Spin Doctor (24 page)

TALIA

“Look!” Talia brandished her cane. “I almost don't need it anymore.” She ambled over to the sofa and seated herself, positioning her back against the armrest with her injured leg stretched across the length of the couch.

“You know, it might be hard for you to get up from there, if you want to move around during your session.”

“That's okay. I don't know how much moving I'll be doing. I've gotten very Zen over the past few months of having to sit still a lot. Now I can see dances in my head; the inside of my forehead is like a giant movie screen, y'know? And there's all this choreography going on inside my brain. And I can picture
myself
moving through space too. So I can, like, see myself dance while I'm sitting here.”

“Have you ever considered a future as a choreographer?”

At least I didn't get the same kind of reaction that I'd received months ago when I suggested that Talia consider teaching. “Maybe…” she said thoughtfully. “But I'm not willing to let myself believe that my dance career is over, just because of this ACL crap. You taught me something, Susan. It wasn't anything
you said, specifically. It was more like leading by example, y'know? When dancers learn a new piece, the choreographer, or his assistant—or if the choreographer is dead, there's usually a person who is like the official recorder and teacher of their ballets…anyway, the piece is always demonstrated for us, right there in the studio. The choreographer, or whoever, shows us the steps and the attitudes and we follow their example and then make it our own—I mean putting our own expression into it, of course—not doing our own steps or anything.”

“So how did I lead by example?”

Talia looked at me as though I were utterly dense. “Because
you
didn't give up! You didn't call it quits even when what you thought was the worst thing that ever happened to you happened. Well—you did call it quits, but you didn't give up. You came back down here after a while, even though it was probably a really hard decision to make after telling us that you were too burned out to continue our therapy sessions. It couldn't have been easy listening to nut jobs—speaking for myself only—all day. Y'know, I know I'm not the easiest person in the world. I'm vain and I complain a lot, and I see the glass half empty most of the time, and if all your other clients are like me, no wonder you needed a break! And maybe…maybe it's really good for you too, that you've come back, because, if you think about it, while you sit there listening to all of us go on and on about our problems, you might even realize that you're not nearly as messed up as we are. Which should make you feel better about
yourself.
”

I laughed. “It doesn't quite work that way, Talia. I can't even say that I wish it
did.
Because if it did, if my clients aren't making progress toward healthier behavior, it would mean that I'm not doing my job
after
all. I appreciate the sentiment, though.”

“I told you I'm not very good with words,” Talia said, giving
me a goofy smile. “But I'm getting better. I'm actually saying stuff now, y'know? A few months ago, if I'd been unable to dance during our sessions, I would have sat here like a lump. So I guess the ACL injury had a weird benefit. I've had to use other parts of my body in order to express myself.”

“So now that you've discovered the power of words, how do you feel about using some of them to talk about what's been up with you since we last spoke officially.”

“Ohhhh…I'm not sure I can talk about
important
stuff! You're asking an awful lot of me right off the bat, y'know.” We both burst out laughing. “Have you ever heard of the Miller Clinic?” I shook my head. “Oh. Well, never mind, I shouldn't have expected you to. It's just a place that specializes in P.T. for injured dancers. I've been rehabbing my knee down there and going back to a modified version of my Pilates exercises, and my physical therapist is a dancer who ruptured a tendon years ago and was never exactly the same since, but she totally got into Pilates—teaching it, I mean—and found that it was really rewarding. She even started liking teaching better than dancing because she was seeing right up close that she was having an effect on people; her students became sort of like an audience. So…I dunno…maybe it's something I should think about. I'm definitely not going to stop dancing. But this injury has made me think about my future—after dancing. Y'know, I've realized for a while now it's not going to be that far away. Oops. Excuse me.”

Talia awkwardly got to her feet and made as mad a dash as she could for the little bathroom. I heard her wretching through the partially open door. She returned to the couch wiping her mouth with a damp paper towel and looking very pale.

“I want to talk about that,” I said calmly.

“What?”

I pointed to the bathroom. “Talia, an eating disorder is a very—”

“Is that what you think I have?” She looked shocked.

“Well, in the past when you've run into the bathroom, I wondered whether you were purging yourself with diuretics. I have to say that the signs do point to—”

“It's not! I promise you. Why does everyone assume that just because a skinny dancer pees a lot or throws up that she's got bulimia or something? You've never met my mom, but she's always been as thin as a whippet—until the alcohol started to add weight. I—this is going to sound really stupid—”

“Try me.”

“I…have a low potassium thing. So I'm supposed to take supplements and eat a lot of foods that are full of it, y'know? Like bananas. But I hate bananas. The doctor told me that I could drink a glass of grape juice every morning instead—the real thing, not like ‘grape
drink,
' y'know? So I do. And I really like grape juice. But for some reason, whenever I drink it, which is first thing in the morning, it makes me throw up.”

“Talia…?”

“What?”

“Do you drink the grape juice on an empty stomach every morning?” She pondered the question and nodded. “Well, if what you're telling me is true—that all this throwing up is purely due to an adverse reaction to drinking grape juice on an empty stomach—then you might want to consider eating a bit of solid food with it.”

Talia made a face. “I can't eat breakfast. I can't even think about eating until about ten in the morning.”

I regarded her skeptically. “I really hope that you're telling me the truth, Talia. I've been through it. So, believe me, I understand how painful and embarrassing it can be. And how horri
bly self-destructive it is to your body. I want you to know that we can talk about it in here. And we'll get you some help. Okay?”

“I know what you're saying, Susan, but I swear to you, if anything, I have a food allergy, not an eating disorder.”

“Just giving you food for thought.”

