both moved to catch it their bodies collided. Neither backed away from the contact. Without thinking about it Cree turned toward him, bringing her body against his, her arms going around him. One of his hands went to the bare skin at the back of her neck, the other slid into the incurve at her waist and found a fit there. Against her body she felt his breathing, a little quick from the climb up the stairs.
It happened so fast she was startled, but she just shut her eyes and felt the fascination of it. A man gave off heat, she realized, half surprised, as if she'd never known that fact. Her hands moved and found hard ridges of muscle where his back flared wide to the shoulders. The solidity of him seemed to give off gravity, too, and her body responded, falling toward him. They rocked side to side minutely as if they were dancing to each other's heartbeat. After a moment he turned his head slightly and put his lips to her ear. His warm breath tickled, and she thought he was going to whisper something, but instead he bit the rim of her ear -just with his lips, not a kiss at all but a way of tasting her or taking her a little into him.
In the dark, she felt vertigo. With the plummeting sensation came fear.
She pulled away, breathless. 'Jeez. How much wine have I had?' she joked. 'I'm dizzy already.'
'None. But I know what you mean.' He chuckled with her, but he'd heard her request for some time, a little distance. He let her go.
Cree took her arms back, though her hands were uncertain what to do.
They sat on either side of the table. Paul lit a couple of candle lanterns, poured the wine, and they clinked glasses. The wine was smooth and smoky. In the light, she could see the question in his eyes.
Why had she pulled away? A moment ago she was just free falling, and it was nice, it was… fascinating. This was what Joyce, Deirdre, anybody sane, would call a romantic situation. Soft rooftop air, the strange cityscape, good food, a handsome man, that undeniable charge of attraction and, yes, expectation. Two adults with that unspoken understanding that had been forged between them, by degrees, each time they met.
It should've been easy. It wasn't.
Cree found herself increasingly at war inside, wanting somehow to tell him, warn him, explain. Explain what? How unbalanced she was right now. How at odds this simple, sweet moment with nine years of habit. How long it had been.
'Weather's changing,' Paul said, breaking what had turned into an awkward silence. 'Supposed to get a couple of days of rain. This time of year, hard to believe, but it can be hot enough to boil crawfish one day, then turn truly nasty cold. I hope you brought sweaters and umbrellas with you.'
'I'm from Seattle, remember?'
'Right. Of course. Where the biblical deluge never quite stopped.' His smile flashed in the candlelight, and he tasted his wine. 'You know, I've been thinking about what you do. On one level, I have this skepticism, I've told you that. But every time I think about what you've told me, I can see ways it makes sense.'
'Such as?'
He sipped, looking over the rooftops. 'In graduate school, I was fascinated with traditional healing disciplines, even wrote a paper on shamanism from a psychoanalytic perspective. I pointed out that all over the world, throughout history, healing traditions are remarkably consistent. I saw it firsthand in Bali, but you'll find the same basic ideas in Siberia or Central America or Congo. People with bad health or troubled circumstances go to the village shaman. To fix the problem, the shaman enters a special state of mind that allows him to make a journey to the underworld, where he intercedes on the patient's behalf with ghosts of the sufferer's ancestors or maybe spirits of nature. The affliction is always assumed to have a psychological as well as a physical element, and so does the cure. The shaman finds that some part of the afflicted person's soul is held hostage because he's offended some spirit by doing wrong in his life – there's some unfinished business. Say a son marries someone his mother disapproves of. Later, after the mother dies, he gets sick or his crops fail repeatedly. The shaman identifies his guilty feelings as the cause of his misfortunes, figures out an appropriate way for him to atone to her ghost. And it often works! Because the shaman allows the victim to have closure with the unfinished business. Same principle as psychoanalysis, just a different vocabulary!' He looked over the rim of his glass at Cree as if a little wary of her reaction. 'But why am I telling you this? You're the modern-day shaman.'
'I've observed the parallels. You're very insightful.'
