Victor

"So, tell me about your problems."

George had said the same words countless times, each time as if he meant it from the bottom of his heart. He never meant it to go that deep, it was just a talent he had, a way of phrasing his speech so that it got right to you, touching your soul. He wasn't anything spectacular to look at, a little tall perhaps, not too thin, dark hair, and black-rimmed glasses that radiated trust. His goatee was exactly the size and shape a pyschiatrist's is supposed to be, just long enough to pull on to give an aura of listening and intense interest. He seemed young, which he was, only five years out of university, yet wise, someone you could turn to for help. He always wore a navy blue suit to work, not too formal, but respectable enough for his position.

"Well," started the patient, "I don't really know where to start, Doctor Heneghan--"

"Please, call me George. Just relax and unwind, and say what comes naturally."

The patient, one Victor Triblado, did so, leaning back on the smooth black couch. His eyes wandered around the room, which looked exactly as a psychiatrist's office should. The predominant colour was a wooden brown, the brown of painstakingly polished furniture. Books upon books with esoteric titles lined one wall in a classy maple bookcase, managing to look well used and important in their tidiness. On another wall hung diploma after diploma in quiet, unassuming frames. They were on either side of a massive, padded door, a door of strength and comfort. The other two sides of the room were windows that looked out into a green forest, and light shone in above the trees. It was a peaceful room, a room to feel at home in, to relax in. George had arranged it that way, he had a knack for that sort of thing too.

Usually, he could even figure out what was wrong with people without a word being said. He looked Victor over, seeing the hard, Spanish face. The man was handsome, in a strong, determined way. His rough skin portrayed a man who fought for what he wanted, and usually won. Yet there was something strange there. Behind the black eyes something moved, a secret, hidden something he had to hide from the world. Few others could have seen it, but George Heneghan knew it was there. Now it had to be teased into the open, so that it could be seen for what it really was.

"Well, Doc-- George," Victor began shakily, "I, er, you see--"

"Have you ever been to a shrink before?"

Victor laughed, almost forcibly. "No. Never thought I'd have to, until. . ." He shrugged for lack of words.

George waited for a moment, hoping Victor would continue on his own. Then, he changed the topic. "Well, how about we start with your childhood."

Again, Victor smiled. "You know, you're following every cliché in the book."

"That's how I operate. It works, doesn't it, you're almost completely at ease."

"You're right. Well, unfortunately for you, nothing life-transforming happened when I was young. I had a good family, one sister, never hated anyone, at least not for real. Nothing that would interest you."

"Well, who knows," George replied in his soft, kind voice. "Tell me about your childhood."

Four hours later, just after ten, George was on his way home. He hadn't made much progress in the Triblado case. Victor Triblado, he had written in his notes after the session. Twenty-eight years old, unmarried. Is hiding something, possibly from himself. No family troubles as a child, no traumatic events. Two parents, both still living, little contact with them for last five years. One older sister, now living in New Jersey. Little contact there either. Solitary person, had to struggle to come in the first place. No mention as to the actual problem (guess: a woman?), but it seemed to help to have someone to talk to about other things. Next session Thursday.

He gave the matter no more thought as he drove through the city night. He always found Toronto so peaceful at night, long after the rush hours of day. It was cool and clear, calming in its complexity. It was always changing, but the underlying pattern was the same. It always served as a relaxant, cleaning away the troubling thoughts he faced during the day. Instead, his mind filled with Jackie.

He always thought of Jackie on his way home. He couldn't think of her while working, but he tried to make up for it afterwards. Jacqueline Marigold Heneghan, his wife of four years. Four years and still as close and loving as ever. He thought of it as a triumph, a fist raised in defiance to all the marital problems he saw all day. He could see her long blonde hair, full and loose, framing her compassionate features. He still remembered the day they met, struggling through university. They'd sat together by chance during a psych class, and the rest was pure magic. They had both known it was just meant to be, like the fairy tales you hear about and never believe. The magic was still there, and showed no signs of losing its strength.

"So, how was your day?" asked Jackie in her soft voice when he got home.

