Dear
Ben, he read the next morning, the letter arriving innocuously enough
in the morning's mail. She had sent it to his work address for a reason;
implicitly he knew this would be for only him to read. As he read the letter,
the first she had ever sent to him, he felt the rest of the world close
off around him, and he was drawn into her words, hearing her voice speak.
We're settled in now. That sounds like a minor thing, I suppose, but
it's been a while since the children weren't around all the time, and without
them I feel like my legs are missing. Mike says that will pass, but he
doesn't really know...anyone who works sixty hours a week can't possibly
know how fast children become extensions of the self, legs you compensate
for, arms that hold you up. But I'd guess you're learning that, aren't
you, Ben?
In
any case, they've got us in an open, airy room, and though we've got some
fans it's hot and dry here all the time. I've walked out in the desert
about a mile from the main clinic and sat in the sand, listening to the
wind blow the heat around, and I can't quite describe how it seems to air
me out, too. I can feel my skin cooking under the sun and I like to think
it's boiling all of the toxins out of me. They say here that's a good image
to keep in mind; using the environment to cleanse the self, but I have
a hard time visualizing it in the group sessions, so I've started taking
longer and longer walks out into the desert. When I sit in the sand I can
see the ants and the wild rabbits racing around, the cactus towers next
to me like a bodyguard. I sat very still the other day, imagining my blood
boiling, and a rattler slunk by me. The strangest thing was, I wasn't afraid.
All I could think was that I was the last thing he'd want to bite. There
is a kind of fearlessness I'm developing, as if since my body turned poisonous
I'm invincible to all other comers. I haven't told anyone that revelation,
or about the snake. I don't think they'd agree that was good therapy.
But
they say I'm doing well, overall. We're doing all kinds of new age crunchy
things like meditation, and they've got me on a strict diet of high-iron
veggies, and I eat vitamin E pills like they're candy. They don't use complex
chemical medicines here; they say fighting sickness with poison is the
wrong way to go about it, and it makes sense in theory. I do feel better
since coming here. I sleep through the night, I exercise by hiking and
walking a lot, and I feel calmer, more relaxed, so something must be working.
Mike's around..poor man...he's eating alfalfa sprouts for me and telling
me he doesn't mind when I know he's dying for a Beck's and a dirty water
dog. I think he's already lost some weight. When I go off and do my own
thing, like the desert...I don't know where he goes, really. He says he's
trying to find a lonely spot for himself, where he can be alone, too. I
do so admire how he's doing everything right along with me, like when I
was pregnant he tried to eat what I ate and sleep when I slept. Sorry.
You probably don't want to hear that.
I
think a lot. I think about Caitlin, and I wonder how Mom's handling a new
little girl. She's a dear, she's really good because she tries, and she's
not too noisy, so I think Mom should have things under control. We're not
allowed mail here, and there aren't any phones except the one in the main
office; any letters are outgoing only. They want us to feel cut off, they
don't want the outside world intruding. They let us keep our outside world
in our heads, so that's where Caitlin is living for me right now. I think
of Benjy, of course, and with Benjy I always think of you, and I wonder
how the two of you are doing together. I like to picture that you're getting
along famously, because the truth is you're both so much alike I can't
see it not working out. I'm sure you're learning that, too.
I
hope you've managed to forgive me for doing what I did. It was thoughtless,
and unkind to dump our problems on you the way we, or really, the way I
did. You were smart, all those years, keeping away and going on with your
life, doing that careful two-step you're good at when you want to avoid
involvement. I knew you'd be at Claire's party, and I knew you'd ignore
me, but it was still hard to see the expectation played out so literally.
And I deserve it. Always, I saw what happened in my life only in terms
of how it related to me. And then, once I had kids...it's so cliched, but
I suppose some cliches are that way because they're true...well, once I
had Benjy everything changed, and when I had Caitlin everything changed
yet again. Suddenly I wasn't so important to myself, And then when I got
sick everyone tried to convince me I was the most important person in the
universe again, that once you were sick everyone would have to clear a
path for you. They did, and I accepted it. So when I got sick again, Ben,
it was like that old mindset just returned and I couldn't see any solutions
other than the ones that would make me well again. I can't miss my kids
growing up, Ben, I want to be there for them. This is so unfair to them.
So this time, I promised myself I would get rid of this for good, one way
or the other I'd had enough of being sick, and since conventional medicine
had failed it was time to try something else. I know you don't believe
in it, that you think we're being swindled, but if you could be here, Ben...
you'd know this was right.