'So then I was thinking, how does your methodology compare with mine? And I realized yours has several advantages. Me, I see only the patient – I listen to his story, I probe, I ask questions. I accept the story, regardless of its literal truth, and help the patient formulate a constructive coping process. Conventional psychoanalysis is based on creating useful, therapeutic fictions, and I've never been comfortable with that… separation from objective reality. The issue of recovered memory you brought up is a perfect case in point. The patient may come to believe he was ritually abused by satanic parents, but if it's literally, objectively not factual, it creates a damaging schism between the patient and the rest of the world. But you, you do research on the whole picture, so you have much more information at your disposal. You not only talk to the patient, but you also talk to family and friends, you look at patients' home environment and family history, you observe how they live, you see their relationships firsthand. Which allows you to be more… objective. More reality based.' He looked surprised at himself and then added with a grin, 'I can't believe I said that! If one accepts that there are such things as ghosts to begin with, I mean.'
'It's really a more intuitive process, Paul. I get pretty far out there, by your standards. I know ghosts to be a literal reality. And some of my processes – I doubt you'd appreciate them all in the same light.'
'That sounds like something of a warning – 'Keep back! I'm weirder than you think.''
'Paul, I am for sure weirder than you think.' She said it flippantly, but it reminded her of just how much there was to warn Paul Fitzpatrick away from. It wasn't just issues of scientific credibility, things like empathic identification with clients and telepathic communion with ghosts. It was personal.
'But I didn't hear you say, 'Keep back,' right?' he asked.
Cree didn't answer. She was starving, and yet she was too tense to eat. A pressure grew in her, something that had begun when she first met Paul. How could she ask Lila to brave her own depths if she herself wouldn't? Wasn't this the first step to becoming a living person again? But it was so huge. It would have to begin with Mike and expand into metaphysics and psychology and life after death and professional commitments, and there seemed no end and no way out. Going into it now would twist her up inside and imperil her process.
'So you did sort of say it,' he prompted, disappointed.
The wind was cooling rapidly now, bringing with it a coarse mist and the scent of the wet Delta lands to the south.
'I don't want to get into my own convolutions right now. I'd rather get a little drunk. Enjoy the view, unwind in good company. Cut loose a little.'
'Fine by me.' Paul poured her glass full and topped off his own. They both drank and looked out at the view.
That lasted about one minute.
'I mean, what?' he asked. 'You're living with someone? You're HIV-positive? You're a lesbian? You belong to religious cult that forbids intimate relationships with psychiatrists?'
They were both able to laugh, that was nice, but Cree's trepidation grew. She put her hand over his, the best she could do for an answer.
Paul was looking increasingly unsettled. 'Look, Cree, you want my marital resume in twenty-five words or less? It's pretty humdrum – your typical postmodern tale of white-collar love. I'm thirty-nine. Lived with various girlfriends when I was younger. Finally got married about seven years ago, wanting to hang in for the long haul. Got divorced last year, some resentments and bruised hopes on both sides, but sort of semi-amicably. She relocated to Atlanta. It's one reason I moved to this place get a fresh start, you know? I'm still a little rusty at living single. But I like to think I'm wiser now, I move more slowly into relationships now – ' His eyebrows jumped as he looked down at their clasped hands on the table. 'Present circumstances excepted, obviously.'
It had all come out in a rush, and when he was done he paused to take a deep breath. 'Sorry it's not more exotic or… epic or something.' His face moved in wry self-disapproval, but then he rallied and met Cree's eyes. 'Your turn.'
Cree thought about it. She was tired, and the familiar pit of despair opened and drew her toward it. It occurred to her that she faced a clear choice: She could give in to that dark attraction, stay confined within the limits she'd imposed on her life since Mike died, become ever more a ghost. Or she could yield to the sweet magnetism that filled the night air between her and Paul.
She sipped some wine. The blowing mist thickened and began to condense into drops that beaded on her
