Stray Fears Read online

  “What’d he do?”

  “It’s not so much what he did.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “It wasn’t even what he said.”

  “So, what? The way he said it?”

  “Never mind. He’s just an asshole, ok? That’s my point.”

  “Got it. Asshole. I’ll hate him on sight.”

  “Please. You’ll probably fall in love with him. That’s your problem, just so you know. You’re way too desperate. All those pretty gay boys can sense it, and that’s why you’re alone and single and sad.”

  I let the car drift right as I rolled my eyes.

  “Jesus,” Mason laughed, grabbing the wheel.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Stroked out for a minute.”

  “This is why I need a new partner.”

  “You can’t get a new partner because nobody wants to deal with you.”

  “Martinez would work with me.”

  “Martinez would eat you alive before lunch.”

  “Hey,” Mason said. “Martinez and I get along great.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “We do.”

  “That’s why you begged me to go to his bachelor party.”

  “I didn’t beg you.”

  “When the absolute last thing I need is to see lady parts bouncing in my face.”

  “Lady parts?”

  I mimed in front of my chest. “Not interested in any part of that package. Just put it away, girls.”

  “Seriously, how old are you?”

  “Didn’t we just do this?”

  “I’m just asking because I’ve never heard a grown man call boobs ‘lady parts,’ so, you know, I’m naturally curious.”

  “Speaking of lady parts—”

  “No. No segues.”

  “How’s Mary Ann?”

  “She’s great.”

  “She’s great?”

  “She’s visiting her sister in Baton Rouge.”

  “Still?”

  Mason frowned and played with the window’s handle. “What do you mean?”

  “Last week when you needed a ride from your meeting, she was up there.”

  “No, last week she was visiting her Mom.”

  “And the week before that,” I said, “she couldn’t drive you because her car was making a clunking noise.”

  “Right,” Mason said, working the handle back and forth.

  “And the week before that,” I said.

  “Dag,” Mason said, his eyes cutting toward me. “Come on.”

  I raised one hand in surrender.

  “Things are fine,” Mason mumbled, giving the handle a final whack. “Things with Mary Ann are just great.”

  ELIEN (3)

  The rest of the week passed quickly and quietly, the way all my weeks passed. I watched Ellen in the afternoon. I chopped bell peppers and packaged individual servings in plastic baggies. I had Richard’s Sazerac waiting for him every day when he got home from work. I did ferocious amounts of what Richard laughingly called jazzercise—cardio workouts with pseudo-militaristic themes like Boot Camp and Basic Training. I was fighting a losing battle, though; most days, my pants had elastic waistbands.

  On Saturday morning, I was lying on the couch, watching Richard read the paper. He had thick gray hair on his arms and the backs of his hands; I could see the little spot where his hair was thinning when he turned the page. I dug my toe into his side, and he grunted. When I did it again, he took my foot and gently moved it aside, but he kept his hand there, his thumb running over my ankle.

  “I’m trying to annoy you,” I said.

  “That sounds like attention-seeking behavior,” he said. He had a lovely voice, rich and cultured and commanding. He squeezed my ankle once and then let go so he could turn the page again.

  I got my toe back against his ribs again. “I’m seeking attention.”

  He pushed my foot away. Again. Gently.

  Dig. Dig. Dig.

  Behind the paper, he sighed. “Elien, I would really like to read my paper.”

  “I could start a fight.”

  He turned the page. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

  “I could do something really drastic. I could do something bad.”

  He must have found something interesting, because now he was shaking out the fold, trying to follow a line of text.

  “Maybe I’ll drive into town and buy a dozen donuts and eat all of them.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “A baker’s dozen. That’s thirteen.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “I’ll eat them in the car so you won’t know and then I’ll pull over and stick a finger down my throat and barf it all up on the shoulder.”

  From behind the paper came another sigh, and then Richard folded the Times-Picayune and set it aside. He had soft brown eyes that always looked like he was about to cry.

  The worst part about dating a psychiatrist—well, besides his absolute refusal to write me a scrip, and making me go to Zahra for everything—was that he did very annoying things like Pay Full Attention and Really Listen and Ask Good Questions. He was doing all three of them right then.

  “I understand that you are asking for my attention, and now I’m giving it to you. I hear you, and I see you, Elien. What’s this about? Do you really want to talk about your diet?”

  “I just told you my new diet: it’s all donuts.”

  “I think it’s important for you to be able to eat whatever you want in moderation.”

  “Nope. No moderation.”

  “Is this about how you feel about your body?”

  I rubbed my belly. “I love these curves. I love my new, sexy look. Voluptuous. I think that’s the word, right?”

  “I don’t like it when you make jokes about how you look, Elien. It makes me uncomfortable because I love you and I find you attractive, and it also worries me because you have a history of not taking care of your body.”

  Another really fucking annoying thing psychiatrist boyfriends do is Say True Things.

  “You find me attractive?” I said, tugging up my tank, rubbing my belly again. “You want to go upstairs and prove it?”

  “Yes,” Richard said. “I would like that. Would you like that?”

  He held my gaze, and I broke first, my eyes dropping, my face heating.

