Body Language Read online

  I eventually did have friends. By the time I'd begun coming out of my shell, I was graduating from high school at sixteen and had been accepted to a prestigious university. College gave me the opportunity to work on my social issues. College: so full of lovers and the drama that came with them. Graduate school was a much more tame experience, thankfully. I couldn't have finished with honors if I'd had the same distractions. There had been no lovers, no games, just a mountain of books and an intellectual hunger for the summit to serve for a grappling hook.

  My life is furnished modestly with the essential people: my mom, my sister, and a few colleagues. I have more acquaintances than friends. It's hard to tell at what point an acquaintance transitions to something deeper. One thing is for sure, after it's been crossed, there's a warmth to validate the metamorphosis.

  I hadn't experienced that yet as an adult, not at the intensity level I'd known in my teenage years. Not seeking it had allowed me to concentrate, but as I lie on the naked floorboards of my office, the ruler by which I had measured my success lengthens and I feel regret. No longer is my graduation at the end of the spectrum. The two letters before my name are at the zero mark. I long for someone to celebrate with, a friend to have drinks with, but I can't think of a single soul with whom I could sit in a bar and feel comfortable. My sister is just about the only person that comes to mind, but a sister—even your twin sister—is not the same thing as a buddy.

  There's a knock at the door and I jump to my feet. Brushing myself off, I let the movers in. Between the two of them, they're carrying a long, leather chaise. They rotate between their three crew members with the carrying, with one man always staying by the truck to watch the load. I review my checklist as they work.

  Leather chaise.

  My desk.

  My comfy executive chair.

  Three eight-foot, glass-front bookcases.

  One small bookcase.

  A short filing cabinet.

  A high-pile, beige, mansion-size rug.

  Television with high-def sound-bar.

  Television stand.

  Coffee table.

  Seven large boxes. Those have my books in them.

  Five medium boxes. Those have my instruments, models, paintings, small electronics and baubles.

  Last, but not least, is a small box reserved solely for my coffee machine, teapot, cups and saucers. I have a French-press for the house, but when I'm at work, a coffee machine is best for the sake of cleanliness and speed. I anticipate that I'll be spending a lot of time here, but it's necessary and worth it in the long-run.

  For an hour, I push my desk around until I have the sun exposure I want. I tuck the chair in behind it and plug in my desk lamp. The movers were nice enough to put my bookcases in their proper places. Those things are beastly to move. I spread the rug in front of the desk, setting the chaise and my cushy session chair opposing it. Though my books aren't unpacked yet, it feels like an office. Outside, the sky is going dark and I am exhausted. I smile at my clear view of the sunset through the window.

  Today was a good day to start the rest of my life.

  (Carmen)

  I take a deep breath, standing under the flickering halogen bulbs. The mats smell like sour straw. The mirror I look into is scratched up, but it's an empty room and private, the only studio in Beaverton with those features. I grew up in Portland and moved to Beaverton after the incident. I started dancing when I was twelve and later attended the University of Oregon, graduating from their dance program. I still take private lessons locally from time to time. Twelve-years-old seems so long ago. That makes this my fourteenth year dancing.

  Has it already been so long? I look into the decaying mirrors and heave a sigh. I shouldn't, but I feel old. I stretch out and that doesn't seem to help matters. My back pops as I sit with my legs parallel to the floor and bend all the way over and touch my forehead to my knees. That's not a comforting sound. I switch to splits, right, left, and center. That doesn't feel too great. I wonder how I got so stiff in such a short time. I do a barre stretch. Lifting each leg, I press my calves to the wall and touch my forehead to my shins. Saddle stretches. Christ almighty. I let my legs go and lunge a dozen times.

  The moment for ultimate focus arrives.

  Okay Carmen, time to pick up where we left off, I think to myself.

  I shift en pointe and pirouette. I feel the old familiar sting in the arches of my feet and my toes burn. My ankles are a little shaky. Hell.

  I shift to my old practice routine. In my head, I count off each position.

