EYES ON YOU Read online

“But do so anyway,” Roman reminded Iris with a casual smile.

  A request from Dr. Mayer always pleased her. “All right then.” She cleared her throat, smoothed her clothes again, patted her hair into place, and cleared her throat again.

  “There was once this girl—this young woman—who wanted a lot out of her life, as most young women do. At that time, 1965, she went to college in Orono with the hope that she would meet the man of her dreams…” Iris had everyone’s attention once she had begun her storybook soliloquy. “She majored in library science.” Iris paused to smile at Roman and others in the group, all of whom smiled back. “But she didn’t find the man of her dreams.”

  Mona got up from her supine position and walked over to Iris. The woman held her hand out and said, “It’s all right, Mona dear.” But things were far from all right and Mona was aware of it. Iris was speaking in third person, the only means she had emotionally of getting her story out.

  “For the next 42 years,” throat clearing, “the…ah…woman took care of her mother, and she was never able to find Mr. Right. She…uh…never had a child, never knew what it was like to even…be…kissed. She had her job at the library, and she had her mother.” A cough, a throat clearing and Mona sat closer when Iris tittered out an innocuous, tiny laugh. A glimmer of moisture appeared in the woman’s right eye, but she managed to hold herself together to continue her story.

  “She’d always had a sherry after dinner, and her mother approved of that, having one herself for digestive purposes. What her mother didn’t know, however, was that the woman had a cache of vodka hidden in her bedroom that she…partook of, to stave off the longing for more out of life.

  “The…uh…drinking became a nightly ritual…just a couple…or three.” Throat clearing. “She never thought of it as a problem. But one day, her mother found the bottles of vodka, and when the woman arrived home from her job at the library, her mother had a conniption fit. Out went the stash of vodka, the mother telling her daughter that she would burn in hell for doing such an evil thing!

  “For nine more years, the woman kept the bottles of vodka in the trunk of her car. She would sneak down in the wee hours, after her mother had gone to sleep, and have her booze straight up. Always”…cough, throat clearing, “vodka, straight up. You see…for her entire life, the woman had never entered a bar, but she knew what straight up meant, because she had read so many novels that mention bars, and the people drinking in them.

  Another throat clearing, and then Iris used one of her small fists to lightly punch where her lower esophagus was located, this yet another of her lifelong tics. “And then, the mother died from congestive heart failure. And after the funeral, the woman really tied one on.” Iris looked around, already knowing that she had everyone’s rapt attention. “She was finally free to drink in her own house, however much she wanted. She had bought the house with a down payment she had saved up, incurring a thirty-year mortgage, and she never missed the monthly payments.”

  Every time Roman heard Iris’s story, he learned something new. He had not known until then that Iris’s house was hers, not her mother’s.

  “But for a neighbor who came over to check on her, the woman would have died…right there. She had collapsed on the floor and was near death when the paramedics found her…along with seven empty bottles of vodka.” Iris blanched as she again punched at where her lower esophagus was located. Medical tests had revealed that Iris did not suffer from any known physical condition. Roman, along with Tess Gilliland, suspected that Iris had developed that particular tic as an unconscious way of trying to control broken parts of her heart. She ended the fairytale nightmare by saying, “The woman quit drinking when Mrs. Gilliland looked in on her in the hospital and began talking with her about her drinking problem. She’s been sober for two years and 10 months, and every single day, she still would like to have just one more vodka, straight-up.”

  Silence claimed the group, even for those who had heard Iris’s story before. The way in which she relayed the account had a profound effect, as though Iris’s entire life had been lived in third person, and now that she could live it on her own terms, would she ever be able to? Gloria Schiller rose, quickly making her way to Iris’s chair, and when she and the much smaller woman embraced, others in the group followed suit. Mona’s tail thumped against the linoleum floor, the canine approving of the gestures.

  When Roman embraced her, it was like a giant who was hugging a small child. He managed to look at her through teary eyes—his own—to say, “Thank you, Iris.”

  She appeared overwhelmed by the response of those in The Group, lightly smacking her upper abdomen with a closed fist after actually hiccupping and asking to be excused for such an incorrigible indiscretion. As soon as everyone had settled into their chairs again, Roman called on Wyatt Wainwright to address The Group.

