Three
Nurse Attitudemade a hasty retreat. Amazing how quickly she fled from so simple a gesture. Henri had only licked his arm twice before she bounded out of the room to report to the higher-ups. Ah, and that’s what he paid for every time he checked himself into rehab—quality entertainment.
A five-foot-nothing human dynamo bounded through the door before he’d even gotten his tongue back in his mouth. Ms. Perky, also known as Tessa Eklund, meditation therapist, merely smiled and quipped, “Let me guess. Tastes like chicken, right?”, thus taking all the fun out of his crazy act. “How are you feeling today, Henri?” She deposited a large bronze bowl and an even larger purse on his coffee table, and removed three nested bowls from the larger one. Funny how someone who couldn’t be still for even a moment intended to teach him how to calm the fuck down.
He wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to rattle her seemingly unflappable cage. “Why don’t you be the judge? Come on over and check for feathers. Or better yet, have a taste of chicken.” He held out his arm.
Henri sat sprawled across an armchair by the window in the luxury quarters of his favorite Los Angeles rehab facility, where he’d been hiding from the world since his “kiss the cop” incident. So far he’d managed to shirk all responsibilities for a full three weeks. He owned houses he’d spent less time in.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass—I’m vegan.” The woman giggled and sauntered over to pat his head, pushing his arm out of the way. She stooped to pick up a drink cup from the floor. “Hmmm, you’re feeling like a temperamental rock god, right?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You always feel like a temperamental rock god.” She balled up the cup and slam-dunked it into the trash can. “She shoots, she scores!”
He’d been waiting for a visit from this woman all afternoon. Therapist Tessa was the closest thing he had to a true friend. How pathetic was that? “I’d kill for a joint.”
“And I’d be killed for giving you one.” She flitted around the room, plumping the pillows on his bed, hanging up a jacket he’d deliberately left on the floor.
Yanking her chain about his drug use had become a ritual for them. “Pul-eeze. Have a heart.” Henri gave her puppy dog eyes. “Everybody knows you health care types have the best shit.”
“Only because we confiscate it from our temperamental rock god clients.” She shoved his tennis shoes into the closet. Twice daily housekeeping cleaned his room, and yet his meditation coach recleaned every day. Of course, he made sure to leave plenty of debris lying around. Lord knew what Perky Girl would do with her nervous energy if not put to good use. Spontaneously combust, maybe? That’d be messy.
Henri deserved an Academy Award for his put-upon sigh. He added a pout for effect. “That’s a no, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” Tessa straightened the blinds he’d left at an angle.
“But… but…. I’m in here to relax and create music. I can’t relax and create music without a big fat joint.”
“Sure you can. What you need is meditation, not medication. You don’t need drugs.” Her scowl would have been scary if she’d managed to be a little taller. Five foot with her skinny frame gave her the appearance of a pixie. A pixie who, at the moment, was rearranging the magazines on his coffee table—alphabetically.
“Prove it!” Ha, had her there.
“That’s why I’m here. Meditating on your own puts you to sleep, yoga inspires inappropriate comments, and you don’t play well with others, which leaves out group therapy. I’m your last hope before you’re shuffled into arts and crafts as the de-stress portion of your stay. Trust me, you don’t want arts and crafts.” She plopped down onto the floor by the coffee table. “Now, I want you to clear your mind.”
A little digging in a handbag nearly bigger than Tessa produced a fat wooden peg, tipped with rubber. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before letting it out in a controlled exhale. The cleansing. Eyes still closed, she tapped the peg against the side of the first bowl. The sweetest, purest note emerged, sending cold chills along Henri’s arms. At one time she’d have insisted on him joining her on the floor. She’d learned to pick her battles and not waste a precious moment of their half hour together. Henri remained in the chair, but he listened as she wound the mallet around the top of the bowl, creating a soothing hum.
“Inhale deeply, now breathe out. Let go of the pressures, let go of the pain. Push them out of your body. Slow, steady breaths. Feel the tension drain, all of your stresses, all of your cares.”
The first bowl still sang, and she added notes from the second and fourth; the smaller the bowl, the higher the pitch. When notes from the others faded, she tapped the third, the first, and the second and fourth again, then slowly wound the mallet around the edges of each bowl.
The created harmony soothed his nerves as much as her friendly presence. Henri’s failures taunted him before reality kicked in. Reflection was the last thing he needed, the first being a band, a stage, and an audience. He’d lost his band—everyone but him belonged to Margo. Not that the other members of Hookers and Cocaine were his friends, but he’d earned one hell of a lot of money with them, not to mention fame. For a moment he struggled to breathe. What the hell had he done?
He might have won his independence from his mother, but he’d paid a heavy price. He’d barely managed to maintain status quo while with his old band; now his recent mad dash for freedom meant starting over. Starting over took energy. The mere thought had Henri ready to curl up for a nap. And then mad panic set in again. Pills. He needed pills. Or a joint. Booze would do in a pinch—the reason he was in rehab and not at home, where five minutes and a few bills could get him whatever he wanted. At the very least, somebody hand him some chocolate!
Fuck it all. “This isn’t the kind of music I need. Got any rock and roll or heavy metal hiding in that bowl?” Words always formed in his head while she played, but sappy, sunshine-and-roses stuff, not anything Henri Lafontaine could put his name on. He needed pounding rhythms, a primal scream, some way to release the darkness within. “The Darkness Within.” That’d make one hell of a song title.
“These are delicate instruments, meant for calming, soothing, and meditation. They’re not gongs.” Tessa lifted her chin into the air.
A gong. Hmmm…. What if he introduced a gong to the new tune he’d been working on? Sure, Queen had ended “Bohemian Rhapsody” with a gong, but how many of his current fans knew of the seventies hit? And those who did might enjoy the touch of nostalgia and homage to a group who’d influenced a young Henri. Still, a gong. Different. Different was good. “What else do you play? Piccolo? Flute?” He pictured Tessa with fairy wings, sitting in a tree while serenading birds.
Narrowed eyes and pursed lips announced an acceptance of his challenge, a very different image from “Fairy Tessa.” “Name a song, any song, and I’ll play it, using just what I find in this room.”
She was supposed to get adorably flustered, not accept. Still, a slim chance beat none. “You’re on. If you can’t, I get a joint.” Might as well make the most of the situation.
“And if I win?”Shwooshwent an empty tissue box into the trash.Please don’t let her ask why I go through so many tissues.Isolation meant no warm bedmates and pending calluses on Henri’s palms. Sooner or later she’d find the empty lotion bottle under the bed—and likely order a replacement.
“Front-row concert tickets, if and when I ever have a band again.”
