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  But otherwise you were alone?

  I was.

  A mournful expression on her face, she leaned forward in her chair and said, I’m sorry, Henry Schiller. I am so, so sorry. It must have been so hard to be by yourself that day.

  Henry said nothing. He had no answer in mind.

  The doctor was talking again. She was saying, The man I described for you, Henry, you should know, I fixed him. I made him better.

  That’s what I want, doctor. I can’t tell you how bad this dizziness has been for me. I’ve never gone this long without playing piano. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had anything but a one-night stand. I’ve fallen out of contact with my friends. I’m lost.

  The doctor frowned, in earnest. She said, Well, I want to help you, Henry.

  Thank you, doctor.

  I’m going to help you.

  Good. Good.

  You said you were on your roof, all alone…what happened next?

  Henry left Dr. Andrews’ office that day in a state of extreme ambivalence. On the one hand, he didn’t see how meeting once a week for forty-five minutes to discuss the events of 9/11 would improve his equilibrium or restore the confidence he’d lost in his songwriting. On the other, the doctor smelled so good, some perfume she wore, a faint orange aroma that turned him on in a way no woman had for years, and when deciding whether or not to see her again he couldn’t help but imagine her heavy bosom and smooth knees—he became erect. They were scheduled to meet the following Thursday afternoon. Henry showed ten minutes early. Dr. Andrews began the session by explaining how her methods of treating 9/11 victims were somewhat untraditional. But Henry, mesmerized by the sultry tone of her voice, didn’t hear her description. Nor did he ask her to repeat herself. They spent the time watching cable news, the doctor studying Henry’s reactions to any mention of Iraq and Afghanistan. The next week they went to visit the World Trade Center site. Henry followed the doctor’s instructions, staring long and hard at the building’s footprint and like the Surrealists speaking aloud those words, any words, which came to mind:

  Landscape. Cabbage. Breast. Future. Muffled. Face. Disturb. Exist. Eyeballs. Blisters. Partner. Gray. Despair. Entombed. Influx. Clasp. You. Lidless. Lizards.

  That’s good, Henry. That’s very good.

  Really?

  Oh sure, Henry. You’re doing splendidly.

  He valued her encourgament. But then these days, whether staring at CNN or the WTC, Dr. Andrews didn’t mind when he touched her arm or placed his hand on the small of her back. She didn’t protest when he hugged her goodbye, pulling her tight against his body. She said nothing when he complimented her beauty. At times he thought he’d pay even more for her services.

  That opportunity did soon arise.

  The doctor said she was dissatisfied with their progress. Henry was still dizzy, depressed and closed-off musically. She proposed he start coming twice-a-week. Knowing her rates were high for him, she offered him a special price: two sessions, $300.

  Take a minute, Henry. Think it over.

  But Henry, breathing in that profoundly erotic mandarin aroma, told her he didn’t need time. Yes, was his answer.

  Yes.

  He started seeing the doctor Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Though finding no improvement in his symptoms, his fantasies about Andrews were becoming more regular. At night he closed his eyes, imagining her naked breasts, her ass. In the morning, they occupied his mind again. Enveloped by thoughts of her legs, he missed his stop on the subway. On the street he saw women with similar hair and build and followed them for blocks, thinking they might be her. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had taken possession of him like this. Perhaps he should stop seeing the doctor. Could this be healthy? He knew it wasn’t. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell Andrews it was over. He looked forward to their time together more than anything else during the week. He wouldn’t give it up. He considered discussing these feelings with her. Why not? She’d told him many times that he could tell her anything.

  In fact, one day Dr. Andrews, seated with her silken legs crossed and her hands folded under her chin, raised the subject herself.

  Henry, she began, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.

  The pulse at the sides of his head increased. He could hear its heavy thumping in his ear. He didn’t move.

  Andrews, glancing from him to the floor, drew her fingers up her long, supple neck. She said to him, I’ve had patients fall in love with me before, and, as difficult as that can be, I don’t think it has to mean the end of our work together. We have to talk about it, though. We have to figure out what’s happened.

