Alexa fiddles with the tie on her silk blouse. Her disclosure of last night’s events clearly weighing heavily on her mind.
“So how long do you plan on being away for?” she asks, eyeing the pile of premature holiday brochures on my desk, a look that, were it possible, might set them alight. Clumsy of me to leave them out, I think, insensitive.
“Two weeks,” I say, writing down the dates on letterhead notepaper and handing it to her, “but it won’t be until next month. Patients usually prefer to know well in advance.”
She nods.
Silence.
“How do you feel about that,” I ask, “under the circumstances?”
“What? You leaving?”
“Yes.”
“We’re used to it,” she says, stuffing the note in her purse. “People leaving.”
“Still, it’s important to name it, acknowledge how you feel.”
“I guess.”
“Anyone inside want to say anything?” I probe.
I watch her attempt to speak, then stop herself. Unsure, I imagine, whether the Flock’s words are worthy of acknowledgment, or if they’ll be dismissed—causing shame.
She uncrosses her legs. Kicks the rug between us.
“We can look after ourselves,” she snarls.
I note the switch. Runner, I think. “Are you sure about that?” I ask.
“Yes, smart-ass.” She leans forward in her chair, rests both elbows on her knees. “Tell me something, Doc,” she says with a look of disdain. “Do you always interrogate patients before you’re about to abandon them?”
Definitely Runner—angry, enjoying it, and getting off on my attempts to catch up.
“I’m not abandoning you.”
“Go fuck yourself. Don’t pretend you give two shits.”
“But I do give a shit,” I say. “I also have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.”
“Really? God, you’re such an asshole.”
“Asshole? Really?”
She looks away.
“You’re angry, upset that I’m leaving.”
She flashes me a look of pure hatefulness and folds her arms. I disgust her.
“I’m not leaving you,” I continue, “but it makes sense why you’re angry.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Like it or not,” I say, “I do care.”
“Liar.”
“Seems like it’s painful for you to accept someone might care.”
“Pfft, care? No one’s ever cared, apart from Ella. And now she’s got different priorities too, just like you.”
Silence.
I leave some space for her to feel the bite. The burn.
“That’s tough,” I finally say.
“What would you know?”
“Well, I don’t know how it feels for you,” I say, “but I know what it feels like to miss someone.”
She looks up, scans my face for clues, then tilts her head as if hoping gravity might hold back her tears.
“Sounds like you really miss Ella,” I say, keeping an eye on the time, “like you’re worried about her. The choices she’s making.”
I know this is the point when the Flock will finally cease the fight. We’ve done this merry dance enough times. I know the drill.
And sure enough, her tears fall. Mascara leaving a trail of deep hurt. Time slows down and my heart feels for her, this triggering my missing of Clara. Of our life. I check in with myself and breathe. The truth that we take our patients only as far as we’ve gone ourselves, Alexa’s loss resonating with my own grief.
She crimps her eyes, shakes her head. “Sorry, how long did you say you’d be away for?” she asks again, confused.
I note the memory lapse.
“Two weeks,” I repeat. “There’s a note in your purse with the dates.” I point.
She taps the side of her head.
“The Fouls are telling me you don’t care.”
“That’s not true, Alexa.”
“They’re threatening to hide my medication while you’re away.”
“They want to sabotage our work.”
“They’re saying you think I’m needy, pathetic.”
“Alexa, listen to me. They’re trying to destroy all the work we’ve done. Hello! If you’re listening, I’m telling you straight—Alexa needs her medication. Stop punishing her. Come out and talk.”
A pause.
“They refuse,” she answers on their behalf.
“It would be helpful to discuss why parts of you believe I would think you needy and pathetic, and why they wish to harm you,” I say. “You need to keep taking it, Alexa. Certainly while I’m away.”
A pause.
“Please don’t go,” she says, staring out the window. “Please stay.”
I check the gold clock on my desk.
“I’m afraid it’s time,” I say.
She remains, her legs parted. Hands resting between her thighs. Her vulnerability exhibited in her large green eyes, clear and wide. Her cheekbones suddenly appearing openly defined, her skin strikingly awake and luminous. The light between us seems suddenly to melt. My breathing jolts, my chest slowly tightening. She stands, strokes the tie on her blouse, and walks toward me.
“Hold me,” she whispers.
I pause. “There are certain boundaries we need to keep.”
She moves closer.
I catch my breath and stare at the open button on her blouse, her waist now resting in line with my eyes. Her body giving off the fresh scent of citrus. I feel my hands wanting to reach for her, take her in my arms and stroke her hair, allow my mouth her mouth. I imagine the immediacy between our bodies, the heat it builds. The air between us thick, swirling, forming a vacuum of space and longing. Each of our losses instantly gratified. Swiftly, I steady myself. My internal supervisor eventually helping me rise from my chair. I walk over to the door, my head light and swimming. Suddenly imbued with reason.
“It’s time,” I say again. “You must leave now.”