October 12th

It is the end of Greg's last session with the House whisperer. The past five hours spent with her have been games from start to finish, mainly for his amusement. It's been quite an interesting experience, at least for him. Undoubtedly for Goldman, it's been hell. He's seen the frustration and annoyance, carefully masked but still there. So she's just like everyone else now, fed up with his antics but better able to hide it and tell him lies about how much she cares and wants him to find healing, blah blah. No surprises there; everyone gets sick of him eventually. He just makes sure it happens sooner rather than later, to save both them and him some time.

He walked in ten minutes past his start time for this last hour together to find a complete change of scenery in her office. Gone are the bland colors, the cool, static neutrality of simple lines. The walls are now a soft cornflower blue, the trim around doors and windows creamy white; the smell of fresh paint still lingers. Images from the Hubble telescope hang in place of the botanical prints. A wandering-jew plant graces a corner of her desk, and a woven-reed bowl filled with apples sits on a low table beside his chair, along with the inevitable box of tissues. Pottery lamps with simple paper shades shed mellow light here and there, and help dispel the grey day outside. Classical music plays quietly from a small radio placed atop a corner bookshelf. The Martin six-string stands in its case propped against the shelves. The atmosphere is no longer clinical; it's comfortable and welcoming. She's brought the ease of her home in the country to her practice in town.

The office isn't the only makeover. Sarah wears a thick cable-knit sweater of teal blue and a pair of rust-brown slacks, her auburn hair tied back with a leather thong. It's a huge change from her usual workplace camouflage, and the difference is amazing. She looks vibrant and alive and open, and her natural beauty, outer and inner, shines through; he's reminded that he's come to like her very much despite his best efforts to the contrary. He wishes she hadn't done any of this. It will make his plan that much harder to enact.

"When you pointed out how I avoided my emotions during the Saturday night session, it got me thinking," she says as he wanders behind her desk to inspect the Hubble photographs. "I've hidden too much of myself away, especially here at work. So I decided to give being the real me a try." She smiles at him. "Thanks for what you said. I appreciate your honesty." She gestures around the room. "What do you think?"

I'm thinking you're not quite sure of my reaction so you're a little nervous. Good to know. Greg stops in front of a picture of a nebula. It looks like a butterfly, fragile and bright-winged. "You're telling me maintenance did all this in two days and Admin's okay with it . . . don't think so. Substantial bribes or offers of sex were exchanged, no doubt."

"Gene and I worked up everything ourselves. We both took a personal day Monday and spent it in here," she says. "A friend of mine at the Goddard lab in Maryland sent me the images. Everything else is stuff from our apartment, with a trip to the thrift store for the lamps and the bookshelf. It was kinda fun, actually. The place looks better, don't you think?"

An open bid for compliments—she really does feel insecure. Good, all the better for what he's about to do. He gives the nebula a final glance. "That one's upside down," he says, and limps to his seat.

So he's acted like an absolute ass for their final hour together. He has mocked her, made fun of her process, reminded her of her country-bumpkin background and abusive childhood, needled her about her physical faults. Throughout he's watched her closely for any sign of weakness—unshed tears, trembling hands, hesitant speech, but he gets nothing at all. Sarah is as impassive and cool as she was during their first sessions together. She fields his cruelty with calm, insightful questions that make him flinch. She neither talks down to him nor gives him false encouragement. She treats him with respect despite everything he throws at her, and it makes him ashamed of himself. Anyway, he should have known she would anticipate his plan to some extent; she's not an idiot.

Still, at the end of their time he says "You owe me a song." When she rises to get the guitar he sits back and rubs his aching thigh. It hurts like hell today and he's got nothing to fight it with until afternoon meds. A Tylenol 3 won't touch this pain; might as well lob a ping-pong ball at an armored tank. "Uh uh. Not here. I want you to sing to me in the common room."

She hesitates; now her insecurity is revealed. He sees it and waits for a sense of triumph to manifest, but all he feels is guilt, and an odd sense of sadness. "Okay," she says. She takes up the Martin and goes to the door. He limps after her, shoves away reluctance with determination. He has to do this, it's simple self-preservation.

Ten minutes later they sit in the common room. There are patients grouped around them as they wait for her to begin. He sits in front of her, sprawled in a chair with arms folded as she tunes the guitar with care. When she's finished she sits very straight, and holds the instrument in her small hands. For the first time Greg sees that while Sarah is not pretty in a conventional sense, she's beautiful. The teal sweater brings out the luminous quality of her creamy skin, and intensifies the green of her eyes; her auburn curls spark and glitter in the morning sunshine.

