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Doc thought a moment. He was figuring out why he referred people to his mental health experts.....whatever a mental health expert was. But, he reflected back on some of his own experiences and decided to try something different. He gave her a curious look, hoping that what he was about to ask wouldn't set her off.
"Let's do this from a different point of view," he stated, pointing his finger in the air. "We can't change the past nor can we run away from it but what we can do is learn from it. I was told once long ago about taking a negative and making a positive out of it. I didn't believe it until I tried it myself. In some ways, if approached right, it does work."
He then leaned forward and asked her, "Search your soul and tell me, do you think you're allowed redemption?" He then smiled a bit, "Because if you are, I think I might have some ideas."
"…taking a negative and making a positive out of it.”
Before Elena could even think about containing her emotions, the words had already long erupted out of her mouth without her being able to do anything about it. “Making a positive out of it?!” she burst out, her voice irritated and full of anger that was surfacing anew after a lapse of tranquility. It would take some more seconds for her to become aware of her sudden mood swing and stop it, seconds during which she continued with her tirade. “Are you absolutely daft? I come here, tell you about all of this, pour you my soul out, and that’s what I get from you? That I should, hey, just make it a positive? Simple as that? What the hell is actually…”
Better late than never, she choked on her words, which gave her time to reflect on her words, and to find them highly inappropriate. And so she turned silent, clenching her teeth as though to physically hold back the bunch of nasty words that she still had in mind. Doc’s ears should never perceive them, she decided. Instead, she lowered her gaze, palmed her frowned head and, instead of those not-so-helpful accusations, uttered a silent “Sorry.”
Keeping her eyes closed, she spent a dozen of seconds to think about his last question. She didn’t have to scour her soul for an answer for too long, though, as the answer seemed pretty damn obvious. It wasn’t one she liked, one that gave her headaches, one that turned her voice somewhat shrill, but the one she thought was the most adequate of what she felt. It bestowed on her a numb feeling inside her breast, akin to wiggy heartache. She answered with a shake of her head, though insecure. “No, I don’t think so,” she mumbled in a low voice. Redemption sounded so religious, she contemplated. But if she dag deeper, she’d find out that was exactly what she needed, or rather hoped for: redemption. Making the guilt, the self-hatred disappear. Still was she confident about this one thing: that she wasn’t allowed redemption.
She opened her mouth to say something, but it were a couple of moments until the words actually came out. “What is redemption worth when you’ve proven to be a shitty person?"
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Now Doc was lost. Clearly he was failing. He stood up, sighed and put his hands in his pockets before taking a few steps towards the window. He could only look upward. He remembered some literature he had once read on Muhatma Ghandi, someone whom Doc found to be great in the worst of situations. He remembered a story that was written about a man who had killed a child who approached him and told him what he had done and that he was now damned to hell. As calm as could be, the words that he spoke rang through his head like a bell and as he looked out into the falling snow, the words escaped him in a soft tone, words that were obviously from someone else in another time and well learned as a lesson, "I am going to Hell. I killed a child. I smashed his head against a wall. They killed my son. The Muslims killed my son." As he spoke, his voice changed as if the second man was talking, "There is a way out of Hell. Try and find a child who's mother and father have been killed and raise it as your own." Doc would stand still, staring out the window, stuck in a trance. Tied to his thought were the many Bretonian children who were refugees first by the war with Kusari and now Gallia, a majority of which grew up without adult role models.
He was silent, unsure of what to say to Elena next. If the weather wasn't so horrible, he would refer her to someone who could do this. It was clear, he could not.
For once, Elena did not instantaneously begin to throw around words in order to oppose Doc like the impulsive temperament in her would have done, but instead was left stock-still and silent as a stone on the couch. Only the fingers of her moved, as they fumbled about with the woolen blanket that was covering most of her lap. Despite her cognizable unrest, something kept her from showing it in a clear manner. It were her inner thoughts that held her rapt for the moment, thoughts about the little anecdote he had told her. Quietly, she recited it to herself again, and slowly, what he had wanted to express became clearer to her, as if she gradually pulled the curtain away that was tucking away the actual meaning of his words
She could quite see what he was alluding to, or at least she thought as much. But hell, it sounded so deeply wrong to her, and just one moment of thinking about it felt like making her guts turn upside down. The well-known feeling of throwing up lodged itself in her stomach as she pondered further. What had he told her? He had told her to replace it, had he not? She could feel her heart beat stronger anew all of a sudden, her teeth secretlyclenched. As though you could just replace it, she bethought with a fresh skosh of anger in her mind; as though it was some sort of toy, she went further: when you broke one, you would cry a little over it, go to your mommy and complain and stamp on the floor, but in the end you would just buy yourself another one and be happy with it. And quickly forgot you ever had a different toy. She couldn’t say if this way of seeing it had been his intention, but the thought came up, and it disgusted her deeply with all the memories that tuned in on her inner cinema screen. Scenes of what-if scenarios began to crop up, quite intimate ones.
Besides, the mere thought of what he said filled her with anxiety, it was enough to get her hackles up in quite violent fashion. If, just if; put the case that she committed to the whole “being a mother” project de novo – or rather, the “being a better mother” project -, with all the consequences, possible crises and mental breakdowns included, what would be the result? In her mind, it would boil down to only one imaginable result, and imagining that possible future was close to as bad as remembering that past event. Only death and destruction would come out of it; maybe if it had been a different person, but she had reckon in the decisive so-called “Elena” factor, which she could say from her rich experience of not-so-happy endings did hardly mean anything good. If anything, she wouldn’t allow to herself to fuck up twice, if she had already had to fuck up once, it didn’t have to turn double – and she had the heavy notion that it would exactly turn double if she decided to foster a child.
