EYES ON YOU Page 2

  As soon as he walked into the building, he saw Cynthia Ralston standing there. He had dismissed her as a client two weeks before, and seeing her now made Roman want to turn around and leave. Were they going to have to place a restraining order on her?

  It was all too clear to Roman that Cynthia was unconsciously transferring feelings that she had felt at an earlier point in her life toward someone else onto him—an evolving case of transference that he had not expected. There had not been the usual indicators with this particular client. For the first three months after her husband’s death, Cynthia had grieved so intensely that most of her time with Roman had involved nonstop crying over events in her marriage that had happened years, even decades, before his death. There had been numerous unresolved issues that apparently consumed much of Cynthia’s time. Her husband had died suddenly from a heart attack, throwing Cynthia’s already fragile emotional condition into an acute state of turmoil.

  It wasn’t until she had turned the crying off, as though it were a faucet, and begun to pay more attention to her appearance that the first signs of her obsession began to manifest themselves. At first, he’d chalked that up to her success at getting past the worst pangs of her grief, Roman assuming that she’d finally found reasons to carry on with her life. But during the fourth month of therapy, Roman realized that he was beginning to become the object of her affection. Cynthia began asking lots of personal questions, trying to draw out personal information that he became uncomfortable in revealing. The queries had, at first, seemed innocuous, trivial items of information involving such things such as what kind of music he liked, and what he enjoyed doing in his off-time. He had answered truthfully, but briefly.

  Another hint that Cynthia’s personal interest was intensifying was when she had asked him if he were gay. Roman had told her “no,” that he wasn’t gay, and he had quickly tried steering the conversation back to her. But she had said, “I already knew that, because you’ve got so many masculine qualities about you, how you dress and act, and how you look at attractive women.” She had presented a knowing smile after saying that, including herself in that category. He hadn’t been consciously aware of looking at attractive women in a distinctive or different manner, but perhaps he occasionally did. What hetero-man didn’t? He had reminded Cynthia that gay men were just as prone as straight men to exhibit their masculinity in any number of recognizable ways.

  What had occurred soon after that were subtle and more overt forms of flirting, like scooting her chair close to his desk to allow her to rest her arms and hands on the surface, inviting him to reciprocate by touching her hands. Roman, however, kept his desk between them, did not touch her, and began explaining psychological transference, hoping Cynthia would recognize her behavior as a classic indicator of the phenomenon.

  The last time he saw her alone in his office, when he could no longer pretend to ignore her “crush,” Cynthia had stood up and began taking off her clothes. She was fulfilling her intense desire to show him her body and to have him do likewise, so sure was she that he would be unable to resist her charms. He had at first thought she was taking off her sweater, having a blouse or shirt underneath it. But when he saw that she had only her bra on to cover her upper half, and that she was reaching back to unclasp that, he had stood up and vacated his office. He left the office door open, asking Rene to show the woman out of the building.

  Rene had waited for Cynthia to re-dress herself before telling her, “You’ve crossed the line, Ms. Ralston, and Dr. Mayer will not be seeing you again. We can refer you to someone in Portland, but our office is off-limits to you!”

  Now, two weeks had passed since Cynthia had made her daring declaration. The woman had a way of out-maneuvering him, and that was saying a lot. Roman was six feet five, and weighed close to 250 pounds. “Dr. Roman, can we at least speak to each other, after all that we’ve accomplished together?”

  Vacillating his attention between Rene and a group of people who had congregated down the hallway, he said, “No, Cynthia, I truly cannot help you. Your visits here have been terminated.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cynthia Ralston said in a sincere voice. “Truly I am. I behaved abominably, I don’t know what came over me, but that won’t happen again.”

  He paused briefly to look at her: Cynthia had dark, shoulder length hair that he knew was color-treated because she was fifty-two years old, and during her first sessions, he had seen a noticeable outgrowth of gray roots showing at her scalp. She had a severe aspect to her face that she could alter into an almost attractive appearance when she chose. She was trying to present a more affable look now, hoping that she could make amends. He didn’t think she had many friends, knew she had no family, and he had feared that shunning her might tip her over the edge. The fact that she was able to apologize counted for something.

  Hesitantly, he said, “I can’t see you, but my colleague, Tess Gilliland might be able to.”

  Rene’s eyes shot daggers at him. While Cynthia thanked Roman for the second chance, he looked back at Rene with a look that conveyed: no argument.

  Cynthia was the only one who knew that the grateful smile she exhibited hid a shivering feeling of anticipation that lit up her insides. Just being near him made everything inside her tingle with joy, her skin beneath her long coat literally aching for his touch.

  *****

  The six members of The Group stood in the hallway, waiting for him to open the door to what they had dubbed “the solarium.” He had laughed at that notion, since it was an incredible misnomer. The room was shut off when not in use because it was incredibly drafty on most days during the long winter months. It did have several weather-beaten windows that let some weak light into the room, but all of the windows faced north, so calling the room a solarium was truly a joke. However, it was the only room that afforded a comfortable space for The Group’s meetings. No one seemed to mind its chilliness, nor did they mind Mona’s herding them as they filed inside.

