The Death of Small Creatures (34 page)

Now I have a fireplace, hardwood floors, a big bay window with little twinkle lights around it, a garden, a quiet street lined with cherry blossom trees, and a backyard where my one remaining rabbit, Marcello, can roam and play in the sunshine and wind.

“When was the last time you travelled?” the border guard asks me.

I want to tell him I have travelled a great distance, from despair to contentment, more or less, from heartache to freedom, more or less, into the cradle of my existence.

Who am I? What is my name? Where am I going?

I am Trisha Cull. I am going further. I am going further still. I will not stop until I get there.

Richard is waiting
for me when I get off
The Clipper
. I am walking the plank off the boat, hauling my little suitcase on rollers behind me, when I see him standing on the rampart above, waving to me from the other side of a chain-link fence. He is dressed in dark clothing—black pants, a black blazer and a dark green T-shirt—and he is as tall and slender as I remember him being.

He is smiling. I wave and smile back. He walks alongside the chain-link fence until I enter into the customs office and we disappear from each other's view, momentarily, until I emerge again on the other side and he is there waiting for me.

“Hi sweetheart,” he says, and his grasp of me is tender and wholesome. “I missed you.”

I look up at him. “I missed you too,” I say.

Clinical Note:

We work on transference material together to have her accept that simply moving her attention from me to the next man without understanding the nature of her fixations is not a very good approach to love and life. She is able to see how she is doing this, but believes she “really loves Richard,” and needs this “fixation” right now.

“I miss you,”
I say. “I miss the old days of enchantment.”

“And yet you see me twice a week,” Dr. P says.

“It's not the same. When we saw each other before, there seemed to be a real distinct chance that we might one day be together, romantically.”

“But I'll always be here,” he says. He is wearing dark baggy trousers and a blue and white checkered shirt. The shirt is new, crisp, something his wife bought him for the hot summer months perhaps. He leaves his top three shirt buttons undone, exposing a bit of chest hair. I have long since wondered if this is something he does for my benefit. Perhaps this is hopeful thinking, perhaps not. Does he get up in the mornings on days he knows he's going to see me and prim and proper himself with extra care? Does he shave extra close and comb his hair more carefully? Does he put on the cologne I only sometimes smell on his skin? Does he do these things in anticipation of seeing me, the way I shower and scrub myself on days I know I'm going to see him?

I get up early, stumble to the coffee machine, make a cup of coffee, carry it with me into the shower, place the cup on the wood window ledge that opens onto the neighbour's garden and sprawling apple tree, so I can sip coffee as I shower. Then I lather my hair with expensive shampoo. I slather it in expensive conditioner, letting the conditioner soak into my hair as I shave my legs with raspberry shaving gel. Then I scrub my body with one of those buff puff things, the little shower scrunchies that come in many colours, using my organic lavender and mint shower gel in the scrunchie to make it soap and foam all over my body. I press my face into the hot stream of shower, wash my face with facial wash, keep my eyes shut tight and I think of him, all the years I've spent lusting after him, wanting him to love me and rescue me from my pain and addictions, and I realize I can love him without wanting to possess him, and that he was right not to take me up on my offers.

I cleanse myself of the obsession until all that's left is passionate but tempered love and attraction. I can make it on my own now.

“But now you see things more realistically,” he says.

“Yes, I'm seeing things more realistically,” I say.

“You have a lot of things to look forward to right now,” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

Clinical Note:

She is improving! No longer obsessing about me. Not as anguished by the fact that the boundaries in therapy are non-negotiable and healthy. We do still explore how denial serves her fantasies.

Richard takes me
to Le Pichet, a quaint little restaurant not far from the hotel. It's dimly lit with cool art on the walls. The street bustles outside with the sound of bands playing at local bars and restaurants.

I order a ham, egg and cheese soufflé. My wits are returning to me, and with my wits comes a ravenous craving for meat. I eat meat this one time only.

Richard orders the same thing and a half pichet of white wine. He sips slowly. He is, to me, a refined gentleman with a fine palate for wine and food. He does catering jobs on the side to supplement his painting pursuits.

“Your art would be so well received,” I say.

I have viewed his artwork on his website: bodies stripped of skin, all muscle and sinew, fibrous grains. I am drawn to his morbidity. He is a rare combination of goth and sweetness. He is the kind of man who wears designer wool pants with retro T-shirts and cool loafer shoes. Many of his paintings depict scenes of death: a small bird lying on its side, grey and white, charcoal; human bodies slaked of skin, fibrous grains of luminescent muscle. The human body backlit by golden light. The body is horrific and beautiful at the same time.

“What makes you drawn to images of the dead?” I say.

“It's the lack of movement,” he says. “Solid figures versus bodies in motion. The substance of being.”

After dinner we go back to the hotel. I look at the walls, can't decide whether to sit down or stand. He takes off his blazer, sits on the bed and falls back so he is laying down. His green T-shirt rides up a little, exposing his slender stomach and the small oval birthmark by his belly button.

I sit down on the bed next to him, conscious of my scars and think of all the men who have had sex with me, who think they have made love to me, whom I believed I made love to, and I realize this may be the first time I've ever made love to a man I actually love. I feel empowered by my sexuality. I am a woman, no longer a girl, but somehow always a girl at the same time, strong and innocent, passionate and playful, wise and wiser still.

Richard reaches over, places his hand on the small of my back, and I lay down too. I want him to want me for who I am, not for what I represent or how I look. I'm ready for him to want me. A moment later, we are kissing, gently, soft little kisses on my mouth and behind my ears. We roll into each other and make love.

Clinical Note:

More on erotic transference material as much as we can now that she is no longer having such intense feelings for me. In fact, there are only fleeting resurgences of the erotic transference now. She is doing very well in most ways.

On his second
visit to see me, Richard and I make love almost every day. It's the best sex of my life. No one has ever cared enough to actually search for me, to search for signs of my existence.

He finds me because I am here now and want to be found. I invite him to lay down upon me, but I no longer need to be pressed upon as if I will drift away without the weight of a man upon me.