Hope To Escape (6 page)

"I know." Max groaned. "I know that that's what it sounds like. Believe me, I'm aware of how my actions must seem. But it was fate, and I screwed it up. I just wanted a chance to fix it." He tried too hard to hide the shame from his face, making it all the more obvious.

Roden had started to feel a little guilty himself when Max first mentioned the words 'destiny' and 'fate', and he knew he needed to clear this up.

"I need to say something to you," Roden began. "I want to make some things clearer to you. You said it was fate that brought you two to the same time and place for a second time. Well, it was more of a coincidence that was enhanced by me." Roden looked at Max and saw confusion slowly working into his features.

He continued, "I happened to be dining at Benlevi's when I overheard a conversation. It was Esther speaking about a lemonade stand she had once, and
a
little boy in rags who she gave lemonade to." Max's eyes perked up at this. "I recognized the story, and decided to mention to her that I knew that boy, and he happened to be an artist with a collection of works dedicated to her."

"You spoke to her?" Max interrupted. Roden could read envy and a hint of jealousy in his voice, but it disappeared
a
moment later. "So, I have you to thank?"

"To answer your first question, yes, obviously I did speak to her," Roden answered, "I thought she might be interested in the collection; and, to be quite honest, since you hate being anywhere near the galleries where your works are being displayed, I thought she wouldn't have the awkwardness of bumping into you if she didn't want to." This information surprised and irritated Max.

"What would be wrong with bumping into me?" He retorted. "I've wanted to find her again my whole life. You know I used to drive all the neighborhoods in the city just trying to find her home again." His anger slowly grew. "Why would you keep such a thing as finding Esther from me?"

"That," Roden countered, "is exactly why I wasn't
about
to let you know that I'd met her. Listen to yourself. You're as obsessive about her as you ever were."

"I am not obsessed!" Now Max's rising anger returned to shame. "Why can't I have a chance to show her my thanks? I remember her, and I am grateful to her. And I'm not the only one who remembers, either. She remembers me. You heard her yourself."

Roden was stunned at this realization. He kept messing up. First he confronted the woman to tell her he recognized her childhood story and to recommend Max's artwork, then he told Max that she remembered their previous encounter. He was doing a very bad job at being
a
psychiatrist right then, and he never felt so disloyal to his profession. He needed to smooth it over.

"Max, listen to me. I had no right to meddle, and – quite stupidly – I thought that telling her about the statues you sculpted of her would be a nice gesture without interfering with your life. Now I see that I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry you interfered? This could be the most important thing that ever happened to me, and you're sorry that you made it happen? And here I thought we were friends."

Roden looked at his patient, and saw the disappointment on the younger man's face. "The coincidence of overhearing her was one thing, I should not have acted on it. I should have left it alone. It was none of my business and against my occupational ethics." Then, trying to divert the topic, he suggested, "Maybe we should discuss the obsessive feelings a little further."

"Like hell," Max's response came with quick disgust. "I'm done with this discussion." He rose from the couch and headed for the door. "After all these years," he turned around before heading out of the office, "I can't believe you'd think that of me."

The door slammed shut. Roden just sat in his armchair staring at the void where his friend and patient had been only seconds before. After
a
moment, the door slowly reopened a crack and Martha popped her head in. "Is everything okay, Doc?"

"Ah," Roden came out of his stupor, a headache starting to form in the back of his head. "Yeah, Martha, just fine. We just had a very emotional session, that's all."

Martha looked a bit puzzled and disbelieving, but she started to close the door. "Martha," Roden spoke up just then, "Could you get me Max Esther's charts? I think I want to review them."

"Certainly."

CHAPTER FIVE

Two weeks after the naked art horror, Ess walked out of the McKnight Building on 51st street and Jackson, where her job practically incarcerated her for ten hours a day, five days a week. It was Friday afternoon, and she strode with a feeling of exhilaration coursing through her veins and tickling her nerve endings. This exuberance seemed a strange sensation, and it made her laugh. She hadn't felt so giddy to start the weekend since college.

Not that she had any plans for the weekend, but she had felt out of sorts for a while, and needed the free time to really unwind. She had a few neglected books piling up on her coffee table that were making her feel guilty; and there was supposed to be a documentary on Saturday evening on the Peloponnesian Peninsula. After the Greek history class she had taken in college – which felt like forever ago now – she developed a keen interest in the ancient country, and was determined that she would visit someday. Of course, unless she could convince Jill or tolerate Manda to go with her, she would have to find a more suitable, and preferably male, companion to accompany her. Until then, she had to content herself with documentaries.