  Andrews placed her notepad under the chair, as if to tell Henry that this was not a patient-doctor matter.

  Is that really what you think, said Henry, that I’m in love with you?

  Dr. Andrews, bringing her hands over her lovely round knees, said, It’s clear to me that this is precisely the case. You have nothing to feel ashamed of, Henry. You’re a young man. You come here twice a week to unburden yourself to me, a woman some ten years your senior, and have the chance to speak your mind in ways you can’t with any other person. Dependencies do develop. It’s no surprise that you’d try and keep me close through sexual relations. Henry, she said, flashing her smile, I’ve sat with you for months. I know what’s going on.

  It’s true you’re such a beautiful woman, Penelope.

  Mmm-hmm, she nodded her head. You’ve said so before.

  I’ve thought about you intimately since the moment I met you.

  I know you have, Henry.

  Until now, Andrews had maintained a serene look on her face. But folding her arms under her chest and staring at Henry with commanding eyes, her expression became serious. She explained how she’d never once had intercourse (that was her word) with a patient and that she wouldn’t begin now. She said her practice was her life, it meant everything to her. If only Henry knew how hard she’d worked to get here, she could never jeopardize her place in the field of psychiatry, not for anything. Her mind told her it couldn’t happen. Her mind said no.

  But my body, Henry…my body tells me something different.

  And if Henry were interested in pursuing a meaningful relationship, she might open her ear and listen to what her body had asked of her, of him, ever since he first walked through her door.

  Henry wanted to jump her right there. The doctor sensed this.

  Not yet, she said.

  When?

  Soon. Very soon, Henry.

  They met two evenings later at a restaurant in Chinatown. Henry showed first. When the doctor arrived she kissed him on the mouth before sitting. Long and hard, the kiss—their first—made clear to him he could have her whenever he was ready. However, after returning to the doctor’s apartment and having sex, right away Henry wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Something about her didn’t sit right with him. In bed she was clearly very experienced, her impulses were good, he could let himself go and be taken fully in the moment.

  With their bodies enfolded under the covers and the large white disk of the moon facing down at them through a window, she said:

  Henry, you have so much inside you that needs to come out. I want to help you. That hasn’t changed. Okay, Henry? Are you awake? Did you hear me?

  Yes. I am. I heard you, he said.

  His body was stiff under the covers, his heart filled with dread.

  In the morning, after making love, Henry walked Andrews to work. On any street corner while awaiting the light, the doctor kissed Henry, and her hands held him powerfully at the waist. She asked if he’d cook dinner that evening. He said he would. The rest of the day was spent aggravating over how to cancel—something which he failed to do. Neither did he buy food to prepare. Nevertheless, having arrived at his apartment and learned the fate of their dinner, the do
ctor said she wasn’t even hungry. She told him to make love to her. When they finished, she asked him:

  Did you like that?

  I…yes…I did.

  I thought about you all day.

  Is that true?

  It is, Henry. And did you think about me?

  Yes, he answered.

  At least twenty times he’d meant to pick up the phone and tell her he couldn’t make it. But there was no point in saying this.

  There’s a meeting of the World Psychiatric League in Phoenix next week. I want you to come with me.

  Henry waited a moment before speaking. He told himself to say no, he couldn’t go away with Andrews, that was impossible. He didn’t want to. He wouldn’t.

  If it’s a matter of money, Henry, I’ll buy your ticket.

  Money is tight.

  He thought of all he had paid her. He’d never let her know it had ruined him financially.

  He said, I couldn’t accept. That would be too generous.

  Too generous?

  I think so.

  The next day the doctor surprised Henry with a plane ticket. He couldn’t believe it. How could she! His shock quickly led to an argument, their first. She accused him of not being honest with her. And why he couldn’t be that, she didn’t know. Was he a coward? Was he not a man? Was that it?