But
like I was saying, once I got sick again I panicked. It's worse once you've
gone through it, because you know what to anticipate, what to dread. The
light at the end of the tunnel seems that much further away the second
time around. And my first thought was: absolutely no. I was not going through
it a second time, exactly the same way, for just a two year reprieve. And
in the end, I woke up and I was here. I hardly remember anything up to
how I got here; it's like I was drifting through it all. But I did remember
some things clearly, like a snapshot in my mind I remember seeing you again.
I was staring over the balcony, knowing you and Mike were coming from the
ferry, and I felt queasy, though it wasn't related to being sick. I was
so nervous, and I felt a terrible sense of dread about what we were going
to ask you, and what I had to tell you. But then I closed my eyes and turned
around for just a second and there you were in my living room, and I thought
that not enough time had passed since the ferry had come in, that surely
I was imagining you. I've done that, sometimes, that's a secret, Ben. I've
had arguments with you in my mind, I've wished I had your clear reasoning
in more than one difficult place, and I've heard your voice telling me
things over the years, like a conscience I could actually visualize. And
then, there you were, and I thought I must have made it up, so I went in
to touch the hallucination and it was really you. What a shock, after so
much time, to be able to approach you without your drawing away, to put
my arms around you and not have you disappear. I suppose, in the great
scheme of things we can never really know if our decisions and choices
are the right ones; they can only be correct at the time that we make them.
I regret nothing; at the time I had to make my choices there was no big
cosmic book to consult. I... damn, I didn't want to go here, I didn't want
to do this. I should start this letter over. Fuck it. I put my arms around
you and when you were solid it was the biggest surprise in the world to
me, and if I'd ever missed you in my life I somehow missed you the most,
when you were right there with me.
I'm
not making any sense.
What
I wanted to say, Ben, is that you mean more to me than almost any other
human being on the face of this earth, and I have missed you terribly over
these years. I wished at one point that we had never been intimate, if
only so that I could have instead your friendship. I can't imagine how
different I would be today had it not been for our time together, but sometimes,
when I think of you, I think a lifetime of being your friend would have
meant more than a few weeks of being your love. That's not how it's supposed
to work; I'm supposed to say how I'd never trade those days for anything,
and that would be true except that there was no way of going back to how
we had been once those days were over. If anything, I regret that. And
I wanted to tell you that regardless of where my children come from, I
would have wanted no one else but you to watch out for them. There is no
one I trust more. I suppose that's small consolation for all you've done
for me and my family...but believe me, Ben, I feel more for you than I
could ever put on paper, and words could only cheapen it.
I
have to go now, Ben. I want this to go in today's mail with Benjy and Caitlin's
letters, so they don't think I've dropped off the face of the earth. I'll
write again when there's time, when I think I can say something useful.
I love you and I miss you, always.
Your
Lexa.
"What
do you mean, we don't share a room?"
"That's
how it works, Mr. Logan, that is how our program is set up."
"Then
what the hell did I come all the way out here for?"
The
nurse -- though to Mike's mind she resembled a tennis pro, all done up
in whites, tanned and professional, seeming like a health club expert imported
from Bally's -- clasped her hands in front of her waist patiently, letting
some of Mike's heat simmer out. "To be a support to your partner, Mr. Logan."
"How
the hell can I be a support to her if I can't even see her?"
She
laid a hand on his forearm and with that personal gesture he felt obligated
to read her nametag, a gold-plated shiny bar that read 'Rosa.' No last
name, nothing that intrusive for her, kind soldier in the battle for health.
Mike stared at her hand on his arm. "It will only be for the first week,
Mr. Logan. So that you may adjust separately, so that you may understand
what it is you wish to take away from our program."
Mike
began to feel snowed. Here, in the midst of all this heat and aridity,
he could imagine the snow falling and burying him under. It would cost
as much to be here for five weeks, for the both of them, as it would cost
to send one of their children to a university for a year. And for that
gigantic sum of money, their first order of business was to separate Mike
from Alexa, the woman he had not been separated from for more than a day
or two in ten years, and the second order of business was to have this
tennis pro-cum-Christian Scientist try to talk him down as if he was about
to jump from the roof. He began to wonder if they shouldn't just ask for
a refund. Technically, he had paid, he could demand the money and insist
Alexa be put up in a hospital in Tempe, which was the closert major city,
he could have her committed and forced to... Mike drifted, still staring
at the hand on his forearm. The simple fact was she wouldn't stay. No one
had ever been able to make Alexa remain in a place she did not want to
be, whether it was a hospital, Rochester, Manhattan, or a hansom carriage,
she fearlessly strode into the unknown, pig-headed always.
