November 17th
He's back in her life. And yet . . . he isn't.
Greg opens the door to her apartment with his old set of keys, which means he can claim he didn't break in. He's planned this for a couple of weeks now—to arrive early for a session and slip upstairs while she's with her prior appointment. There are things her personal space can tell him that he won't get from conversation with her. She's talking to him, but still buttoned up inside. He wants to know what she's feeling, how she's handling things. This little bit of exploration should give him some clues.
The first thing he sees is a glass of wine on the stand by her favorite chair, in the terrace. It's half-empty, and sits next to her personal tablet. He limps over, boots it up. The battery is low, but there's enough juice to show him she's been listening to Spotify. First album on the list: Back to Black. "Shit," he mutters, and glares at the glass of wine.
The kitchen is neat and tidy, as always. But there's nothing out on the counter—no bowl of fruit, no flowers. And the breadbox holds only half a loaf of sourdough, stale and dry. The fridge is in a similar state—basics and little else. It's a major warning sign, he knows that. In growing apprehension he moves out into the hallway.
He hesitates for a moment before he goes into her bedroom—not out of fear, but because of the memories that crowd in whether he wants them to or not: Dana in the soft golden light, her face lifted to his . . . the quiet talk after making love, settling into sleep . . . Greg closes his eyes for a moment, then continues.
She's not shacking up with anyone else, that much is clear. He didn't think she was, anyway. He's not here to check on her fidelity, it was never in question. And even on some remote chance she had taken someone else to her bed, he wouldn't blame her . . . though of course he'd have to find her partner and rip them limb from limb.
The nightstand has her meds and a carafe of water. Anti-depressants, over the counter sleeping pills, an herbal supplement—rhodiola. The official prescription has several refills listed on the label. He wonders who she's seeing for her own therapy—something else he should check into. He picks up the bottle, shakes it; about half full. From the date on the last fill, she's been taking it per instructions. With care he sets the bottle down and looks up, to find Gardener in the doorway watching him.
"It's time for your session," she says in her quiet way, and then she leaves him there. Greg stares at her retreating figure. He'd expected more emotion, more . . . something. But the clinical depression she's struggling against has taken its toll. After a few moments he follows her.
The office is warm and comfortable, as always; his seat is at the right height for him to transfer easily from the wheelchair, and hot coffee's available. Gardener is meticulous about making sure her patients are at ease. Greg settles in and watches Gardener. She looks back at him, her expression calm, even neutral. So the fortress is still locked up tight with sentries posted every ten feet, good to know.
"Nothing to say about discovering me in your boudoir." He tastes the coffee. It's excellent, of course. It wouldn't dare to be anything else.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
He cradles his cup. "You're taking ADs."
She nods, apparently unconcerned. "You knew that already."
"Drinking in the evenings, listening to Amy Winehouse. That's so 2006."
"I usually have a glass of red after supper. As for the music, Amy's always been on my list."
"But bumped to the top now." He eases his weight to his left hip. "Breakup music, I'm betting."
Gardener tilts her head. She regards him for a few moments, her expression impassive, assessing—the consummate professional shrink. "You could have just asked me about all of this, you know."
"And be told you're fine, you're coping, you're taking it one day at a time—all the usual bullshit." Greg leans forward a little and gives her the eyes-wide, intense look that works on almost everyone else. It's a long shot, but worth a try. "I hurt you badly, but I can't make things right if you won't open up to me."
She doesn't answer right away. "I'm not fine. But I am coping, and taking it one day at a time. That's all I can do. What I'd like to know is how you're handling this."
"You're—you're not fine." Somehow, to hear her say it brings it home in a way he never anticipated, though of course he's known this intellectually for some time now. His heart lurches at the simplicity of the words. "Gardener, what—"
"This is your session, Greg. Not mine." She says it gently, but he feels the iron hidden under the velvet. "Please tell me how you're doing."
"I'd be a lot better if you'd explain what you mean by 'I'm not fine.'" He sets his coffee aside. "Come on, truth or dare."
She looks down at her own cup. "No." It's so soft he can barely hear her. "Don't ask again."
He's silent, shocked at the tiny glimpse she's afforded him of the immense pain she lives in every day—caused by him. They sit there in silence, she on her side of things, he on his.
"'kay," he says at last, and they begin an hour of what amounts to nothing, from his point of view at least.
Later, when he's back in Princeton and ensconced on the couch, with a bowl of curry and a cold beer at the ready, he can't concentrate on the local news. He doesn't give a shit about the inevitable downward spiral of the government, the state of the weather, even sports. With a silent sigh he switches off the channel and pulls up Spotify. It's the work of a few moments to find the album and the track at the head of Gardener's list.
As the song plays he thinks of her looking out over the Philly skyline, a view they'd shared many times, glass of wine in hand as Amy sings softly in the deep silence. Later Dana will go through the quiet hallways to her bedroom, and follow her daily routine: clothes removed and sorted for the weekend wash, makeup off, teeth brushed, meds taken, then into bed with a book her only company. That's wrong in so many ways he can't begin to count them. She should be with him, settled in at his side. He needs her strength and warmth, but she needs him too—a crazy-ass idea, but it's true all the same.
Somehow he has to find a way to fill that empty place for both of them. But until she gives him more to work with, he's stuck where he is. And so is she.
self-professed, profound
til the chips were down
though you're a gambling man
love is a losing hand
'Love Is A Losing Game,' Amy Winehouse