  It was early evening and Henry had just arrived at the doctor’s, ready to take her to dinner. But the doctor locked herself away in the bedroom and stayed there for thirty minutes. When she finally emerged, she ran straight out the apartment, disappearing for another hour. Henry waited for her to come back. He felt terrible, she was right, he was lying, he was a coward, he didn’t have the guts to tell her that they shouldn’t see each other anymore. Why that was true, he didn’t know. If he were to theorize, as the doctor had about his emotions for over seven months, he might say it was because she was fragile, a needy person, one who latched on tight. He didn’t want to hurt her. When she returned to the apartment he saw no way to tell her any of that. She was even angrier. By the time Henry had calmed her down, it was two in the morning. She told him he was no longer invited to Phoenix. She didn’t want his company. She’d rather be alone.

  Henry, soul-worn and dizzy, could hardly believe it himself. There he was, on his knees and saying, But I want to go with you.

  No you don’t. You’re lying, Henry.

  I’m not lying.

  You are. You don’t mean it.

  I do.

  Then look me in the eye, Henry, and tell me you want to come with me.

  And for some reason Henry did look her in the eye and tell her this.

  She said, You really do?

  Yes, Penelope.

  Really?

  I want to go away with you, he said.

  Now, despite Henry’s lying, it remained a good trip. On the plane home from Phoenix with the doctor asleep on his shoulder he even wondered if he wasn’t falling for her. He could admit to a sort of new, amorous feeling growing inside him. It had been a while since he’d heard her speak the words 9/11. There’d been no talk of the Taliban, all of that seemed done, over, in the past. That pleased Henry. He was still dizzy, his filter unchanged, his music dormant. But the doctor’s idiosyncrasies, her penchant for repeating the same stories, her fear of drinking New York City tap water, rather than annoy him, were coming across as charming. Their sex life was becoming more satisfying, too. It was true, he was growing fond of her.

  Then two months later the bombs exploded in the London underground, also tearing apart one double-decker bus, and Andrews called Henry to her office. He found her there as he had on so many days, seated in her chair in a short white dress. Her eyes were dark but the intensity of their look was magnified by a streak of black liner at the corner of the lids. Her mouth was sternly composed. She told him to sit. She was so worried about him, she feared the day’s tragedy would derail his progress. How was he? Any dizzier? How was his filter? Grayer? Darker?

  Do you want to talk about anything…anything you’re feeling after this morning’s events?

  Not at all, he answered. But he thought terrorism was in their past. Why are we talking about this?

  Because this is important, Henry. Realize, new attacks on our cities open old wounds. It wouldn’t surprise me if you feel terrible.

  Andrews looked at him in a posture of serious consideration. Her chin rested between her fingers, the middle and fore of the left hand, which formed a V. Her eyes squinted, her lips curled. Henry, she said, I think the wisest decision would be to stop having intercourse for the time being.

  Excuse me?

  To discontinue intercourse.

  What? Why? What are you talking about?

  The doctor explained how it would be wrong to reward his psychological pain with any sexual pleasure in the aftermath of the attack. It would teach his mind to link the good of sex with the horror of terrorism.

  Do you understand what I’m saying, Henry?

  I don’t. Not even a little.

  When the shock of London dies down, we’ll start to do it again. I promise.

  How long are you thinking, Penelope?

  Three weeks max.

  Three?

  She came forward and embraced him. I’m here for you, she said. I will help you through this.