  She was made to herd—hogs, not people. She had broken from Rene’s gentle grasp to barrel toward The Group, and began gently nudging six of her people into the room. It wasn’t just her herding capability that everyone marveled at, however. Mona had the uncanny ability to provide comfort for those in distress. For two hours on Fridays, the dog stood by whoever was giving off the most troubling vibes, providing that person consolation and reassurance. She often moved from one individual to another, depending on how much inner turmoil she suspected. Everyone in The Group adored her.

  For over a year, Roman had included Mona in meetings with The Group. He got the idea from…himself. He knew melancholia like he knew his own name, but he kept his own battle with depression under wraps from his clients. There was nothing to be gained from revealing that he suffered from the number one condition that afflicted most of his clients.

  The majority of the group lined up to avail themselves of the fresh coffee that Rene had made for them in a large electric urn. Roman spoke greetings to all, and got a cup of coffee for himself before finding a seat.

  Automatically, Mona went to sit beside Ben Girard. The guy was in his early thirties, was always on time, and had an entrenched work ethic. Although suffering from PTSD, he had a steady job as the manager of the parts department at the local Toyota dealership. Ben had an uncanny knowledge of car parts, regardless of the make or model. The owner of the Toyota dealership had a son who had committed suicide after returning home from the Iraq-Afghanistan wars, so he never had a problem with Ben taking time off from work to attend therapy sessions or meetings on Friday with The Group. Ben always made up the time by omitting lunches or staying later, or coming in earlier to work. He took off his coat, having three other layers underneath, and petted Mona while others in the group began to settle in their chairs.

  Roman took his coat off as well and said, “Last week, we talked about finding ways in which to meet new people.”

  Benjamin Housman, a widower for four months, chimed in, “We got nothin’ outta
that deal, so let’s not keep talkin’ ‘bout it.”

  Iris Gilbert, coffee in hand and her coat still on said, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Benjamin.” This from a retired librarian who’d never been married.

  Placatingly, Gloria Schiller calmly remarked, “Let’s let Dr. Mayer decide what we talk about.”

  Roman blithely announced, “Let’s have a catch-up session then.” He grinned a bit, challenging those in the group to go deeper into what they revealed.

  They did a “catch-up” about once a month, when everyone had to tell where they were in terms of their functioning. This made some of them happy, but others not so much because the exercise required them to speak honestly about where they currently were in their lives. A few were quite good at that, but others struggled to find the appropriate words to describe their current circumstances.

  “Gloria, you’re first, please?” Roman found a notepad in his jacket’s pocket where he could jot down a few observations. For the most part, he simply listened.

  “All right then,” said Gloria Schiller. She had finished her coffee and was holding an empty cup. Mona took it gracefully from her, walking to the waste can where she deposited it before going back to stand beside Ben. As soon as two others finished theirs, she performed the same courtesy and again went to Ben’s side, where she found his extended hand.

  Wyatt Wainwright spoke up to say, “Man! That dog’s so smart that she makes me feel real stupid!”

  Wearing her blue sweater that highlighted her unusual blue eyes, Mona sat proudly and was highly attuned to the goings-on, invested in every word that was said. Whoever said that dogs couldn’t understand human language, or were unable to intuit humans’ emotional difficulties, could never imagine that there were dogs, like Mona, that had special gifts, heightened senses that humans could never equal.

  When the chatter that accompanied the laughter from Wyatt’s comment had subsided, Gloria made her introduction. “Hello, my name is Gloria Schiller, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi Gloria,” came the chorus from fellow Group members.

  She hesitated before continuing, but then she smiled. “I’ve been sober for four years and three months.”

  CHAPTER 4

  For some reason, none of the churches in town sponsored AA meetings. Thus, Roman had felt compelled to provide the service and did so willingly. He wasn’t a former alcoholic himself, but he could see the need for an AA chapter once he took over the town’s only mental health service. Before he began practicing, the previous mental health provider worked solo three days a week, had very few clients, and Roman had been told by Ben Girard that the guy had been a bust. A real loser.

  Gloria was saying, “I wish I could tell you how many times I’ve wanted to give in to the urge and have a drink—just one. The liquor cabinet is empty, the decanters are all emptied, washed and put away, but I always know that I’m five minutes away from Pruitt’s Liquor Store.” Gloria and her husband, Robert Schiller, were upper-crust Mainers, obviously wealthy. Robert wasn’t a drinker, but Gloria had begun the habit when their only child, Robert Jr., had died when his private plane had crashed, killing both him and his fiancé.

  “There are days when I don’t think I can stand another minute of life if I don’t have a drink. It’s harder in February, because that’s when Robbie and Alison were killed. But, I know he would not have wanted me to succumb to alcoholism. I had actually become a drunken sot, and when I look back at those years of drinking until I barely functioned at all, I’m appalled by my choice to succumb.”