He smiled. "Same as always. Solved all the world's problems. And yourself?"

"Not much. Cleaned up a little around here, went shopping, that sort of thing. Had a good painting class, though."

"Oh? Painting nude men again?"

"No, that's next week. You sure you don't want to come for that?"

"Too busy. But you could paint me anytime you want when I'm home."

"Ooo, that sounds like an offer."

"Might be. . . care to find out?"

Life is great, George reflected, much later, as he was slowly dosing off. Jackie was perfect, everything he needed, happy, caring, concerned, fun. He often wondered how she did it, staying home all day. It wasn't like the chores could be much to keep her busy, but he guessed the painting took a lot of her time. That was the only thing in her life that she didn't share with George. Oh, he complimented her when he saw whatever her latest work was, but he was never really into it. They both knew that, and it wasn't a problem between them. Nothing was a problem between them.

George met with Victor the following Thursday. "So," he began, after quickly recapping what they had gone over at their last session, "now that I know who you were, how about telling me who you are?"

Victor shrugged. "There isn't much more to tell you. I haven't changed much since childhood."

"So what made you come to me? Certainly not my dazzling wit."

Victor chuckled. "No. I guess not. Well, mostly it's. . . I don't know."

"I know there's something there," George started, using a line that had worked quite well for him. He seemed to peer into Victor's eyes, searching for something. "It's deep inside you, isn't it. You don't want to admit it's there, but you have to. Nothing can hide forever. What is it? Who is it?"

"It's. . . She's. . . " Victor stumbled, caught by George's probing words. Finally, he gave in to himself. "She's beautiful."

George smiled to himself. His guess had been right, and now they were getting somewhere. "Tell me about it."

"I, I haven't known her for long, but I think it's love."

"How does she feel?"

"Soft and smooth and, oh, you mean about me?" Victor seemed dazed just thinking about her. "She feels the same towards me. It's perfect. She's perfect."

"Now what, exactly, is the problem."

"She's married."

Ah! Now they were getting somewhere. The old story of impossible love. George thought of the old adage "while forbidden fruit may be sweeter, it spoils faster." He didn't say it out loud, of course. First he had to determine the specifics of Victor's situation. "Tell me about her."

Victor lay back on the couch and started talking. He talked of her hair, her eyes, her smile, the little dimples on her. . . George found himself blushing. He talked of her laugh, her wit, her joy. He praised every part of her, both inside and out, everything. George's notebook filled with details. Then, Victor mentioned the husband, and George began to wonder.

"He's. . . Well, I don't hate him or anything. I don't know much about him, not even his last name. He seems to be the nice sort, though, just I get the impression he isn't right for her."

"Does he know?"

"I don't think so. We've been very careful, and he's never home. I think that's what's hardest of all. I think that's why she's turning to me. We haven't really talked about him, but she just seems to need more than he can offer."

"How does she feel about him?"

"I think she still loves him. He just can't be there for her."

Much progress today, George wrote in his notes. Victor in love with married woman. She loves him back (he thinks), but still loves her husband. Husband away from home most of time, doesn't know. She will have to make a decision sometime. Will Victor be able to handle possible rejection? Will her husband find out? Must discover more about husband's personality. Next session Tuesday.

On the ride home, he thought of something.

"So, how was your day?"

"Not too bad, Jackie. Listen, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, I think so. Serious or not serious?"

"Serious. Do you ever, um, wish for more?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I know I'm not around much, and, I don't know, I just thought you might, like, get lonely or something while I'm not around."

"Oh, come on George, I keep myself busy. I don't exactly lounge about bored out of my mind or anything. I've got my painting, and there's always the house to look after."

"Still, I've been feeling kind of guilty about it. One of my patients mentioned something that got me thinking about not spending any time with you."

Jackie sighed. "Look, I understand. You've got your job and it takes a lot of time. I don't mind. I have my own life too. Lots of friends, lots of people, I enjoy myself while you're away. I prefer it when you're here, but there's not much I can do about it."

"You know I'd do anything for your happiness."