  Wyatt was a gangly, middle-aged man who had overgrown, unruly hair and a scruffy beard, and who pretty much showed up in the same set of clothes and worn-out coat that he had worn any week before. He lived somewhere near the water, but no one knew exactly where. He had little education, and certainly didn’t fit the mold of someone in therapy, and yet—he was always there, every week without fail. Roman didn’t charge anyone for The Group’s weekly sessions; to do so would have been violating AA’s rule of providing its service to anyone for free. But, he also had Wyatt as a client in regular therapy, doing so without charging the indigent man anything.

  “My name’s Wyatt Wainwright,” he began.

  Those in The Group said, “Hi Wyatt.”

  To Roman, he said, “You said we could say whatever we want to?”

  “Absolutely,” Roman replied. “Whatever’s on your mind.”

  “Jus a coupla thoughts then. I been lobsterin’ since I was old enough to throw a pot in…prolly since I was four. All my kin’s dead…my paw and both my brothahs too. We had us a good run…ayuh…we sure did. But the liquor done took ‘em all too soon. All but me. I wish I could say I learnt my lesson when my brothahs died, but that weren’t it. The simple truth is: I once upon the time wanted more schoolin’ and to do somethin’ else besides being a lobsterin’ man. I wanted a way outtah workin’ on the water cuz I never liked it. But there weren’t no way I was gonna get outta it unless a miracle happenin’ for me.

  “That miracle came, by jovie. I got myself cleared up and I’m goin’ to school. I’m enrolled in an adult education…uh…program through some kinda grant money that pays me. It ain’t a whole lot, mind ya, but doc made me see how I can get smart and one day, I’ll have me some learnin’ and a miracle might happen. I been sober for near about thirteen months.”

  “You are smart, Wyatt. You always have been,” Roman stressed to him. “You just needed to kick a destructive habit and be pointed in the right direction to begin working toward your dream.”

  “That’s what it is,” Wyatt said with such modest dignity that others in the room were compelled to applaud, and they did.

  Gloria said, “I’d love to be able to help you, Wyatt.”

  That statement caused Wyatt to blush. He muttered, “Thank you Ma’am. I’m doin’ fine.”

  Roman had concerns over whether that was true, or not. He wondered if the guy even had enough food to eat, or a place to sleep that was away from the bitter winds and icy temperatures of coastal Maine. Wyatt had a long way to go and he knew it. He was forty-two years-old, and yet, he appeared very determined to make something of himself.

  Next was Hope Canard. Hope was another of Tess Gilliland’s clients, and this was her first visit to The Group. She didn’t know anyone, and Roman knew only what Tess could tell him without breaching confidentiality. The young woman shook her head, while looking downward at the floor and at Mona, who was between her chair and where Ben Girard was seated.

  “Not speaking is always an option,” Roman kindly acknowledged. “Again, welcome to The Group. Whatever is said here is not repeated to anyone outside these walls. We’re on the honor system he
re, and all of us abide by that.” He had wanted her to open up with whatever she wanted to share, and obviously she wasn’t feeling able to do that. So, he moved on.

  “Ben?”

  You never knew what you were going to get with Ben Girard. Sometimes the guy hardly spoke a word, and other times, he opened up enough to allow Roman and the others a glimpse of his inner world. He said, “Hello, I’m Ben Girard.”

  “Hello Ben,” everyone said in return.

  “The other night, I talked a guy out of committin’ suicide.”

  Everyone’s ears perked up at that, including Roman’s, who said with keen interest, “How’d you do that, Ben?”

  Purposefully, Ben began stroking Mona’s back as he spoke. “I was comin’ off the Baylor Bridge, not long aftah dark. I’d just got off work. I sar this dude hoofin’ it across the bridge on foot, didn’t pay no mind, and then, he got up on the banistah, sat down on it, and I slammed on my brakes, got outta my truck and yelled, “Chout! He was payin’ me no mind when I ran up to him, and he was about to go ovah and I yelled to-um and said, “Don’t do it, Mistah. No mattah how hawd it might be, killin’ ya self is not the ansah.