"Greg asked me to sing a song about how I'm feeling right now," she says. "I've chosen one, but it needs some explanation first.

"When I was a teenager I was sent to live with my grandma Corbett. She was very strict and had a lot of rules. Sometimes I broke those rules on purpose." She smiles a little at the giggles and comments this confession brings, and waits for everyone to have their say before she continues. "My punishment was to sleep on the front porch. In the summertime it wasn't so bad, but when the cold came on, it was tough. Oklahoma doesn't have a lot of snow in the wintertime like we do here, but it does get very chilly and windy, and sometimes there are bad ice storms. I have a hard time with cold weather because of those old memories. Winter scares me deep inside. I always wish I could fly away before the first snowflakes fall. Someone wrote a song about that feeling. I'm going to sing it for you now."

She picks the opening chord and begins Joni Mitchell's 'Urge for Going'. She's moved it into a lower key to accommodate her clear, gentle alto voice. Greg listens to her sing. As the song unwinds, in his mind's eye he sees a young girl curled up on an old broken couch in an unheated closed-in porch; she shivers under a thin blanket as the wind whines and scratches at the rusty screens. I hope it was a closed porch, he thinks. He cannot bear the idea of her left out in the open on a January night. The memory of dry dead leaves against his bare skin flashes through his mind.

see the geese in chevron flight

flappin' and a-racin' on before the snow

they got the urge for going

and they got the wings so they can go

At the end there's a little scatter of applause. A few people come up to touch the guitar or chatter at Sarah. She deals with them the same way she does him: she offers respect, humor and patience. Eventually everyone wanders off to watch tv or play a game. Then he's alone with her, and it's time for the endgame to put paid to this ridiculous attempt at an offer of help.

"So let me get this straight," Greg says finally. "You hate winter, so you and the pirate bought a place in upstate New York. And that's where you're gonna retire." He shakes his head. "You're both idiots."

"I don't want this fear to rule me any longer," Sarah says. "I made a promise to Gene to build a snowman with him." She stops. A wry smile curves her lips. "That sounds so stupid when I say it out loud."

"Jesus." Greg passes a hand over his eyes. "My blood sugar's climbing by the second. You think you have to work on every single fucking character flaw you own or something."

"I'm not looking for perfection," she says. "You're the one with that particular obsession." She tilts her head a little, just looks at him. "So? You want to give this a go?"

After everything he's put her through, she still wants to work with him. He was right: she's an idiot. And here it is, the moment he's worked for. Greg leans back in his hard, uncomfortable chair and gives her a cold stare. He fights the urge to rub his thigh, and curls his toes inside his shoe instead.

"Apologize," he says, and draws out the word to savor it. "Make it sincere and original. This will count for eighty per cent of your final grade. Offers of oral sex will be taken into consideration, but you can just show me your tits if you're not feeling ambitious."

Sarah sits there. He watches as the hope fades from her expression. When he says nothing more she gets to her feet, cradles the guitar in her arms. After a moment she says "I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I'm sorry I let you down. I'll get you a referral by the end of lunch today, you have my promise." She pauses. "Good luck with the surgery, Greg. I hope you find healing." For the first time he sees her eyes glitter with tears—they are for him, not her. "Please take care of yourself," she says softly, and walks away. She doesn't look back.

He spends the rest of the day at the window, and stares out at the cloudy skies and spatters of rain on glass. At some point he sees Sarah leave for the day. She walks down the path to the parking lot, her bright head bent under the rain and wind; her shoulders droop a little, but she keeps on until she reaches the drab minivan, gets in, and leaves.

That night he dreams of the house in New York, and the music and laughter fills the rooms like the golden light of the lamps, warm and kind. He wakes with tears in his eyes, damn tears, and he hates it, hates himself for his weakness. He lies there in the darkness and longs for what he can never have, a real home, a lover who knows him, friends he can trust. It hurts almost as much as his thigh, but he has to face it. It's the reality of his life, always has been, always will be. Any attempt to find healing here was the real joke, not that stupid journal he made up to mock his shrink. He'll never do anything like this again. From now on he'll either cope or crash and burn.

The next day he signs out and walks with Wilson down the path to the parking lot and the Volvo station wagon, and this time he's the one who doesn't look back.

'Urge For Going,' Joni Mitchell