Typically, the weekends were saved for running errands, paying bills and whatever other personal tasks she didn't have time for during her workweek. This weekend, though, she decided to dedicate as a recuperation weekend. She had motivated herself and put extra effort in the last few days after work to get anything and everything accomplished that she would have otherwise put off for the weekend. All she had left to do was to stop at the market to re-stock her food supply. She guiltily recalled that she was out of ice cream . . . again. Exercise would definitely have to be stepped up on her agenda. The block and a half walk to and from the light rail station near her home could not possibly counteract her recent increase in ice cream consumption.

At least this evening she would have to get off the rail one stop early so that she could hit the market before getting to her apartment. That meant she would walk a whole three blocks loaded down with grocery bags. Still, she knew that wouldn't be enough. Ess had to face the reality. Birthday's no longer meant getting wiser and gaining privileges, they meant getting older and gaining body mass; and her mother used to warn her time and again that with age goes metabolism – meaning it goes much slower. She probably should start listening pretty soon.

Ess reached the light rail station just in time to make the current rail car. As usual, it was full at this point in the city, so she grabbed a pole and planted her feet, ready for the jolt when the car began to move. Most passengers would get off at the next stop by the mall where there were clusters of restaurants, so she felt sure she should be able to take a seat then.

The discomfort Ess had felt last week, when she thought people were looking at her and recognizing her face from a certain scandalous sculpture hadn't completely subsided, but it no longer felt as intense. She did still glance around her on occasion to make sure no one was giving her undo notice. All too often, though, she held eye contact with strangers
a
moment longer than comfortable, and her confidence wavered.

One gentleman in particular made eye contact with her more than once on the rail car, and she couldn't help but continually glance back in his direction. The contact became an ongoing cycle that made her more and more self-conscious each time. She felt herself blushing a little, and knew that she better refrain from looking his way again, because her blushes caused her cheeks to become bright red blotches. Very noticeable and obvious, and extremely embarrassing.

Soon enough, the next station came, and people started to get off the car. Having been extremely full when she got on, though, the stop did not free up as many seats as expected. The seat next to the gentleman had vacated, but she felt too awkward to take it. Having passed so many glances with him already, he might take it as advancement. Manda or Lisa would have found it to be a perfect opportunity to hone in on their next boyfriend (or, more appropriately, prey); but Ess always felt a little too introverted to be so forward. So, she just continued to clutch the pole and focused her stare out the window as the light rail began its next course.

Her stop came a few minutes later, and she departed with several other people. One last time, as she turned towards the exit, she unintentionally made eye contact with the same gentleman, and noticed that he had risen from his seat. Apparently, he was getting off at the same stop. Ess took this moment to think if she had ever seen him before. Maybe he was new to the area, and she would come across him again. That wouldn't be so bad. Eventually, she might work up the courage to start a conversation with him.

He looked sort of cute, with his brown eyes and short dark hair. The few wispy bangs that came down over his forehead gave him kind of a charming look. He wore slacks and a tie under his well-made trench coat, so he must be
a
businessman of some sort. That notion had promise, since it suggested success. It did seem a bit odd, though, that he wore the trench coat on a fairly warm September day. That certainly couldn't feel comfortable.

She walked on, thinking about smiling at him the next time they made eye contact, if there was a next time, of course. She didn't see which way he went, and didn't dare to look. If she appeared to look at him too much, she might encourage him to approach her, and she wasn't
feeling
poised enough for that right now. Or worse, she decided, he might not actually be interested, and she could give him a bad impression. The thought of rejection discouraged her further and made her stomach sink slightly.

Fortunately, it didn't take Ess's mind long to trail off towards another subject. She made a mental list of needed grocery items as she walked into the corner market. After grabbing a basket, she headed for the produce isle, her strategy always simple and routine: produce to meat to frozen foods and dairy, with a careful avoidance of the snack food isle.

As she made her way to the frozen foods to stock up on her microwaveable meals, her eyes happened to make contact with the same man she noticed in the light rail car. It took only a second to identify him, and she turned away blushing in recognition, while chastising herself for her inability to keep the redness from her cheeks.

He must live around this area, she thought. That could be convenient for running into him on future occasions . . . occasions when she felt a little more social and readily flirtatious. At the moment, though, her intended solitary weekend had stifled any desire to make anyone's acquaintance.

Therefore, she slipped out of the isle before she had a chance to peruse the ice cream. She'd have to backtrack to the freezer section before she hit the check out counter, because she wasn't
about
to go ice cream deprived all weekend.

After adding milk and half a dozen eggs to her basket Ess headed back to choose her ice cream flavor, relieved to note that the familiar stranger was gone. It took her more time to select the ice cream flavor that suited her mood than it had taken to do the rest of her shopping thus far, but she eventually made it to the checkout counter.