  “He was close, but he stopped and looked back at me. Two or maybe three othah cahs had stopped too, and I knew it was crisis time. Where a person does or doesn’t—ya know?”

  Ben was talking directly to Roman, and Mona had placed one of her paws on Ben’s foot. Roman began nodding and said, “Yeah, I do.”

  “So’s he lets me grab hold of his jacket and I say, ‘I know seven men who nevah got to choose between life and death. They all got blown up by an IED before makin’ the choice.’ The dude thought about that, or seemed to, and it was wicked cold up there, and more cahs had stopped. A policeman was one of ‘em, and he sar what was goin’ on and gentle-like said just one thing. He said, ‘Not tonight, Mistah.’

  “The dude eased on down a scrid, and I asked him his name and he told me and the policeman. And then he hugged me so tight, I couldn’t breathe. I mean—the man did. Not the policeman.”

  While keeping his eyes glued to Ben, Roman thought it might have been Benjamin Housman who asked, “Was he drinkin?”

  “Nope. I didn’t smell any, anyways. Said he’d been outta work for a good while. He said his wife and kids had gone to live with some kin, and things…was hopeless. I told him things was nevah hopeless—they just seem that way…at the time.”

  Someone had begun crying, and when Roman wrenched his eyes from Ben, he saw that Hope was sobbing into her hands. Mona nudged one of Hope’s legs, and then the other, compelled to offer comfort.

  Above the sound of the young woman’s sobs, Ben grimaced with unexpected emotional pain, while he shook his head in confusion. “Didn’t mean to make ya cry, Ma’am.”

  Roman got up from his chair and went over to kneel with Mona in front of Hope’s chair. The woman was filled with anguish, sobbing her heart out, and all Roman could do was pull out his clean handkerchief and wait for the woman to take it. The scene went on for a good while, and when Iris and then Gloria began patting the woman’s back, Hope finally stopped sobbing long enough to take Roman’s offering. She tried to speak, but couldn’t get any words out.

  CHAPTER 5

  There was always the possibility, during any session of therapy, that a client could erupt in anger or tears. Roman had dealt with angry outbursts before, but in The Group he’d never had anyone inconsolably sob to the point of being catatonic.

  He stood and left to find Tess. Mona and others were continuing to try to console. Miraculously, he caught Tess in her office without a client, told her what was happening, and got an immediate response from her.

  “I was really hoping for something like this,” she said, hurrying to rise from her desk. Tess weighed a good bit more than she should. “Hope is not in a good place and hasn’t been for a while now.”

  “I take it there’s more than drinking involved?” Roman guessed.

  “You could say that,” Tess said.

  She and Roman returned to the solarium, and while Tess bent over to try to console Hope, those who had tried and failed, began helplessly walking around the room. Ben Girard appeared to Roman to be particularly upset by what he thought he had caused. A breakthrough had occurred for him, something extraordinary, yet what he’d inadvertently stirred up in Hope had taken center stage, and his heroism had taken a back seat to Hope’s outburst. The guy sat in his chair looking miserable. Roman tugged on his arm to get him to stand, and led him a distance away from the others.

  The man’s eyes were downcast, his outlook sad again.

  “It wasn’t about you,” Roman explained. “There’s more going on here that has nothing to do with you, Ben, or with what you’ve just told us—which is absolutely extraordinary.”

  “I musta said something,” Ben insisted, beginning to turn away.

  “You had everyone captivated…and…so overjoyed by what you did, saving a stranger’s life, for chrissake! You were not only in the right place at the right time, you said all of the right things. How’s the man doing, by the way? Do you know?”

  A look of devastation washed over Ben when he looked back at Hope. He muttered, “The guy’s gotta job…maybe…a mechanic’s position in Westenbrook.” He looked again at Hope, whose sobs were subsiding, and he said, “I wouldna’ done anything to set her off, if I’d known.”

  “Of course not. You understand that sometimes things are said that simply remind someone of something in their lives that is totally unrelated.” Ben appeared not to have heard him, and kept glancing at Hope, and when she got up, and slowly advanced his way, everyone in the room froze and stopped speaking.