  First, second, third, fourth, fifth. Just for good measure I go through the postures: ecarté, effacé, a la quatrieme derriere, croisé derriére.

  Repeat.

  Repetition and practice is the key when it comes to dance.

  People labor under the misconception that you can be done learning to dance, but there is no end. This is especially true for a ballet dancer, who can always be more flexible, more driven, and more graceful. Any form of dance takes a deep wellspring of patience. I haven't reached the bottom yet. Will I? Who knows?

  I can't help but wonder what I'll do if I ever get there. Quit dancing? Technically, I gave it up after the abduction. I threw all my shoes in the garbage, which was stupid because three months ago I had to go out and buy new ones. Patience hadn't been the issue that time, of course. I was just depressed. I still am. I blamed my urge to dance for putting me in the spotlight, but I chose to dance just like my abductor chose to abduct me.

  In many ways, part of me is still tied down to that table in that dark room, but like any passionate spirit that lives deep within a person, the dancer in me begged to be revived. I think my breaking point was the day I walked into a grocery store to ask for an application. The clerk looked like a zombie with black circles under her dull eyes.

  I thought, with horror, I could be her. I remember the wave of nausea that rolled over me. I thought, 'There is no way I studied for over a decade, broke my feet, lost out on social opportunities, and memorized a thousand positions with French names just to stand behind a register and wait for my body to die.'

  I can't consign myself to working a menial job. Dancing feels like the only thing I'm meant to do—but I can't imagine being exposed again, not like before. Even though it was almost a year ago, even though that lunatic is behind bars, fear is holding me back from jumping into a lead role again. I wonder if I'll ever return there, to that place where I once felt free.

  I cycle through the routine until I lose count of how many times I've done it. Everything hurts. That means I'm on the right track. I sit on the floor. I've let myself go too long without practice. Today's session proves that I probably won't be putting on that silver crown anytime soon.

  Sweating and aching, I lie down on the ugly mats and look up at the water-damaged ceiling panels. The lights sizzle, blink. I let my eyes float closed.

  I mentally work through what I remember of Frederico's Swan Lake choreography. In my head, I'm there again in the spotlight reaching out for my Siegfried, balanced perfectly. Before our fingertips can touch, the entire room is enveloped in blackness except for me, Odette, standing at center-stage, unmoving in the silence.

  “So beautiful,” I can hear him saying. It's his voice. For a moment I'm paralyzed, but I break the dream fast, sitting upright in the studio. Tears cloud my eyes. I bury my face in my hands. My breathing is labored. The cuts are long gone, but the sting returns in the wake of my panic.

  I hear my own pleas echoing in my head. Don't come back. I can't take it again. I can't take your hands on me.

  (Jacob)

  Triumphantly, I slide the last of my books on the shelf. I probably should have been preparing for my first patient, but I did finish setting up for my office. That has to count for something, right? My professor's sister-in-law is a psychiatrist in town and has referred a woman to me with elective mutism. I thumb through one of my older manuals, resorting finally to my notes.

  Elective Mutism
.

  - Most prevalent at young ages.

  - Refusal to speak in social situations.

  - Recommended treatment: for social anxiety disorder. Med: Fluxotine.

  - See—Journal of the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, Vol. 33, Iss. 7.

  Wow, really? That's all I have on it?

  I shake my head. Now is not the time to find out I'm completely clueless when it comes to treating my first patient's disorder. I slap my notebook shut and lean back in my chair. I check the clock. I have an hour. One hour to figure out my first course of action.

  I chew on my bottom lip and begin searching the Internet for recent journals. Over the next half-hour, I come to find out there isn't a lot known about the disorder, besides that it's a social anxiety issue—which I already know. Fluxotine is good for treating some of the symptoms, but symptoms and causes are not the same thing.

  A knock at the door interrupts my train of thought. I stand, dust off my blazer, and go to answer it. I don't have a secretary yet, but I don't mind showing my clients in myself.

  When the door swings open, I'm struck by the woman standing there. The first thing I see is her eyes. They're intense, brown, but they turn gold in the light. They look directly into mine. I feel them boring into me. By God, she's intimidating.

