Detail of an illustration for the print version of Tish Cohen's story prepared by Neal Cresswell
In the third of a series of stories for the summer, Tish Cohen tells the story of a socially challenged librarian who looks for love in the wrong place: her therapist's office
* * * * *
Miriam Grey sits across from the doctor and fingers the envelope in her lap, wishing she hadn't sprayed it with scent. It was an impulsive choice, one she blames entirely on the miracle that is a fresh Toronto morning in June. That pink-cheeked, neonatal breeze coming through her window earlier - all slapped and sponged down and bawling with life - had distracted her from her plan.
Dr. Stafford yawns into his hand. His glasses, not much bigger than his pupils, appear almost homemade. She's been staring through them once a week for more than two years - how has it escaped her notice that his spectacles might have been fashioned from the wire twisted off a champagne bottle? A rush of charmed affection taps against her ribcage, like a hummingbird bumping into a rose.
No. Keep your focus.
The doctor looks up. "I'd like to hear more about this sadness."
"It's silly."
"Nothing is silly in here. I promise."
From the very first session, she's wanted nothing but his approval. Something about the way he said, "In case you have allergies as bad as mine," when he set a fresh box of tissue beside her, made her want, more than anything on Earth, for him to think well of her. To think of her as someone far too stable to be a patient.
"Maybe later."
"Not a problem." He starts to jot something down, then has trouble with his pen. Without rising from his chair, he searches a cupboard behind him.
While he is preoccupied, she leans over her knees and whispers, "Like I've crumbled to dust and been carried off on the sole of someone's shoe. That's how it feels."
He is back, inked and ready but unaware of her confession. "It's fine if you don't want to discuss it, but I want you to consider this: Your sadness is not a part of you. Think of it as a separate entity." He looks up at her and grins. "Like a roommate who leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor. You don't have to put her name on the lease. When you've had enough, you can kick her out."
Dr. Stafford has no idea that this day is significant. That, after leaving the library for her lunch break earlier, she went home and packed all her things into a cracked leather suitcase and left it on the sidewalk in front of Goodwill.
"You've taken a bit of care with your appearance today," he says. "Your hair, I think."
It is important, today, that she look nice for him. "It's a new clip."
"Nice. And a positive sign."
She reaches up to adjust the antique barrette she bought special and catches the movement in the mirror across the room. With skin as transparent as fish bones and hair the colour of used bathwater, Miriam is very nearly invisible. If not for the gems glued to the hairclip, her reflection might contain nothing, no one at all.
"You've been very quiet today, Miriam."
She reaches forward, places the scented envelope on his desk. She kept back just enough cash for a short cab ride. "This month's payment in cash. If it smells like amaryllis, I'm sorry."
"Not a problem." He sets it aside. "But I don't think your payment is due for another couple of weeks."
It had been surprisingly simple to close her bank account. Not a single question asked. "I thought I'd get caught up on a few things."
"Well then I thank you. I wish all my patients were so efficient." He settles back in his chair and church-steeples his fingers.
There is a game she plays with herself. She imagines Dr. Stafford coming into the William J. Rudd library as a patron. Moments after he arrives, there is some sort of emergency (a terrible storm, suicide bomber, once, an escaped convict) that shuts the place down - out go the lights, the alarm starts bleating, and, with only the rosy blush of the exit signs to guide her, Miriam leads Dr. Stafford to a safe place. The other night, they waited out a raging gunman under her desk, arms intertwined, foreheads pressed together.
"Can you tell me what you're feeling right now?"
Ashamed.
Dr. Stafford rests his head back on his chair and waits. She knows exactly what would happen if she told him. If she said right now, I think about you, Dr. Stafford. His pity would come to life. It would walk around the room, bounce on its toes and pretend to examine the medical degrees on the far wall - anything to avoid her gaze. Then he would say something like, "This is perfectly normal. Patient transference happens all the time. No need for embarrassment …"
"Miriam? How do you feel?"
Vaguely curious whether you'll turn up at the funeral.
The least she can do is give him what he wants. A hint of it, anyway. "This sadness." She stops, watches him. Already he is sitting a bit taller. "Mostly I feel it in my skin."
"Yes."
"I don't remember a day without it. Sometimes it feels, well, it feels almost like … you're going to think this is odd."
"I won't."
She feels her cheeks heat up. "It isn't possible, of course, but it's almost as if my epidermis was installed, I don't know, wrong side out or something."
"Mm-hmm."
"I'll just be sitting somewhere - in my kitchen or at my desk at work - and my skin, with all its pores and tiny hairs and paper cuts from the new releases, it starts to scream."
He considers this for a moment. Then, "Do you ever reach out to a co-worker? Just say, 'Hey. I need a friend right now' "?
She shakes her head. "People don't really like me."
"That's not true." His mouth stretches into a comma-shaped smile. "I like you, Miriam."
She sits perfectly still and allows his words to settle over her like mist from a sprinkler. Maybe he's not like the others she saw before him. They were just doing their jobs. She takes hold of the chair lest she float up and out the window.
I like you, Miriam.
He didn't have to say it.
There's a knock at the door. A pony-tailed woman pokes her head in and holds up a stack of papers. "Sorry to interrupt. Norma wasn't at her desk and I know you need these by three."
So fleetingly Miriam isn't certain it happened at all, Dr. Stafford appears lit from within. His cheeks, his chest, his shoulders expand as if he's just inhaled summertime itself. "Thank you, honey."
The woman, probably his wife, nods her apology and the door closes behind her.
No one will ever feel that for me.
Miriam stands, adjusts her ill-fastened skin, and, in spite of Dr. Stafford's protestations, slips out the door. She climbs into a cab and says quietly, "Leaside Bridge, please."
Tish Cohen's most recent novel for adults is The Truth About Delilah Blue