  Her face was terribly red from crying—a mess to say the least—but, she walked up to Ben and shakily said, “You just reminded me of him. That’s all it was. He would have done something like that….”

  Ben stood like a statue, Roman let out a soft sigh, Tess Gilliland smiled in relief, and Hope Canard made the kindest gesture she could. She hugged Ben. At first, he couldn’t move a muscle, but then he awkwardly put his arms around her and hugged her too. Everyone else let out loud sighs of relief. Hope’s face lifted to Ben’s, she said something else close to his ear, and Ben’s frozen face actually appeared to crack as he produced a small, brief grin.

  Roman spoke above other voices in The Group. “We’re about out of time, so let’s close with our verse.”

  Everyone gathered around Hope and Ben, who had pulled apart, but joined hands with everyone else, including Tess Gilliland.

  Together, The Group recited: “I am full of gratitude today. I have life and I fought for it. I identify myself as an addict in recovery, and today I am winning against immeasurable odds.”

  *****

  After everyone had left, he and Mona walked down the quiet hallway, and Roman said to his dog, “You were in rare form today, Mona Mayer, and worthier than your owner.”

  The dog appeared to know that Roman was praising her; she lifted her mottled head a little higher and wagged her tail. He unlocked his office and checked his watch. He used the facility and washed his hands, threw a little cold water on his face, and looked in the mirror for an extended moment.

  No one would have expected the morning to end like it had. The unpredictable conclusion of what had otherwise been a wonderfully successful meeting could have gone in an entirely different direction. And yet, in the end, everything appeared salvaged and had, perhaps, taken a step or two beyond.

  You never knew in this business. Some days, he wondered why he had decided to devote a career to trying to mend damaged psyches and broken lives. Many such days were filled with setbacks and disappointments; clients’ problems were absurdly complex and often even more complicated to sort out. He had been trained to listen, and ninety percent of the time, that’s what he did. The other ten percent was devoted to giving advice. Yes, it wasn’t just about having clients come up with their own solutions. Often, they needed the power of the sugges
tions he could make and the behind-the-scenes help that others, through him, provided.

  He walked back out and said to Mona, “Let’s have some lunch.”

  Her quicker pace and wagging tail answered him.

  *****

  He could take her inside most anywhere, even when she wore one of her sharp-looking sweaters, which substituted for her overlay jacket that denoted that Mona was a certified comfort dog. During the winter months, he didn’t bother to dress her in her overlay because most places in the winter mainly served the regulars. Summer months were different, when the place was overrun with tourists. Then she needed to look the part, including being properly attired for her duties.

  Walking into Lenore’s Family Diner on Broad Street, Roman and his furry companion received lots of smiles and greetings from the waitstaff, many of the regulars and from Lenore herself, who was behind the lunch counter. Captain Eli Randall was already there and sitting with another police officer, a woman who wore lieutenant’s stripes on her uniform’s dress shirt. Eli got partially up, long enough to shake Roman’s hand for the second time that day, while the woman named Cheryl remained seated, keeping a smile on her face while sticking the back of her hand beside her chair for Mona to walk under and stop for a caress. The dog wagged at that familiar hand, waiting as Roman planted an affectionate kiss on the woman’s cheek.

  “I take it you were owed a favor by the Captain too, Cheryl?” Roman took off his parka, placing it over the back of his chair, and sat his large body down with surprising grace. Mona followed suit, settling down near Roman’s long legs.

  “More than it’s possible for him to ever repay,” she wryly confirmed with a sideways glance at Eli.

  “You get the fracas at the station under control?” Roman asked.

  “Finally,” Eli admitted. “Lots of eye witnesses in that deal. The subject’s sleepin’ it off, and when he wakes up, he’s facin’ felony charges.”

  Roman briefly grimaced in response, as one of the servers approached to take their orders. Cheryl ordered ice water, Roman ordered iced tea and Eli brought up the rear, ordering tea as well. As many times as he’d eaten at Lenore’s, one would think that he had the menu memorized, but Roman was looking for something he’d paid scant attention to before. Cheryl ordered the special, which was clam risotto, and a side salad.