  Celibacy was a new kind of torment, but the doctor insisted on it. She cared about Henry, and refused to do irreversible damage to his mind’s sexual memory. This was her priority. Henry would live a long life, have intercourse another fifty years perhaps, she would protect him. Henry didn’t know what to think. Increasingly fervent about these opinions, Andrews no longer permitted him to see her change out of her clothes, she wore jeans to sleep, she wouldn’t kiss him, wouldn’t touch him. She became less warm, in general. Since the start of his dizziness, he’d yet to feel this weak, confused, distracted, timid. Some part of him became afraid to be seen by the doctor. What would she make of this person? How could she respect him? And yet he couldn’t stay away. When she beckoned, he went to her. He was always available, ready to accommodate Andrews, canceling plans with friends at the last minute or walking out of movies he’d gone to see alone. In his chest was a murky heat that didn’t subside, even when they were together. People understood him less, for he was mumbling most of his words. At the end of three weeks, Andrews told him that he must wait a little longer. She didn’t give him a date. Not wanting to make her unhappy and perhaps lose her, he told the doctor that whatever she thought was best, that’s what he’d do. The sheet was off his piano. It had been for weeks, a suggestion of the doctor’s. Only once had he tried to play. In the back of his mind was the feeling that perhaps he’d write a song. Sadly, the keys had never felt this unusual to the touch. He couldn’t remember the notes ever sounding so foreign. Was he still a musician? Had he grown out of it? This could happen, he imagined. Why not? But if he wasn’t a musician, what was he? Who was he? What did he mean to make of himself? his life? He threw the sheet back on the piano, and went to the bar.

  One evening, during the second month of celibacy, Henry, picking the doctor up at work, stepped inside her office and saw that she’d been crying. Sitting down in the chair across from her, he asked the doctor what was wrong. (He really did want to know.) At first she was silent. Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she regained control of herself and told Henry:

  We need to talk.

  His black brow knitted, he was ready for it: she would tell him she couldn’t see him anymore. There was another man. He almost stood and went straight from the room, he didn’t want to hear any of it. She began to say something different, though. What she told him was that amid so much talk of terrorism, she’d never once asked him something very important:

  Why was it so hard for him to accept help when he needed it? Why did he want to face all of life’s difficulties on his
own? Didn’t he find it better having someone there, someone who understood him?

  His shoulders were set back against the chair, his face perspiring. It seemed for the first time ever the doctor had said something true about his character. It was difficult for him to accept help. Why? Because a man made it through life alone. He took care of himself. He helped others, but never accepted handouts. That was the basis on which he remained a man.

  Henry looked long into the doctor’s eyes. He could feel his heart swelling. He choked back tears. He said, Do you feel so strongly about me, Penelope?

  His question caused her to smile. I do, she said.

  Why? he asked her.

  She shrugged. I guess it’s because I love you, Henry. Beginning to laugh, she said, I do. I love you, Henry. Do you love me? Honestly, Henry, do you?

  He didn’t know what to call these strong, complex emotions fixed inside his heart. But he said, Yes, I love you, Penelope.

  The doctor slept with him at once, on the office floor. To be back inside her seemed like bliss.

  Life continued as it had before the strike on London. Then one morning, a month later, before leaving Andrews’ apartment, Henry went to the bathroom where the doctor had a whole pharmacy stocked inside the medicine cabinet—hundreds of samples given to her by the pharmaceutical companies—and to satisfy his curiosity he took a single 10mg pill of Valium which he’d been eyeing for a long while. Shortly after, heading into the subway at Verdi Square, it occurred to Henry that something was very wrong. He didn’t feel right. He was off, more so than usual. Wasn’t he? Leaning against the railed entrance to the subway he tried making sense of the feeling. He’d spent so much time in the past two years assessing the qualities of his condition, every slight change to his equilibrium, any difference in the shade of the filter. But what was this? What was this? Had his dizziness abated? Had the filter lifted? He didn’t believe it. What was happening? It couldn’t be. He would not accept it.

  Impossible.

  He didn’t head straight down into the subway but ran his own series of tests, first walking back and forth along the curb. He did it with eyes opened, then closed. There was none of the usual see-sawing in his head. He looked upwards and after much gazing and consideration he decided the sky appeared the way it had in his pre-filter days: blue. He felt too good to go to work, he was again teaching piano to children, and he called Andrews from Central Park. He described his feeling to her: like Superman, he said.