Marcus

I stare.

I know I shouldn’t be doing it, but I just can’t help myself. There is something so perfect and precious about him. Blue eyes like oceans. Soft, crinkly blond hair. Just those little touches of freckles that could be stars in the night sky…

“Lillian…”

Oh, and I’m supposed to be paying attention. I’m supposed to be talking.

“Lillian, how are you feeling today?”

I know. I know it’s only his job, and he has about a dozen patients every day, and he asks them all how they’re feeling, and there’s nothing special about him asking it of me. But I feel as if he means it, as if the really does care how I feel, and what’s been happening for me in the last week.

“I’m good,” I tell him. And I wonder if he’s noticed the new lipstick I’m wearing for his sake, or this dress that I’ve got on. Oh, I know I shouldn’t do it. I know. But I lick my lips, I tell him, “Good. I feel positive today.” And I cross my legs for good measure.

“How’s it going with your family?”

My family…? Ah, yes, yes. The things I’ve said there. And look: most of them are the God’s honest truth. My dad: he’s a drinker. And so’s my mum. And I tell you what, it’s like a competition between the two of them, who can knock the most back, and then who can get the craziest on the other one until the noise level galvanizes the neighbours and suddenly there are lights and sirens, and Jared from number 16 is standing in his window with his bloody phone taking pictures. It’s easy enough to present all of that – especially to Marcus who’s just so easy to talk to. Just this way he looks at me as if he understands, as if he really sees into my soul and feels my feelings right along with me.

Ah, sigh. Such a deep well of compassion…

“Lillian…”

“I… Oh. Er….”

“Are you having trouble focusing today, Lillian?”

“I… didn’t sleep so well last night.” That seems safe. It’s hard for it to contradict anything. Because I do risk forgetting: where have I told the truth? Exaggerated? Okay, at times, outright lied? Just to see that look on his face, the way his eyes narrow, the way he reins in his shock and does his best to look benign. But I know what he must be thinking: how terrible for her, how awful, if only I could take her away from all that…

I had a crush on a teacher once when I was in school. He was nearly fifty, but such a sweetheart. And my friend told me I was fucked in the head. And my mum told me – opening up a bottle of wine – that no good was going to come of it. And what did I see in the paunchy old bugger anyway? And I should steer clear of him anyway, because really all that could happen was I’d get him into trouble and stir up a big hornet’s nest of shouting and yelling.

She was right, of course, about Mr Dickson.

But Marcus Sanford is another matter.

And hey, I’m a grown-up now. I must be about the same age as him, both in our ripening twenties, giving thirty just a gentle shove. Though he barely shows it. There are no wrinkles on the corners of his eyes, his skin is smooth, like silk, like suede. Probably like vellum. What does vellum feel like? Mr Dickson was a history teacher, so he probably would have known, but really, I haven’t thought about him for more than a second at a time in the last ten years. I had a thing then, sure, but he was no Marcus Sandford.

Nothing can come of it. Right? He’s my psychologist. It’s not allowed.

But I can’t help imagining that moment when he realizes that what he sees in me is not just some professional concern, it’s deeper than that: tenderness, passion. He won’t want to admit it to himself, he’ll resist it, but the strength of his love for me will just be too strong. He’ll throw his glasses down on the desk, declaring that he has to be with me. In the morning he’ll send a letter of resignation to the hospital.

“But what about your job?”

“Nothing matters more than you.”

“What will we live on?”

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we’re together. We’ll travel. We’ll pick fruit. We’ll work in cafes. We can go anywhere.”

“But those years of training and studying…”

“Nothing compared to you….

…. a lot lately….”

Wait. Focus. I look back out of the fantasy and into those hypnotic blue eyes that are so many shades of blue all at once. He’d been saying – no, not undying love – about… sleep…?

“Have you been having trouble sleeping a lot lately?”

“Not… usually. No. No. Just last night, when Mum came home super late. And she was so drunk she still had a man with her. It was like she’d forgotten she was married to Dad. It was three in the morning and they were all over each other, and Dad came out of course and he was screaming his head off. They were calling each other all the worst things, and Dad was talking about going and grabbing the bat from upstairs.”

It was more like one in the morning. There was a man, but it was just Doug, and Dad knows Doug and mostly just told him to stop letting her get like that, even though he was pretty half-cut himself by then, and that was just sitting around home.

So: I exaggerated a bit. I chewed up some scenery, spat it out. I might have left a tear form in the corner of one eye.

Oh, I know. I know. But it’s just the feeling of his sympathy, the way he looks at me as if he wants to rescue me, the way he admires my resilience in the face of this troubled home life. With these mental health problems on top of it…

Obsession is bad, right? But it’s like chocolate and chips, it might be hurting you inside, but it just feels so good. Pure. This sense of focus. This pure, soul-deep wanting. Feeling like these sessions are the gravity that makes my world keep turning. The next six days just spent waiting, waiting, wanting to be with him, in his presence again.

I look at up at the clock.

Fifteen minutes left.

I make a point, every day, of walking past the hospital, just in the hope that he might walk past, that I might get to see him. Or I’ll sit on the steps of the council building across the road, pretending to be reading, but just hoping and hoping to catch a glimpse. I hope to see him, every time I go out: the movies, the supermarket, the chemist. I might be on the bus and I might see him getting out of his car as the bus passes. He probably doesn’t notice me, but that moment, that glimpse, is the highlight of my day. It sets everything to rights. Can that really be a bad thing?

Fifteen minutes.

I try to make the most of my time. I know he wants to talk about me – which is flattering, not just professionalism – but I try to inject a little bit of him into the conversation. Try to learn about him, about his home, his family, what he has, what he loves, what he wants. I’ve been known to make up hobbies, or favourite TV shows, just to see if he reacts, to see if he likes the same thing. I think he’s going to the cat show on Saturday – you had better believe I’ll be going there as well. I should adopt a kitty…

I’m preparing a dossier. I take all these little scraps of who he is and I write them down – next to photos, and sketches inside hearts, and short little romance novellas that star the two of us – keep them close, memorise them. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to use them for yet, I just know that the more I know the better, and that I have just under an hour a week to learn a little more, to flesh out a little more understanding.

“So, how did you find today?”

“Really helpful, thanks Marcus.”

“That’s good. Same time for next week’s appointment?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Marcus holds the door open for me – such a gentleman – and he smiles as I walk out, Beautiful, wonderful Marcus. I don’t know how to fit into words just how beautiful and wonderful he is.

I head down the hallway to the reception desk. “Same time next week, he says.”

“No worries.” She writes on the card for me. “We’ll look forward to seeing you.”

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work