  “How would you feel if I talked about how old and decrepit I am?” Richard asked. “What if I told you every day how stupid I feel next to you?”

  “You’re not old.”

  “I’m almost thirty years older than you.”

  “Ok, but you’re not old.”

  “Please look at me when we’re talking.”

  I did, but I only lasted a second before my eyes started stinging and I hid my face in my elbow.

  “How would you feel?” Richard asked again.

  “I wouldn’t like it.”

  “And I don’t like it when you make jokes about hurting yourself because you don’t like how you look. I understand that you aren’t happy with your body, but I also know that you’re working on this with Zahra.”

  My eyes were hot and sticky against the inside of my arm.

  “Body dysmorphia is not an easy thing to treat,” Richard said softly, his hand light on my ankle again. “And the weight gain is one side effect of the medication. We knew that before you started it. Do you want to go off the medication?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ok, I support that choice. I don’t think it would be the right thing for you either.” He squeezed my ankle lightly. “Hey. Forget the paper. Let’s go for a drive. Let’s get some good food and have a picnic. We’ll find somewhere shady. We’ll drink iced tea. It’ll be perfect.”

  I rolled off the couch, scrubbed my face once, and said, “I can’t. I forgot.”

  “Elien, this feels like avoidance behavior. You’re not running away from me because you’re upset, are you?”


  Shaking my head, I moved toward the stairs. “No, I just forgot. I told Zahra I’d check in on Ray this week.”

  “Ok, I can drive you into town. Who’s Ray?”

  “Just a guy from group. I’ll get an Uber.” Shoving my bare feet into tennis shoes, I was out the door and into the bayou’s heat before Richard could answer.

  DAG (4)

  “He’s smoking hot,” my dad said. His voice sounded tinny playing from the phone where it lay on the dash.

  Mason pretended to upchuck into his takeout bag.

  “Gross,” I said.

  “No, Dag, you’re not listening. He’s gorgeous. He’s perfect.”

  My mom’s voice came from the background: “He’s very handsome.”

  “Do you hear that?” my dad said. “Your mom says he’s very handsome.”

  “I heard. Thank you. I appreciate your unconditional love and support. Now, I’m officially terminating this conversation.”

  “I told him I didn’t know if you preferred to host.”

  I wondered if I could melt into my seat. “Dad, you cannot talk to guys about stuff like that for me.”

  “Is that what it’s called when guys come over for sex? Hosting?”

  “I think it’s called running a train,” my mom shouted in the background.

  “You are no longer my parents,” I said. “Goodbye, strangers. I wish you the best of luck.”

  “You’ve got to text him,” my dad said. “Promise me you’ll text him. I see him every week at Rouses, and I won’t be able to look him in the eyes if you don’t text him.”

  “So go to another grocery store.”

  “You know Rouses has the chicken salad I like.”

  “Dad—”

  “Promise me.”

  “Fine, I’ll text him if it means we never have to talk about this again.”

  “And you’ve got to put some effort in when you host, Dagobert,” my dad said.

  “I really think it’s called running a train,” my mom said.

  “This is the best thing of my life,” Mason whispered.

  I reached for the phone to take it off speaker, and Mason wrestled me away from it.

  “I’m just saying,” my dad added, “if you shave, if you pick up the place, if you put on a nice jockstrap, I think you have a chance. This guy’s right at the edge of your weight class, but I think you’ve got a chance.”

  “Jesus, Dad,” I said, giving up and letting Mason force me away from the phone. “Give your only son a little credit.”

  “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, young man,” my mom said.

  “I was reading on Out.com that jockstraps are highly in demand if you are a bottom,” Dad said. “But a lot of the commenters said tops or bottoms look hot in a jock.”

  “You are a straight, middle-aged Republican in Louisiana. Why are you reading Out.com?”

  “The world is changing,” my mom said.

  “This guy, he looks a little bit like that twink you used to bring over. Gloria, what was his name?”

  “Jackson,” Mom called back.

  “Jackson,” my dad said. “He looks like Jackson, only hotter.” I could picture him sitting back, glowing with self-satisfaction as he added, “How’s that for father of the year?”

  “Jackson?” Mason whispered. “Jackson Sanders?”

  “Shut up,” I whispered back. Louder, I said, “Mom, Dad, I’ve got to go. I’m working.”

  My mom’s voice came on the line now; she must have stopped whatever she was doing. “Sweetheart, you will not believe who called me. Donna Comeaux. Can you believe that? Sobbing. Did you know they are making her boy go back to work?”

  “Of course I know. He’s my partner.”

  “He was shot, Dagobert,” Mom said like she was announcing the end of the world. “He should be taking care of himself.”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. LeBlanc,” Mason said. “Honestly, I’m fine. Back at work and feeling great.”

  “Mason, sweetheart? Is that you?”

  “Mason,” my dad said, “do you remember Jackson?”

  “Goodbye,” I said, grabbing the phone. “Please find yourself a new son.”

  As I disconnected the call, I threw a wary look at Mason.

  “What?” he finally said.

  “I’m just waiting for it.”

