I drove by Luke’s house for the third time that day. I wanted to peer into his front window but his drapes were still closed. I wanted to see what his life was like when we weren’t together.
We had frequently consulted on the phone when he worked street outreach, and I provided social work services to some of his clients. He was a high school dropout who had returned to school to eventually obtain a Counseling degree. This struggle in itself attuned him to the unique needs of others.
Something had been going on with me the last few months. At first, I didn’t know what was happening. Strange episodes came upon me unexpectedly like the popping of a balloon. I’d bend over gasping, wheezing in breaths until I could fully draw in air. I knew I needed help and thought about Luke who had just opened a private counseling practice. In the ten years I had known him, he seemed solid, someone I could trust, so I didn’t worry about us knowing each other professionally.
“Nice to see you again,” Luke said, when I entered his office. He half turned, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum, and looked at the coffee maker, its burps and hiss a distraction to the paresthesia, with its tell-tale tingling that was now creeping into my fingers and hands; “Do you want a coffee?”
“Sure,” I answered, attempting to covertly squeeze my now prickling hands into fists, then straighten and stretch my fingers and then repeat. Fist, release, fist, release, the noise of the release like the soft rasp of a fan.
I watched as he poured coffee into a faded mug with a probable history of its own. Luke was tall, perhaps a bit over six feet, but the kind of tall that seemed diminished due to the bulge of his stomach. He was balding with grayish buzzed hair and wore a tight short-sleeved shirt that didn’t quite contain the tattoo that leaked onto his bicep.
“I can’t live without coffee and beer,” he said with a half smile, turning and handing me the mug; “Sit wherever you like.” We studied each other briefly. His bluebird blue eyes seemed to see deep inside of me. I fervently hoped he didn’t think me weak, unable to handle life’s challenges. But here I stood in a therapist’s office. I was now a client.
“What brings you here today?” Luke asked, crossing his legs and leaning forward slightly. I smiled inwardly at the cliché. Before our appointment, I had thought of several things to talk about. Workload stress and vicarious trauma, meeting my birth mother, adjusting to aging.
“I want to leave my husband, Sam, but I don’t think I can actually do it. I’ll ruin my kid’s life,” I spewed. Where had that come from? I was glad that my skin color hid my embarrassment. Sam was the last thing I wanted to talk about.
“Tell me more,” Luke replied, again with the textbook therapist. But his face looked—well—neutral somehow, infused with compassion but just enough to be authentic. His large hands were wrapped around the armrests, legs crossed, a huge tattoo gleamed green against the white-tan of his now swinging left leg. I couldn’t quite make out what it was. He saw me looking and said that he loved tattoos and was planning on getting one on his other calf soon. Mesmerized by his sneaker moving back and forth, I started talking.
He really was an amazing listener. He was especially skilled at asking the right questions and making an appropriate comment at just the right time.
The sex appeal of a man who listens. Albeit I paid him to listen, but the result was the same. I felt the first stirrings of attraction. As our bi-weekly sessions continued, for the most part, I encouraged Luke to talk about himself. His family. His life. He humoured me and provided the occasional innocuous snippet. He was married and they just had a baby. I stared often at the huge gold ring on his wedding finger. It looked a bit tight.
He didn’t seem to mind self-disclosing a little. Listening to him was easier than talking about myself. Easier than peeling the onion, layer after layer to get to the core of what was bothering me. What I needed to do. But I also liked to hear his voice. The rhythm of it; the liveliness of it. I wanted to get to know every part of him, rather than him getting to know me. “I think I’m attracted to you,” I blurted to him one day knowing full well that I was now probably a textbook patient.
“I’m flattered,” he replied, his cheeks swirling red, “But it’s just normal transference. Happens to a lot of people.”
In our sessions, as he shared a little about himself and even less about his family, careful to protect their privacy, to be professional, I learned that he seemed happy. They seemed happy. It just made me more desperate to know him.
I had been transracially adopted and had struggled growing up as a child of colour in a white family and predominately all-white towns. Prior to meeting Sam, I had left an abusive marriage and took the dysfunctions of that relationship into my new marriage with him. I quickly realized that my main reason for counseling was to learn how a regular family functioned. I wanted to learn what was normal.
When I didn’t have a session with Luke, I dug into social media. I spent hours on Facebook perusing every little detail of his home page. I studied his photos trying to imagine his life. I wanted to know what his wife and infant son looked like, wanted to see pictures of the inside of his house, wanted to know what they talked about, what their dreams were, did they fight, how often did they have sex?
One day he mentioned that he was planning on opening a photography business, that he had taken pictures since he was young and seemed to have a knack for it. Don’t worry, he explained, I’ll still be keeping my counseling practice. My sigh whistled into the room. Later that evening, in the process of perusing his new photography webpage, I discovered his studio was located in his home and that his home was not where I thought it was.
I had been taking time from my day for months now, to drive by what I had thought was his family home. Privately embarrassed about the wasted time, let alone my behavior, I realized that the closed drapes were unlike him. Luke seemed open to the world and new possibilities, and didn’t want to miss a thing.
I was disappointed that he didn’t post pictures of his family. He told me one day that his wife didn’t agree with Facebook. But he was liberal with pictures of himself and the things he was interested in. He seemed to be involved in humanitarian projects and had posted heartwarming pictures of people in places far away. He had thousands of Facebook ‘friends’ and every time he posted something, seemed to get pages of comments. I read every single one. It’s amazing what you can glean about someone and their life when you creep them.
If I had an anxiety attack at home, I opened a picture of him and kept my laptop open, refreshing the page when necessary. Sometimes it would be open for hours as I fluttered about my evening. Sam and our teenage son didn’t seem to notice, busy with their own activities.
One evening I was alone in the house and anxiety found me. My body was buttons on an accordion but no one was giving it air. Looking at Luke’s picture on my laptop screen didn’t seem to help. I started to have thoughts of just ending it all. I panicked. My lungs felt like they had collapsed in on themselves. Panting, I started to pace, the air vibrating around me. Wouldn’t it be easier to just throw myself in front of a car? I wouldn’t have this torment anymore. But I had a child. And Luke had told me that if I really needed him, I could call him anytime.
I dialed his number, my hand squeezing my cell like the phone alone could save me. “Hi Charm,” he answered, his voice soothing.
“Luke, I’m having suicidal thoughts!” My stomach felt like someone was leaning their elbow on it, pressing in with all their might. I wanted to leap off the couch, run around and around the living room and then bend over to gasp and gasp and gasp, but I forced myself to remain still and focus on the conversation.
“I’m up North,” he said, over the crackling sounds in the background; “So, I won’t be back to town for a couple of weeks.” I remembered he told me that he also worked for Health Canada and traveled regularly to isolated communities to offer counseling services. “But what can I do for you right now?”
I paused. I could hear the furnace blowing in the background, infusing the air with warmth; “Nothing. There’s nothing you can really do for me.” I was blown away that he asked that question. No one had ever framed help that way to me before. So, concrete. So immediate. The offering of help was enough. I realized through being heard over the last few months—a heartfelt heard—that I already had what I needed inside of me. Resilience. Adaptability. Strength.
After that conversation, I slowly eased back into myself; my panic attacks lessened. Luke, with his kindness and skill, was the catalyst I had needed to change my life.
My one-sided emotional affair was no longer needed.
Unrequited?
Perhaps.
Charmaine Arjoonlal is a writer and social worker and mother of Ben. She lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in Whitehorse, Yukon, Canada. Her poetry and prose have appeared in over twenty publications and two anthologies. You can find Charmaine on Instagram @charmainearjoonlal or visit her website charmainearjoonlal.wordpress.com.
