In fact, everything’s great. Am I getting depressed? For no reason? Jeezus. It can’t come back like that. I’m done with it, y’know?” Jamie folded his arms, massaging his forearms, provoking a zing of pain in his right ulnar nerve. He had the momentary puzzling impression that he was wearing a soft, bulky sweater that had gotten bunched up over his stomach, but he was wearing his usual Aloha shirt. The lump, the bulge, was his stomach. Things had a way of showing up in Gorman’s office, moving onto the front burner. He dropped his hands to his lap. “Thought I was done giving a shit about my weight, but I think it’s why I’m tired.”
Gorman lifted his chin a millimeter.
“Yeah, guess that’s weird, been the same weight for like five months or so. Just can’t figure out ...” A rush of anxiety rattled his nerves and narrowed his breath. Jamie knew he should put a hand on his belly, close his eyes, and feel his diaphragm move, but he wasn’t on good terms with his belly at the moment. What a mess his head was when he opened it. He closed his eyes and tried to do the breathing exercise without the hand. Not as effective.
A soft, furry weight nudged its way into his left palm. The kitten. He opened his eyes and it went away. “Fuck.” He stared at his hand.
Gorman broke from his usual therapeutic demeanor, leaning forward, frowning. “What just happened?”
“Spirit.”
The psychologist’s control was admirable, but his tone betrayed concern nonetheless. “A spirit touched you?”
“Yeah. Not a ghost, though.” Jamie tried to sound reassuring. “I have ... guess I could call them guides. Visitors. I’m not hallucinating. I mean, I’ve got a lot of diagnoses, but ...” A nervous laugh.
Gorman sat back, waiting.
Jamie steeled himself for the revelation. As long as he’d been in therapy, he’d held this part of his story back. He picked up his hat and began rolling the edge of the brim back and forth.
“I’ve had visions off and on since I was a little kid. Saw a friend die and it was like I got stuck halfway into the other side, or the other side got stuck open. I was fucked up for a year. My parents took me to a therapist, but I didn’t like her. I could see her soul, y’know? Something wrong with it. A shaman dad was studying fixed me, though. Shut it all off. ’Til January a couple of years ago. Saw someone die again and it all came back. Mae closed it off for me last summer.” It was the one time he had wanted her to heal him. He’d been chaotic and desperate, and had only known her a few days. “And then I nearly died ... y’ know, last time I tried to kill myself. That let in a whole world of spirits. And I could see souls, auras, even feel them sometimes. So I learned some shamanic stuff so I could get a grip. Control the visions.”
A long silence followed. This usually meant the psychologist was processing as well as letting Jamie process, and preceded the possibility of more than a one-liner on Gorman’s part. Jamie tried to imagine being Dr. G. and hearing a client he’d presumably known well suddenly admit to seeing souls and spirits. Even Fiona had found the kitten odd. Not that Jamie had told Gorman it was a kitten. Maybe he should.
“My guides are weird. This one’s a kitten.”
Gorman’s eyebrows crept up. He was doing a good job of staying cool, but Jamie was so familiar with his expressions and mannerisms, he could tell the doctor was feeling his way into an unexpected space.
“Really tiny,” Jamie continued, “like a newborn. Fits in the palm of my hand.”
“You’ve held a newborn kitten in the palm of your hand?”
“Yeah. Back when I’d just moved in with Lisa, we heard this little noise in the shrubs in our apartment complex and there he was. Like his mother had dropped him or something. He was so tiny, just this little ball of fluff. Lisa named him Sweet William. We had to feed him with an eye dropper.”
“Do you still have him?”
Jamie shook his head. Guilt pushed at his heart. “He died. Little over a year ago. Cancer. He was so young, and my head was such a mess, I never saw it coming. Jeezus. I hate talking about it.”
He looked down. Though he could see nothing out of place, he sensed the spirit kitten in his lap, tiny paws treading on his leg. It rubbed its face against his palm. The sensation was real right down to the moisture of its nose. This face-rubbing was something William had done, one of his idiosyncrasies. What if this wasn’t some random kitten spirit, but William, back in his baby form, whole and healthy and new again? Had he forgiven Jamie for letting him get so sick and returned to let him know? Had Jamie accidentally summoned him?
He met Gorman’s eyes. “Fuck. It is a ghost. It’s him.”
The psychologist took his time before speaking. “I’m sure you know spirits are outside my realm of expertise. But for now, I’m not going to treat this as pathology.”
Jamie felt a weight fall off him. “Thanks.”
“What can you think of that might have brought this ... this image to you? Brainstorm, don’t filter.”