  “You’re such a weirdo sometimes.” He munched a few fries. Then he said, “Ketchup.”

  I ran my thumb at the corners of my mouth, but Mason shook his head and gestured higher on his jawline. I tried again, got a good bit of it with the heel of my hand, and then picked up the rest with a napkin.

  “Seriously,” I said. “Just get it out of your system.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I gestured to the dash, where the phone had sat.

  “It’s nice,” he said. “They care about you. They want you to be happy.”

  “Great. I’m going to be so happy that they’ll have to lock me in padded room.”

  “You know what?” Mason said through a mouthful of fries. He swallowed. “Sometimes, you’re a drama queen.”

  “This is why we’re still friends,” I said. “This, right here. What would I do without this?”

  “That’s right,” Mason said, throwing a fry like a mini spear. It barely missed my eye.

  “I’m going to tell Sarge to put you with Martinez. I’m going to ask if I can work alone.”

  “Great,” Mason said. “I’ll do great with Martinez.”

  Shifting into reverse, I eased the car out of the parking stall behind the Zaxby’s, and then we pulled out onto the street.

  “Seriously, man,” Mason said, squeezing the back of my neck. “I’m fine. I’m ready to be back. It feels good to be back, you know, just normal stuff like this. Doing the job. You know that, right?”

  “I know.”

  He squeezed once more, and then his arm dropped back at his side. “And if this guy looks like Jackson fucking Sanders, we are sure as fuck getting you a diamond-studded jock.”

  I sighed as I signaled to turn right. “And there it is.”

  ELIEN (5)

  The truly humiliating part was I had to stand on the porch and wait for my Uber. The house was a good twenty minutes northeast of Bragg. I liked to joke that Richard had bought a bipolar house to match all his patients: the front of the house was carefully manicured, with St. Augustine grass trimmed like it had its own barber, as well as magnolia trees, sugar maples, oaks, and pines, all of them draped in Spanish moss. Behind the house, though, we controlled a few hundred feet of land, just as carefully groomed as the front of the house, before everything ended at the Okhlili, a tributary of the Tangipahoa. Beyond the Okhlili was dense Louisiana old growth, which I had absolutely no interest in getting any closer to. Less than a mile north of us, the Okhlili emerged from Bayou Pere Rigaud, where fan boats and alligators drew a cheaper class of tourists out of New Orleans for the ‘real Cajun experience.’

  I didn’t drive anymore, so unless I, too, wanted the ‘real Cajun experience,’ which in my imagination mostly consisted of falling into a pit of cottonmouths, I was stuck at home. I had to rely on Ubers, Richard, and Muriel, who was technically a nurse but filled some sort of administrative role at DuPage Behavioral. Her job apparently consisted of doing whatever the doctors in the practice needed her to do—including driving me around.

  So I stood on the porch. Richard made a few casual passes by the window, holding two glasses of iced tea, but every time he veered away. He was Being Thoughtful again and Giving Me Space. Sometimes I missed fighting, just the really nasty, say-every-hateful-thing kind of fights I used to have. Sometimes, these days, I had so much space I felt like I needed one of those astronaut suits.

  When I was five, I had run away from home. I had made it approximately as far as the porch, and on that day, just like today, I’d walked back and forth, ignoring the midges that buzzed
in the air. I remembered my parents helicoptering through the front room, keeping an eye on me, and I remembered ignoring them as I tried to figure out, at five years old, my next step in emancipation. I’d done a lot of pacing on the porch until Gard came out with a bag of boiled peanuts. He didn’t say anything. He was three years older, so if he’d said anything to me, it would have been scripture. But he didn’t say anything. He just sat in one of the rocking chairs, and after a while I sat down too, and then he took some of the boiled peanuts and started working on them, and then I started working on them too, and when the peanuts were gone he said we should go inside, and we did. I don’t even remember why I’d wanted to run away.

  But Gard was a black hole in my head now. And so were my parents. They weren’t triggers or anything like that—they were just gone. I could trace their absence the same way scientists studied black holes: the absences of something that should have been there, the gravitational pull of something I couldn’t see. They were dead; I guess it’s easy enough to say it that way. They were dead. Now, I ate boiled peanuts when I went to the cemetery.

  My Uber finally arrived, a Ford Escape that looked brand new and was one of the nicer trims, leather, the works. My driver was Jerome, young—probably my age, but Christ, on someone else that looked really young—with a skin fade and bleached tips. He liked to talk, make jokes. He had this really deep laugh. Once or twice, I caught him looking at me in the rearview mirror, and I considered it. Richard had insisted on an open relationship, insisted being the key word. Against my objections. Against all my protesting that I didn’t care that he was older, didn’t care that he was worried I hadn’t dated enough. Richard had insisted. So I thought about letting Jerome drive me somewhere else. I thought about what it would feel like to take a drink from his hand, our fingers brushing. I thought about what it would feel like if he was standing behind me, his breath hot on my neck, a hand wandering down my chest. It was a game I played sometimes. I’d run the story all the way out, just to see. I used to be able to feel a flush in the hollow of my neck. I used to hear my heart hammering in my ears. I used to be able to throw a little wood now and then.