"What
do you mean?" he asked at last. "What I'm supposed to take away from the
program? I'm taking away a well wife, if your literature means anything,
that's what I'm taking."
"Please."
She guided him to the cabin's open porch and they stood outside, the warm
desert wind combing through Mike's hair like fingers. Rosa leaned against
the railing. "Everyone here," she explained, her soothing tones unabated
by Mike's instinctive East Side distrust, "comes for a purpose. You may
have come with your wife to see her get well, but that should not be your
only goal, Mr. Logan. Alexa's journey is very personal, very self-involved,
and she will not be able to do it entirely with -- or without -- you. She
is going to require space, time, and trust to overcome what is inside of
her. And you have to rely on our methods. This is what you have asked us
for by coming such a great distance."
"I
still don't see why I can't even see her for a week."
Rosa
nodded; Mike felt as if he was walking along prescribed dotted lines. All
of this had been asked before, and she was patiently giving him the routine.
And yet, she seemed sincere about it, even if he did expect her to start
asking him what crystals he wanted to wear at any moment. "In concrete
terms, Mr. Logan, your reunion in a week is a first, set goal to acheive.
Most everyone who comes to us is skeptical for one reason or the other;
if we told our patients and their spouses the first real goal was to be
able to crawl inside the heat and live there I imagine our success rate
would not be so high. You come from a world of steel and buildings and
brick and things that can be relied on for their presence, their molecular
purity. Coming out here, where all around you seems empty and the same
is a shock, so for the first week or so we are very conscious to keep the
goals, if not the environment, as sturdy and reliable as the beams in your
house at home. After the first week, there will be changes, but by then
you will be ready to embrace them. Out here our reliance is not on what
we can see, but what we feel, and how it affects us. We have homeopathic
medicines, but the change in any one patient begins inside, when they are
able to let go of the skyscrapers and automobiles and instead feel their
own heart beat, or their lungs breathe."
"You're
very good at this," Mike told her. "You've almost got me believing in this
junk."
"It
isn't junk, Mr. Logan," said Rosa. "Everyone who works here is proof it
works."
"I
don't understand."
She
reached in her shirt and withdrew a small round pendant hanging from a
thin chain. At first it seemed gold-plated, like her nametag, but when
Mike hefted it up he knew it weighed too much to be merely steel. On the
front of the medallion had been embossed a detailed drawing of a Greek
god.
"Phoebus
Apollo," she said gently. "God of healing. Turn it over."
On
the back was engraved a date without explanation: July 19, 1986. Mike let
the necklace fall, and met her gaze. "Ovarian," she said simply. "Metastized
and the doctors told me if we removed everything I might have a year. I
let them, six months later they found it in my large intestine. A friend
told me about this place, and I came out rather than pay for another operation.
That's the date I arrived, and three months later I accepted a job here,"
Her eyes gleamed with the fervor of the converted. "It does work, Mr. Logan.
Any time you find yourself doubting, ask any worker to see their necklace."
"It
helps the concrete lingerers, doesn't it," he stated.
"Yes,
it does."
Mike
gazed out over the dusty flatlands, the mountains at least twenty miles
in the distance but still visible. What was he doing here? Ever since their
plane had touched down he had felt in alien territory, all of this openness
clawing at him, making him feel unprotected. How was someone supposed to
hide from a perp if there were no corners or crevices? The car ride from
the airport had lasted over two hours and the further away from the city
they drove the more and more Mike had felt cut off. The driver had come
out from the facility to pick them up; for the next five weeks they would
be virtual prisoners, no driving, no leaving, no phone calls, no incoming
mail. The world might implode while they were away, and no one would think
to tell them. On the ride over he had taken Alexa's delicate hand in his
and held it, trying to get as well as give reassurance, but she had not
seemed to need it. Alexa had ridden with the window thrown wide and her
hair blowing in the current created by the car, her mouth slightly open
in awe. She never doubted this was right; she left it to Mike to doubt
for both of them. Two hours after starting from the airport a cluster of
cabins loomed ahead like a herd of buffalo, and not long after Mike spotted
them the car slowed to be allowed admittance past a white post fence gate,
placed there more for show than true security. As soon as they had arrived
on the porch of the main cabin a white-clad bellboy had swept up their
luggage and disappeared with it, a moment later a young white-clad woman
had swept up Alexa and disappeared with her. Then Rosa had emerged from
inside the main cabin and begun to speak with Mike, her voice soothing
and rhythmic, a Zen priestess with a Valley Girl cadence. She had been
hollowed out by doctors and still nothing had worked until she came here.