"I know, and I appreciate that. We can't be together all the time, nobody can. We'd probably bite each other's heads off if we had to put up with each other all the time, right?"

"I guess."

"So we agree. You have to be away for most of the day, so we may as well make the most of it. We can have fun while we're together, and we can have fun while we're apart. You wouldn't want me to not enjoy myself, would you?"

"N-no, no, of course not."

"Well then it's simple. We're both free to do what we want during the day, but the night belongs to us."

George was a little confused, but it seemed reasonable.

Jackie stopped and stared at George. He sensed concern in her eyes. "George, I just want you to know something. No matter what happens, I'll always love you. Remember that, okay?"

She seemed vulnerable, her eyes glistening with a touch of moisture that hadn't been there a moment before. George felt his heart leap towards her, and he followed it, finding himself holding her in his arms. "I will remember," he murmured in her ear, "and I'll always love you too."

"No matter what?"

He could feel the panic in her voice, the tremble in her body, the need for him to say it. "No matter what."

He thought about that conversation all night, and all through work the next day. Something was wrong, something was different, and he didn't know what. A nagging thought kept tickling his mind, taunting him. Was Victor seeing Jackie? No, it couldn't be. It was just a coincidence. But what if it wasn't? But what if it was? Come now, George chided himself, no sense worrying about it. You'll find out on Tuesday when Victor has his next visit. Now put your mind on your job. It was tough, but he had to. There was nothing else he could do. He refused to ruin things by jumping to conclusions. He had seen too much of what that leads to.

The days dragged on. At home, Jackie seemed to be more distant, not as buoyant as usual. There was nothing he could put his finger on, nothing that he couldn't attribute to his imagination. His dreams were full of doubts that he didn't even try to analyze. He didn't say anything to Jackie.

Tuesday finally arrived. George was tense all day, parts of him craving for Victor to appear, other parts crying in terror of what might be. His mind was a mess, professionally useless. He couldn't pay attention to his other patients, instead, he waited and prayed and waited for Victor to appear.

Victor came in at his appointed time. George felt some tension ease away, but then his stomach tightened. He'd find out now, one way or the other. He had to, he couldn't survive much more of this. He had to know.

"So, Victor, how's everything going?" No, you fool, too forced, go easy, go slow! he berated himself.

"I don't know, Doc-- George. I, we think he's figuring it out. She had a long talk with him a couple nights ago, and all she'll tell me about it is that he says she should do what she wants. I don't know what to do, Doc. It's not right for me to do this, but it's not right for her to be left alone all day. She deserves more, she needs more. You should see the pain and loneliness in her paintings, Doc, she--"

Ice in his heart. George felt his body freeze. Paintings?

"Doc, what's wrong?"

He had to know. He fought to keep in control of his tongue. "Wh-what did you say her name was?" he asked in a tight, strained voice.

"Jacqueline. Why?"

Blood drained out of his face, withdrawing from the world. He fell backwards in his chair, a stunned, saddened expression on his face. He swallowed hard, forcing his mind to work, forcing it to stay away from that topic, forcing it to hide what he didn't want to know. He struggled, fought, and cleared thoughts away. "Nothing. I just thought it was someone I once thought I knew. Please, go on."

He spent many late nights at the office after that. He still thought of her, still loved her. He knew she loved him. She'd said so. They drifted apart, though. George spent more and more time with his patients, trying to keep his mind filled. He didn't want to think about what they were doing while he was at work. He didn't want to know. He knew why, he knew she had to have something, something he couldn't provide. He couldn't be there. Victor could. She was happy. That was what mattered. She deserved to be happy, to do what she wanted. He had his life, she had hers. They still saw each other at nights, they still talked and laughed and joked with each other. George never brought it up, he preferred to leave it alone. They both knew, so what was the point of talking about it? He'd told her she could, he'd said she should be happy. He had to live with it. It was still okay, after all. He still had fun with her, as long as he could keep Victor out of his mind.

And every day he would turn to his patients and say his simple line, "So, tell me about your problems." Only now, he had the time to mean it.