Mr. Baksheesh stood at attention in his customary position at the register. Ess smiled and greeted him, but Mr. Baksheesh, as usual, was all business. Even though Ess shopped there on a weekly basis, it seemed like he never recognized her, even after three years. Mrs. Baksheesh, however, smiled in recognition from where she stocked soft drinks in the cooler. She didn't seem to speak a lot of English, but she always communicated with a warm smile and a nod of the head. Ess smiled sincerely in return and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

She turned her attention back towards Mr. Baksheesh, and had to force herself not to grimace at his frowning features. What an unexpected pair Mr. and Mrs. Baksheesh made, she thought to herself. Apparently opposites do attract.

It didn't take long for the old grump to ring up her purchases. Ess waited as he bagged the groceries. She recalled one occasion that she had tried to help him with that task. She would never do that again. He reacted as though it was the worst insult anyone had ever committed on another person, even slapping her hand away from the bag she attempted to stuff. Ess wondered if that was quite possibly the reason he acted so cold towards her now. Then again, he wasn't exactly jovial before her former error of judgment, either.

After Mr. Baksheesh completed his task, Ess skillfully balanced the bags on each arm, and turned for the door. As she did, she nearly smashed her nose into the chest of the familiar stranger. This caused her to blush in mortification, yet again. She mumbled a nearly coherent "excuse me", and headed straight for the automatic door. As the door closed behind her, Mr. Baksheesh called out, "Thank you. Come again."

Once outside, Ess reflected on her humiliating display of clumsiness. Why on earth did that man make her so nervous? It was certainly true that Ess could be rather bashful, but it's not like she never associated with the opposite sex. She had dated, she worked with male colleagues, and she even had a few male friends in college, albeit they were gay. Still, there was no reason to be that ridiculously timid in his presence, or any one else's presence for that matter. She couldn't quite place her finger on where this nervous awkwardness came from.

In the three block walk it took for her to get to her apartment, Ess managed to let the incident go, and think of other things, such as getting the ice cream in the freezer before the precious substance liquefied in the predatory warmth that lingered into the late afternoon.

At the front entrance to her apartment building, Ess set her grocery bags down so that she could more easily fumble for the keys in her purse. Once she retrieved them and unlocked the door, she held it ajar with her foot and bent down for the bags. Stretching for the last one, she nearly lost her balance, and had to remove her foot from its post as a temporary door jam in order to right herself. She felt her frustration well up as the door began to close despite her efforts at a speedy balance recovery. Just before it slammed shut, a hand grabbed the door and swung it back open. Ess looked up into the face of her rescuer, and saw the familiar stranger once again.

Several thoughts rushed through her head just then. This man seemed to be practically following her; a convenient – and yet, embarrassing – opportunity that he was there, once again, in her presence. Could it be fate? Or some effort of her own subconscious mind to put herself in the path of this guy so that she could meet him – or perpetually embarrass herself in front of him? And much to her chagrin, she felt her face heat up with that horribly obvious blush.

"Allow me," the man said, holding the door for her. With an awkward half smile, she croaked out a thank you in reply and clumsily maneuvered her packages and person into the lobby. At the stairs she picked up her pace, wanting to be far away from the embarrassment that this man seemed to arouse in her as soon as she could.

Luckily, she noted, the man did not follow her up the stairs, but went for the elevator instead. She noticed that he entered the lock code to open the elevator doors, so he must be a resident of the building. It was a bizarre coincidence that she kept running into him, but if fate was involved, then Ess was not doing
a
very good job at rising to the opportunity. She thought on that with some extensive self-loathing while she entered her little third floor, white washed apartment, and closed the door behind her. She locked the dead bolt out of habit, and headed for the kitchen to save her failing ice cream.

* * *

It was late Friday evening. Max had no reason to think that Roden would get the voice message he left on his office phone until Monday morning. Max had Roden's cell phone number, so if he truly felt the need to get a hold of him, he could have dialed him there. This went through Roden's mind over and over again as he replayed the message, two, three, four times.

Roden didn't often come to his office after hours, but earlier in the day he had mistakenly left his house key in his jacket pocket, which he left behind for the raincoat when he saw some ominous clouds heading in from the east. Since he returned now for the keys, and found his message light blinking, he thought he might as well check it. Good thing he did, too.

Shock and confusion were his first reactions to the message. Quickly, this shifted into panic, anxiety and anger as he determined what his course of action should be. What should he do? As a psychiatrist, he knew he should be calm and level headed in the face of such news, but it hit too close to home. This wasn't just a patient he was dealing with, it was Max.