She had spoken of her illness with a frankness Mike knew he could never
have when discussing Alexa, and he wondered if by the time they left here
Alexa would be as direct as Rosa about being sick.
"So
what am I supposed to do for the first week, while she's out figuring her
purpose or whatever?"
The
corners of Rosa's mouth turned up slightly; apparently this had been the
right question to ask, even if he had laced his curiosity with skepticism.
"That is what you will have to find for yourself," she told him. "Your
own purpose. You are as ill as your wife, Mr. Logan, only you haven't been
diagnosed. They will never diagnose you. And yet, because you two are so
close and your bond is so strong, as long as she remains ill, so do you."
"Now
that really is new age crap." But Mike had felt a chill in his spine as
she spoke the words; bravado or no, he felt like a voodoo curse had come
over him. His joints ached suddenly.
"Not
all illnesses are physical," she told him, "and not all are in the mind.
Some are illnesses of the soul, of the spirit. Your life force."
"My
what?"
"Your
life force, Mr. Logan. It is possible to die inside before one dies outside.
Losing the vitality of your life source is as much a cancer as the kind
that kills the cells in your wife's body. Once you discover your purpose
here, you will be able to focus on getting well yourself, as much as your
wife. Once you are both healed, only then is it safe to believe all can
be well again. And you will find, Mr. Logan, that once you learn to heal
yourself, you will become much less angry."
Mike
flinched and frowned. "I'm not angry, I'm okay."
"Oh,
but you are," she told him, and the chill ran down his spine again. "I
don't know at what, but you are very, very angry."
Mike
decided an argument like this could become a self-fulfilling prophecy,
and dropped the matter. "When do I get to see my cabin?"
"Right
this way," she gestured.
They
were true to their word. Mike did not see Alexa for the first seven days.
At first, he had thought he would catch her in passing, outside in the
desert, having lunch in the cafeteria, taking a book from the library,
getting a massage in the physical therapy room. But not once, not even
a passing glimpse. And the absence of her panicked him. The bed was too
big, and with only Mike's body in it he had bad flashes of the nights she
spent in the hospital in Rochester. He was unaccustomed to so much silence
-- Mike tried on several occasions to engage another patient or worker
in dialogue and after a few moments their calm serenity would unnerve him
to where he had to make an excuse and get away. Everyone acted as if they
had been given a massive dose of Prozac -- or a lobotomy -- and he was
left with no one to talk to and no one he cared to be with. On the first
day or so he had accepted not seeing her, still trying to catch a quick
glance, but over the next few days, after talking with some of the other
patients, finding her had become a priority. What if she turned out like
one of those lobotomized Buddhas?
The
days dragged on, each one just like the other, warm, dry, endless dust
and insects. Mike would wake up in a light sweat -- the air conditioners
were turned down or off at night -- feeling tired even as he shuddered
awake, he would poke through the facility, trying to find someone like
himself, someone who asked questions and doubted (because after five or
six days of unremitting kindness his own sanity had been added to Mike's
list of doubts) and who wanted nothing more than to get out of here. He
ate more than he should have; as a non-food-restrictred patient he was
allowed whatever he liked to eat. The chefs were constantly in kitchen
and would make meals on request, so he would eat at all hours and retreat
to his cabin with several books, reading until he fell asleep again. Whole
days passed and he would not say more than a few words to anyone. He felt
himself sliding, without purpose, without anything to latch onto, and just
before he fell asleep on the night of the seventh day he caught his face
in the mirror and winced. He had aged in just a week, he looked at least
five years older than when he arrived. His skin looked party, his beard
was half-hearted and neglected (Mike hadn't seen much point in shaving
since they arrived), and he felt bloated. He might be the only person who
ever came to this place and emerged worse off than before.