  “You must be Ms. Andrews,” I say, moving aside so she can enter. Immediately my brain creates a catalog of traits, movements, gestures. She looks around the office and casually takes the leather chaise. I take a few strides toward her and sit in the opposite chair. She's still nailing me with her gaze.

  “I'm Dr. Weller. I'm sure Dr. Fishel told you all about me,” I say, holding out my hand. She gives it a wary look, like she doesn't trust it. I withdraw it and shift uncomfortably in my chair.

  “Dr. Fishel sent me a basic report about your case. I have to say you're an unusual one.” She tips her head, quirking an eyebrow. “Maybe 'unusual' is the wrong term. I meant that you're unique.” I wonder if she'll speak, but she just looks at me. I sit forward, leaning on my knees. “Can I be perfectly honest with you?”

  She doesn't protest, so I take that as a yes.

  “I have no idea how to treat your case.” I can't help but smile. I feel... completely dumb. “I think doctors like to act like they know everything. I've never been like that. With medicine, there's not always a right or wrong answer. There's a lot of gray area. What works for some might not work for you.”

  She's a brick wall, albeit a relaxed one. She doesn't appear to have a single problem with not speaking to me.

  “I'm going to make some coffee,” I declare, moving to the machine. “It's my inaugural cup.” I smile back at her over my shoulder. She's just as steel-faced as ever. “Do you want some?” She checks her watch.

  I brew four cups and pour two. I keep a package of cookies in the cabinet, just in case I get hungry or I have a snacky kid in the office. I set one on each saucer along with her mug and serve. I set mine on the table and hold hers out. She gives my offering a questioning look, but she takes the cup from me, and sniffs the coffee.

  Sipping my own I sit back in my chair and watch her drink from the cup. It must be the way she likes it, which is the same way I like it—strong-brewed dark-roast with two sugars and one cream.

  I wonder if she's had coffee with a friend since the incident. Not speaking to people must put a damper on one's social life. I wonder how many times she has wanted to say yes and instead said nothing. I might be fabricating in the end, but that's a curse that comes with my nature. I'm inquisitive and in the absence of answers, I attempt to fill in the gaps.

  It's like I've discovered the ape-man buried in a remote jungle. I just know somewhere in her mind is a lock securing every frustration, every secret. If I can't find the key to that lock, I'm determined to break it off.

  One day, I want to be able to say I was the one who taught her to release it all. I want to be the one who helped her say 'yes' again.

  We're both quiet as we sip our coffee. She crunches into the biscotti.

  “It's good, isn't it?” I say, biting off half of my piece. “The British have it right. Well, they don't drink coffee, they drink tea, but the idea is the same.”

  She sets down her empty cup. I finish my drink quickly and take the dishes to the coffee station. The clock on the wall tells me it's been half an hour. I thought time was supposed to pass slower when it's quiet.

  I return to my seat. This is awkward, to say the least. I can see why Fishel had referred her to me. What I can't understand is why she thought I could do a better job. I think of my unhelpful notes. What would I do if she were an adolescent patient?

  “I've got an idea,” I say, getting up and going back behind my desk. “Do you like to draw?” I ask her. She looks puzzled by the question. I don't wait long for an answer, but instead pull out a box of colored pencils and two pads of blank paper. I bought them for making diagrams, but they'll do well as a way to start her treatment.

  I set one pad in front of her and keep one for myself, opening the box of colored pencils.

  “I want you to draw the best dog you can,” I instruct. She shakes her head and stands. “No, no. Don't go. I promise that if you draw this dog and you still want to leave, you can go.”

  She looks down at each pad of paper in turn. Warily, she sits again and takes a brown pencil from the box. She gives me another skeptical look, like I'm totally insane, but takes the pad into her lap.

  “I have this theory,” I say, as I begin drawing my dog's eyes. “You've been in therapy for seven months and nothing Dr. Fishel did worked, am I right?” I check her face for a response, but she's absorbed in drawing. She's biting back her full bottom lip in concentration. “I think she made the mistake of treating you like every other patient. That means she wanted you to do all the talking.”