“Doing music in the hospital, always around people with cancer, all sorts of people who could die. Did music in a hospice. Told you about that. Woman with cancer.”
“Yes.”
The patient had died. Jamie had managed not to slip into the other world, but he’d been to the edge with her. “Lot of people telling me to record healing music again. Guess that has something to do with sickness or dying, maybe, dunno. This nutcase woman at the workshop was talking about having had cancer when she might not have really had it. Kitten showed up at the workshop. I was taking it so I could do medical intuition with my pets. So they won’t get sick without my knowing. I’m a little scarred by losing William, y’know?”
Gorman interlaced his fingers. The rings clicked. “What other pets have you lost?”
“Just one. Grew up without pets, we moved so much, didn’t have a cat until we settled in Santa Fe. That one lived to be really old. Then she just walked off. Like she didn’t want to die in the house. Navajo cat, I reckon.”
Gorman smiled. “And since she died outdoors like a Navajo, I’m guessing she doesn’t haunt you.”
“Nah. Missed her, but I was living with Lisa by then and we had William. One that walked off was my parents’ cat.”
“Is there anything else that could have brought up this kitten?”
It had arrived to comfort him after Jamie had worn himself out healing others. Or had it come because of his reasons for taking the workshop, or because of his argument with Sierra about causing one’s own illness—or something else?
“The crazy woman thought I was sick. Few people picked up something wrong with me, couldn’t tell what it was.”
“Is it possible you are sick?”
“What? Bloody hell. That I’ve got cancer?” Panic crowded Jamie’s heart and his breath. “No. Jeezus. I just rode my bike here, I feel fine—I—no fucking way. Not possible.”
“Slow down. We’re just exploring.” Gorman’s voice was soft but firm. “Take some time with your breath.”
Jamie closed his eyes and put a hand to his belly. The extra weight was reassuring now. The opposite of a sign of cancer. And though Ezra had dreamed him thinner, he’d dreamed him as the Vitruvian man. Balance and order personified.
When he had calmed down, Jamie opened his eyes. “Sorry. Not supposed to apologize for my feelings. But that scared me. Anything wrong in my body freaks me out.” He shuddered “Even feeling my heartbeat, y’know? Had a panic attack in Mae’s hot spring. Makes my heart and my head go funny. And I used to like it.”
Gorman let this statement sit a while.
Jamie wondered if his heat intolerance was a sign of illness. Stop it. You’re fat. Of course heat bothers you. “Fuck. I’m getting into the spin cycle. Everything’s a symptom. Turning into a hypochondriac.”
“You’ve been having more panic attacks lately. I’d like you to make sure there’s nothing physical behind it. You should see your doctor. Especially if the fatigue doesn’t clear up. You don’t need another source of anxiety.”
Will someone please not tell me to see her? Jamie jammed his hat onto his knee. Since when did Dr. G give advice? He never did that. “Nah. Not seeing her. I can’t have some serious illness. The last two years of my life have been one disaster after another. Any more would be statistically impossible, like lightning striking the same place ten times.”
Gorman leaned back, fingers interlaced, his rings clicking a few times, then got up, opened a desk drawer, and drew out some pages. “This stress scale might give us some insights. Take a moment to fill it out.”
He handed Jamie two papers, a clipboard, and a pencil. The paper was an inventory of life events with boxes to check off. Jamie noticed Gorman had given him two copies and started to hand back the spare.
The doctor didn’t take it. “It’s designed to cover one year. I’d like you to cover the last two years and get a score for each.”
Annoyed, Jamie filled out both surveys. He’d already told Gorman all the crap that had happened. It wasn’t like he’d left anything out. The long string of bad stuff and the good as well. Whoever had designed the stress scale didn’t seem to think anything was good. Even travel was a stressor. Which it was for Jamie, but some people did it for fun. Vacation was on the list. Not that Jamie and Mae’s vacation over the fourth of July had gone well, but most vacations were pleasant, weren’t they? Jamie handed the sheets back to Gorman.
The doctor scanned them. “You didn’t add up your scores.”
“Sorry.” Jamie read forms badly. Something about grids and squares made his brain stall out. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”
“A high score often correlates with a higher risk of illness.” Gorman tallied the numbers, set his pencil down and regarded Jamie with—what was that look? Concern? Compassion? “Statistically, with scores like these ... I’m not saying you’re sick, or that you will be sick ...”
Gorman’s voice faded into the bottom of a well, echoing, drowned out by the pounding of Jamie’s heart and his struggle for breath. No. Sierra could not be right.