Talia tugged at her ponytail elastic and her dark hair came tumbling down over her shoulders. “Ahhhhh,” she murmured happily, vigorously shaking her head. “And another thing…you have
no
idea how good it feels not to have my hair pulled into a tight bun all the time. I never realized why I always seemed to be walking around with a headache until my ACL popped and I didn't have any reason to stick all those bobby pins in my head every day!”

“So…to go back to what you were saying before the hair subject…you're becoming the ant and not the grasshopper…planning for the future instead of living for the moment. Which isn't the same as living
in
the moment, by the way. You
should
live
in
the moment. And it sounds like you're thinking about training to become a Pilates instructor down the line. What about teaching dance? Have you reconsidered that?”

“I can't say I've changed my mind there.” Talia frowned. “Y'know, ‘Those who can't do, teach.'”

“I know you seem to put a lot of store by that adage. But you just said you were considering teaching Pilates. What am I missing here?”

“‘Those who can't do, teach' applies to those who are teaching in the professions they trained to do, or used to do—not to people who teach something else entirely,” Talia said emphatically. “I know you want to get me to move out of my ‘comfort zone' so I can be open to change and all that…” She twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. “I'm just not ready to be pushed too
far,
okay?”

AMY

“I'm too exhausted to vent today,” she said, sinking onto the sofa. She stretched her body along its length and flopped an arm over her eyes. “I think I'd get better use out of our time if I just
slept
for fifty minutes.”

Amy did look pretty haggard. And unusually unkempt, as if she had just thrown on whatever clothes were closest to hand and hadn't even bothered to run a comb through her hair. I got up and switched off the lights. “Tell you what, Amy: I'll let you lie there in the dark, but I think it would be a good idea for you to share what's been going on lately. You've cancelled the last couple of sessions, and I've got to say, you don't even look like yourself today.”

Amy groaned. “Everyone knows the expression ‘Be careful what you wish for,' right? Remember Mala Sonia's so-called psychic reading?”

“Which one?” I grumbled.

“Oh, right.” Amy sat up. “My God, Susan, I am so sorry. I heard about the reading she gave you. And what happened. Is it possible that she's really got a psychic gift? I mean, everything she said to me came true too.”

“Maybe she just got lucky.” I didn't add that in my case I thought Mala Sonia had manipulated the cards.

“You were in the room with me when she did the reading; you're my witness.”

“Why do you say that Mala Sonia's prediction turned out to be true?”

Amy sighed deeply and lay back down on the couch. “Months ago, I had it out with Eric about pulling his weight in the parenting department. He said I was probably suffering from postpartum syndrome. I called him a Neanderthal and threatened to strangle him. After Mala Sonia's reading, I raised
the subject again. ‘You're a partner now,' I reminded him. ‘You're one of the people at Newter & Spade who gets to
set
the rules.' And I more or less gave him an ultimatum: if his idea of parental responsibility was just paying the bills, I told him he could do it from his own apartment and I'd be happy to collect his alimony and child support payments. So he finally found a way to rearrange his schedule—his calendar was pretty light in December, anyway—in order to spend time at home taking care of Isaac. And when Isaac went down for his nap, Eric would be able to do his work at home so he wouldn't get too far behind schedule. It sounded great in theory. In practice, it was a whole other story. I've begun to wonder whether men really do lack nurturing skills, or whether Eric is trying to do a lousy job so I can throw up my hands and say ‘Yeah, you were right. I'm much better at this than you are. Go back to the office.' I had been hoping that with Eric at home
I
could work out an arrangement with Newter & Spade and go back to work, at least part-time. I've missed my career so much. So Eric's been home for a few weeks, and the house is in complete turmoil. Isaac screams like a lunatic whenever his father tries to lift him out of his crib and only gets calm when I hold him. You can't blame the baby, I suppose; he hardly ever sees his father, so he didn't trust the funny-smelling stranger who wanted to touch him. I thought the more Eric got to know his son, the more Isaac would respond to him. But so far it hasn't worked out that way. Of course, Eric seems so uncertain when he holds him that Isaac probably thinks he's going to get dropped on his head. So I said to Eric that maybe it would be a good idea if he took care of other things, like the grocery shopping and the cooking, while I took care of the baby, and at least I still wouldn't be doing
everything.
”

“And how is that working out for you?” I asked her.

“Oy vayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

“That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement.”

“He's inept! He practically burns boiled water! You think I'm kidding, but I asked him to make me a cup of tea, and he left the kettle on the burner for so long that all the water evaporated out the spout and it ended up charring the bottom of the kettle. He just
forgot
that he'd put the water up. A simple grocery list is beyond him—this is a man with an advanced degree from one of the top schools in the country. I can't take it any more. And Newter & Spade keeps giving me the runaround, so I feel like
I'm
wasting even more time and space not being able to bring in any income. Being a partner, Eric's annual take is calculated on a percentage basis, and since he hasn't been there over the past few weeks, he says there's been a call to change the equation so that he gets less of a share than the other partners who are in the office full-time. It's a nightmare!”

“What do you think you've learned from this?”

“Honestly? That you can never rely on anyone but yourself. In the long run, if you want something done right, and done to your satisfaction, you can't delegate. Everything Eric has done, as far as the baby and the domestic chores are concerned, I've had to either undo or redo. And don't let anyone ever try to convince you that men are tougher than women. At the first sign of crisis, they run! The first day Eric was home, Isaac spit up on him and Eric just lost it! My husband started to blame the baby, complained that his clothes were ruined—who told him to burp the baby in a Zegna shirt?—and he just stood there looking helpless. When Isaac got fussy in his bath, Eric just yelled for me to come into the room and take over. He utterly gave up. Susan, this is a man who makes a living representing corporate polluters, and he can't even wipe up his son's vomit.”