  Intuitively, Mona went to stand beside Gloria. The woman reached her hand out before saying, “Ah…Mona’s our sweet girl.” She kept absently petting the dog, gathering her wits…her thoughts. Someone sniffed and Roman thought it must be Hope Canard. He’d been listening to Gloria, but, when he looked at Hope, he could see her getting tissues from her purse. This was her first visit with The Group.

  Gloria finished by saying, “As a way to honor Robbie, I gather courage from absolutely nowhere and try to remain sober for just today. I’m choosing, for today, not to allow my son’s death to destroy me. When I was in therapy with Dr. Mayer, he pointed out to me that I have two choices, and only two. For today, I’m choosing life, because, you know, I only get one.”

  Ah, the pain. The horror involved in losing someone who was held so dear. No matter what else had ever mattered, that always remained so cruelly true. Roman’s expression toward Gloria was filled with an immense amount of pride. Looking at the older woman now, it was hard to believe that the haggard person he had taken on as a client over four years before as one of his first clients, was the same person who was sitting there now. Gloria was a well-educated, well-spoken, former editor of a popular magazine, gifted in language that helped her to convey her inner thoughts. The beauty of her personage corresponded well with what she projected outwardly to the members of The Group.

  Next was Benjamin Housman. Once Roman got the ball rolling by choosing a lead speaker, the person to the right was automatically next. The man was surprisingly circumspect.

  “I’m Benjamin,” he said.

  “Hi Benjamin,” everyone replied.

  While swiping his hand down his wrinkled, tired face, he said, “I’ve been sober for a month.” His face had become flush, and with sudden tears in his eyes, he added, “It’s too late for me.” Automatically, Mona walked to Benjamin’s side, and he automatically reached to pet her.

  A couple of fellow group members began contesting Benjamin’s declaration and Roman stated, “It’s never too late, Ben.”

  “Yeah it is,” the old man agonized. “My wife just died from cirrhotic livah disease and I think I’ve got it too.” He again tried wiping at his tear-suffused eyes. “What’s the use? At my age…” Gloria handed him a tissue. Roman saw Benjamin in closed therapy.

  After the din of those who opposed Benjamin’s fatalism had ended, Roman said, “So give up and die like your wife did? What about living what’s left of your life courageously and clean, living with dignity, Ben?”

  Roman’s words appeared to have touched something. Benjamin reached down to caress Mona’s chest again. The dog allowed herself to fall against Benjamin’s leg as though she was wet putty and had to have Benjamin hold her up. Mona’s embodiment of Benjamin’s emotional state was something unique, too extraordinary for Roman, or the others, to comprehend.

  “You need a dog!” Wyatt Wainwright stated in sudden conviction.

  Others in the group began nodding, voicing their agreement.

  “I’m too old to start with one,” Benjamin countered as the pain in his face grew. Still, he was able to get Mona upright, but she again flopped against his leg, unwilling to stand up.

  “Will you look at that,” Iris Gilbert said in utter amazement, as she and others watched in amazement as Mona’s body language reflected Ben’s emotional state.

  “Get one with some age on her,” said Wyatt matter-of-factly. “Besides that, worse comes to worse, I’ll take care of her if you croak.”

  Everyone in The Group, except Hope, became excited by the idea of Benjamin getting a dog. The old man’s face began changing, some of his despair leaving him. He said, “But I’d want a special one, like Mona here.”

  Smiling, Roman said, “Glad you said like Mona, Ben.”

  “I mean her kind,” Benjamin clarified. “I forget what you call her.”

  “A Catahoula Leopard hound,” said Iris the librarian.

  The conversations grew louder, everyone becoming animated by the idea of Benjamin acquiring a dog that would be similar to Mona. Good luck with that. There was only one. As soon as Benjamin stopped stroking her, Mona stoically returned to Roman, plopping down at his feet to rest after a taxing, emotionally-charged exchange. Iris Gilbert and Gloria Schiller murmured, “Aaahh,” and Wyatt said, “She knows where to find some TLC when she needs some herself.”

  Roman could never predict how a meeting of The Group was going to go and had giv
en up trying. He reached down to stroke and comfort his dog, succumbing to the general mood. He had to remind himself to refocus, but he did and said, “So Ben—you might begin looking to adopt a special dog that could look like Mona?”

  The old guy’s demeanor was beginning to take a decided U-turn. When Benjamin saw how many were offering encouragement, his status as a relative newcomer to The Group became a postscript. The time and effort expended by Roman, Wyatt, and Gloria to make sure that Benjamin Housman was gaining a real sense of solidarity with the others was paying off.

  “Iris?” he finally said. Iris was one of Tess Gilliland’s clients and fit the classic stereotype of a librarian. At first glance, she was prudish, and prim to a fault, and she was nearly seventy years of age—a tiny woman who weighed less than 90 pounds. Iris demonstrated so many nervous tics that they were too numerous to count. Those in the room kept trying, unsuccessfully, not to notice them.

  “Hi,” she exuberantly announced. “As you probably know by now, I’m Iris Gilbert.”

  “Hi Iris,” everyone said.

  “Let’s see,” she said, while fidgeting in her chair and smoothing her clothes. “I won’t bore you with the details…”