But
the morning of the eighth day he rose into the hot, bleary morning with
a grin on his face, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, instantly
cheered. Today was the first goal reached, the first week done with, today
he would see his Alexa again and get back on track with her. No more of
this lazing around, they would be the unit they were before, and they would
push forward together. He spent a great deal of time and care showering
that morning, shaving off his week's growth of beard, dressing with care
as if preparing for a date. He skipped breakfast, wondering if they would
come to him or bring him to her in time to eat together, but ten, eleven
came and went and though he had been ready for hours there was no sign
that anyone at all was coming to him. Perhaps he had missed some notice
or was expected to meet her in the common area of the main cabin. Mike
headed out, leaving a note on his bed in case she arrived in his absence,
and trotted into the lobby where Rosa had met him a week ago, only to find
it empty. He strode over to the check-in desk and asked where Rosa was.
The
clerk -- Mike checked out his name tag -- was named Erik. "Is she your
counselor?"
Mike
frowned. "I don't know. She just showed me around the first day I got here."
"Which
was when?"
Mike
gave him his name and the date they had arrived. Erik typed a few names
into the computer and asked Mike to have a seat; they would send Rosa out
to speak with him.
Anxiously,
Mike lowered himself into the bamboo-framed couch in the center of the
room and scanned the room for any movement at all. Ten minutes passed,
then a half hour, and just as he was planning to go throttle Erik, Rosa
emerged from a back office and strode over to him. "Mr. Logan," she said
genially. "We've missed you this week."
Mike
lowered at her. "I've been right here."
"Oh,
no, I meant in our discussion groups. The pamphlet I gave you. We were
hoping you'd join us, establish some structure."
Mike
vaguely remembered being handed a stack of reading materials when Rosa
showed him his cabin. He had tossed them in a drawer and forgotten about
them until now. "Was I supposed to go?"
"Only
if you wanted. We let everyone choose their own direction. Many patients
choose not to participate, and that's valid, too."
Mike
shook his head, trying to clear it. Again, she was steering him from the
subject. "Where is Alexa? You said a week. I want to see her."
Rosa
sighed and gestured for him to follow her onto the porch. Once there, she
told him, "I'm afraid that's not possible."
Mike's
throat caught. Over the past week had had nightmares of her waking up with
low white cells and needing him, needing her yellow pills, and having these
non-doctors not know what to do. If she had -- if she was -- he could not
bring himself to complete the thought. "Why the hell not," he demanded.
"She
doesn't want to see you."
Mike's
throat closed. "Bullshit."
"It
is true."
"I
want to hear it from her."
"That
would be pointless. And frankly, Mr. Logan, I have to agree with her. You're
in no condition to be of any help to anyone right now."
"I
want to see my wife, Rosa, I want you to take me to her now."
"Please,
Mr. Logan. There is no need to be angry with me. This is Alexa's decision.
To be fair, I do believe there is nothing personal in it, only a need for
her to avoid backsliding. She's doing very well so far."
Mike's
mind raced. "You mean to tell me you asked her this morning if she cared
to see me again, after a whole week has gone by without one single word,
and she told you no?"
"Yes.
And she's being very sensible about it. Mr. Logan, look at yourself. You've
made no effort whatsoever to participate in the program which is trying
to cure her. I did my best to explain to you the philosophy of what we
were doing here on that first day you arrived, I tried to explain that
you are as much a part of her cure as she is. And yet we have not seen
you in meetings, in one-on-one discussion, you have not attempted to visit
our nutritionist to have a regulated diet plan..." Her smoothness slipped
a moment and he almost thought she would start weeping in frustration right
there. "You've been in the middle of the desert for a week, Mr. Logan,
and you're still pale as a sheet. No wonder Alexa's not feeling any need
to see you right now. You've become dead weight for her."
"You
brainwashed her," he spat. "You convinced her to keep away."
"I'm
sorry you believe that. It isn't true." Rosa clasped her hands in front
of her. "We're not a cult, Mr. Logan. There is no religion here, at least
no religion we impose. But Alexa needs you to believe in us, she needs
you to abandon your cynicsm and join in. She may get better without your
help, but don't you feel how much easier it would be if she had a boost
from you?"
"I've
always been there for her," he whispered, resting his hands on the porch
railing, staring out at the orange sand. "I've helped in every way I know
how."
"So
try some you don't know," said Rosa.
Mike
turned his head to her, Alexa's refusal to see him cut deeply, and he was
very concerned she had become one of the lobotomized ghosts that roamed
the floor. But clearly they weren't going to let him see her until he agreed
to play their game, or at least put on a good show of playing it. No doubt
there was something illegal about all of this, but Mike knew he was in
their territory. He could not arrest anyone out here; outside of Manhattan
he was powerless. Here they were in charge. "Will you...show me what I
need to do?" he asked her finally.
Rosa
nodded. "I will show you how to begin."