This surprises me. The Gabriel I knew kept his hurt close to his chest. “How open?”
Jane smooths back her hair, runs her fingers across the top of her opposite palm, shifts in her seat. Her obvious discomfort throws fuel on my curiosity.
“That question is better asked of Gabriel. I don’t want to betray a confidence.”
I try not to frown as I bite into my muffin. I’m glad she’s being respectful of Gabriel, but it’s getting in the way of me understanding more about him. About why he would confide in Jane, and what he’s told her.
“Are you married, Jane?” Her ring finger is bare, but she works with food. She likely doesn’t wear it when she bakes.
She sweeps an arm around the shop. “Sure I am. To this bakery.”
I huff a soft laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Once upon a time, I was married.” Something in her eyes recedes, like a waterline pulling away from the shore. There’s a vacancy there, a haunting, something she tries hard to suppress. I haven’t known her long enough to draw such a conclusion, but it’s obvious to me, this pain she wears on the inside.
“Do you want to talk about it?” My register drops, getting deeper and softer, measured. I may not practice therapy anymore, but that way of thinking is never too far. I see now that it wasn’t just the job, but me. Listening and problem solving is a core part of who I am.
Jane shakes her head. “Some problems simply exist, and that’s all there is to it. Talking about them won’t help.”
“Talking about them almost always helps.”
“Who?” Jane’s eyebrows lift. “Who does it help? It can’t help the victim if it’s the victimizer doing the talking.”
Interesting. It sounds as if Jane has slotted herself in the offensive role. I don’t love the term ‘victimizer’ because it’s more commonly used to describe someone who’s committed a crime, but since Jane’s used it I’ll roll with it. “The victimizer doesn’t deserve to be heard?”
Jane eyes me. As I watch, the curtains she uses to keep herself from being seen too deeply fall into place. The pain she keeps inside goes back the way it came, and a light filters into her gaze. She is the muffin lady again.
Jane sweeps crumbs off the table into her waiting cupped palm. “You’re an author? From Phoenix?”
I say nothing about the abrupt subject change. “I’m not an author yet,” I answer. “I’m not published. And yes, I’m from Phoenix.”
“Sure hot down there.” Jane tosses her muffin liner in the trash.
I don’t think Jane wants to talk about the searing heat of summer. I dip my chin a fraction, the way Dr. Ruben used to, a way of silently acknowledging what I’d said without giving it too much attention. I stay quiet, and I wait, and after a few seconds of silence, I’m rewarded with, “I used to live there. Smack dab in the center of the city. Not that it’s much of a city”—she raises a hand in a vertical line, indicating tall buildings—“but you know what I mean.”
“I do.” I finish my last bite of muffin. “Did you own a bakery there?”
“No.” She chuckles, as if the idea is absurd.
“What did you do?”
She stares at my chest, but I don’t think she’s seeing me. Her eyes gloss over, and she takes an odd-sounding breath, like she’s suppressing a sob. Her eyes meet mine. “You’re good,” she says, pointing a shaking finger at me. “Gabriel said you were.”
“I’m not practicing anymore.” I swallow the last of my coffee.
“It doesn’t seem like you need an office to practice.”
A smile tugs up one side of my mouth. “Once a therapist…”
Jane takes my empty cup. I throw away my liner and my napkin. “Thank you for the coffee and muffin, Jane.”
“My pleasure. It was nice to put a face to the name. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I hope that’s a good thing,” I joke.
She places a hand on my upper arm. It’s warm, comforting. My mother’s young face flashes through my mind. “It is, honey. It really is.”
I say goodbye and go back to my car. I’m walking quickly, because I’ve been struck by something precious and fleeting.