  When I check again, she's still not looking at me, but her shoulders are relaxed. She's cozied up in the chair, her pencil tip sketching fast on the pad.

  “I think she started in the wrong place. You can't expect someone who doesn't talk to spill her guts. That doesn't seem to make much sense to me,” I reason, finishing my dog's face and beginning on its ears. She interrupts my train of thought, holding out the pad. Her sketch is pretty good, demonstrating a reasonable amount of technical skill. It doesn't surprise me all that much. Anybody who spends a lot of time in their own head is liable to develop sharp visualization skills. I take the pad from her.

  “This is good. Does he have a name?” I ask, breaking the quiet. I wait for her to react, to get up and leave, but she stays still. Her arms and legs are resting comfortably. She doesn't show any signs of wanting to depart. She holds out her hand and I give her the pad. She writes something and hands it back. I laugh. Under the dog, in a pretty fluid script, she's written, 'Weller'.

  “That's hilarious,” I say, in between my snickering. “You're funny, you know?”

  For just a moment, I swear that the corner of her mouth kicked up and I know. Even if she didn't smile, even if I imagined the whole thing...I think I've hit on something. I'm on the way to 'yes'.

  She shuffles in her chair, tucking her fingers under her knees. In the absence of speech, my brain is hearing every little move she makes. Her feet shuffling sounds like a boulder sliding over the ground. When I catch her eyes, her sight weighs heavily on me. She's watching the cogs turn in my head. It would be more fitting if there were a chess board between us and I were contemplating my next move.

  “Do you want to do another one?” I ask, sliding the pad back to her. She looks down at Weller the dog and picks him up. I'm beyond pleased. That she hasn't gone means that she might be enjoying herself. “Try a cat this time.”

  For twenty minutes, she scratches on the paper. I'm only half paying attention to my own drawing. While she's scribbling, I start to make notes.

  - Inquisitive

  - Creative

  - Mentally isolated

  - Exhibits interest in treatme
nt

  - Physically—no swelling at throat, mild visible scarring

  - No scarring on face

  - Full lips

  I halt my pencil. That last one wasn't necessary. Full lips. When I no longer hear her scratching, I look up to find her watching me.

  “Did you finish?” I ask. She hands me the pad. A big orange cat with emerald eyes looks back. “Very nice,” I remark. I check my watch. “I think our time is almost up.” She nods, standing to her feet.

  I reach my hand out for a handshake. She blinks at it, and goes toward the door instead. I sprint ahead a few steps and catch the door for her.

  “I'll schedule you for next week, same time!” I call out to her. She stops at the elevator, but doesn't look back. Realizing it's a bit creepy to watch her, I shut the door.

  What a singular woman.

  I go back to my desk with the two pads. My unfinished dog looks sad. I tuck the drawings into her thin file. I rest my chin on my hand, looking at the notes. Every time I get to the end of the list, I see Full lips.

  My phone rings. The caller ID says it's my sister.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.” Her voice is shaking. Bad sign. “Jake, you might want to sit down.” My heart sinks.

  “What's wrong? Is mom okay?” God, please no. Don't let it be mom.

  “Mom's fine...” she begins. She's hesitating. Why is she hesitating? “It's Janelle,” she says. “She died last night.”

  My hand clamps over my mouth. My brain immediately goes in a thousand directions.

  Janelle Stewart was my first love. Her blonde hair and hazel eyes flash into my mind. She always had such a radiant smile. We dated first in high school, but eventually went our separate ways when college began. We picked up again last year, just to see where things might go, but college and responsibilities always seemed to get in the way. We broke up amicably and we are still friends. Well... we were. I didn't expect to feel like this. Maybe it's the suddenness of it all. Perhaps it's because when I saw her last she was drinking beer and singing karaoke, and telling stories about how she wanted to start her own dog-grooming business. She was, truthfully, one of the sweetest people I've ever known.