Having thought all of it, though, she surprisingly didn’t feel like wreaking her frustration on him. Instead she licked her lips carefully, all while she clenched her fists in secret under the blanket; somehow, after all, she had to rid herself of the nascent anger. “Look, I’m glad for the help you’re willing to give me,” she began after a moment of contemplation, yet then halted, mouth open. There was supposed to follow a “but” now, but – but what?, she wondered, but what exactly? “But I’m not sure. Wouldn’t it turn everything even more into hell, instead of getting me out of it, as you said?” she continued more silently.
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He turned to her, calm as could be. He took a couple of steps toward her and looked at the drink situation and asked if she wanted another or something else. But for the moment, he took a seat in front of her on the corner of the table.
"I told you this wasn't my field of expertise," he gently explained, "but I've always wanted to try. I've been told that my own past experiences might make me good at it." He thought a moment before continuing, "I live on my past experiences and try to learn from them. Repeat what I've done right or done well, learn from what didn't go so well, make changes and try again for a positive result. Yes, it's much easier said than done and often I will make more than one attempt but a bad past experience has much to learn from in it......strange as that may sound."
He again paused a moment and continued, "Medicine isn't just medical school, internships and surgery. No. I've taken philosophy from past leaders, sayings, beliefs and so forth and applied them to my work.
What I said a few minutes ago at the window. That was a quote from an old leader and philosopher, Muhatma Ghandi. I put that into action at Port Canaria where many refugee children now live. Many have lost one or both parents and I've had success getting them homes with good people. Sure, they have PTSD from it all but those same foster parents are ready, willing and able to help them."
He placed his hand together on his lap as he continued, "I've also had some cases like your own. People who want to fix the past by making a better future if not for themselves but for someone else who needs it. In every case, they found that by doing this that they have found redemption for themselves.
He managed a very soft smile and placed a caring hand on her shoulder, "Elena, I think you would be a good fit for this. There is a good woman before me who's made some terrible choices in the past, choices that can't be changed but can be grown upon in a positive light."
He then stood up, removing his hand and asking her about another something to drink.
Redemption. In some way a daunting word for Elena, yet as Doc kept orating before her about different ways to tackle her problem, it slowly, but surely lost some of its former weight. Whereas it had been enthroned high above her before, unreachable and beyond Elena’s arm’s reach, it now for once felt like it was within that reach. It didn’t appear to be that ominous, abstract thing again that people once in a while talked about as though it was so simple to grasp. Elena had thought about redemption, perhaps more than was good for her, and every time she had come to the conclusion there was probably none for her. But something in his words had managed to fully catch her attention now, the very curiosity that had once been her distinction rekindled.
There in fact was a real chance in what he was talking about, she realized, virtually from one moment to the other it struck her. Her thoughts briefly wandered over to the children he had been describing, the ones in the countless of refugee camps, probably having the worst times of their lives. For a moment her attention drifted away from her own pity, and by extension that of her lost child, towards the pities of those pour little souls. “I mean,” she began, still with her mind somewhere else than the room illuminated by the fireplace. “You aren’t totally false in your assumptions. When I think about it, there … there might be some way to help in those regards. I might be able to help some of the children you’ve been talking about.” She gulped visibly. “Would be endlessly better spent time than hanging motionlessly on the couch, I guess.” Looking around herself however, she suddenly cracked a smile as she realized where she was sitting. “Except this couch, I mean. This couch makes things better, actually.”
As for his question, she simply nodded. Another beer wouldn’t hurt, surely. “Another beer, if you would be so kind,” she responded and grabbed the already empty bottle to give it to him. Perhaps it was the alcohol to soften her up and cooling her down. Or it were some deep psychological tricks he played on her. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care, because it was alleviating. She could still surmise the deep pain within, but it felt so much easier to aby for the moment. Shifting her body around on the couch, more lying on it than sitting by now, she looked at him as he went for catching the drinks. “Slowly I begin to understand what you wanted to tell me. That you can carry on living, even with all those bad moments one has lived through.” Another smile showed on her face, genuine to the bottom of it.
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Doc managed a satisfying smile as he went for the drinks. A break through! She came around even if only just a little. He returned to find her relaxing on the couch and handed her the opened beer. He sat on on his chair nearby and looked at the bottle.
"Yup, I have forgotten how good these are. I usually enjoy my Scotch but this? This isn't so deadly."
He then looked at her in the couch. She was comfortable. He smiled a bit, "I did a lot of thinking in that couch. A lot of great ideas came from it. My eldest daughter used to sit in it, wanting me to play something on the piano."
He snickered, "Little squirt. Seems like yesterday."
"You know, if you're interested in helping those children, I can arrange it," he explained. "A lot of them have been moved off of the planet due to the cold but some do remain. Quietly, I bring many to Planet Erie where it's relatively unspoiled and still mostly Zoner."
He looked at her with a more business like tone, "So, um, are you interested? It won't take me much to make that happen."
As he had already mentioned it, she - for a moment - fixed her eyes on the piano standing in the room, as she regarded and scrutinized it. It remembered of times long gone, ones that she could barely even remember, as though they were wrapped around a nigh opaque haze. A faint smile played around the corners of her lips. “I remember when I was young, my mother decided it was best for me to start practicing some instrument. And since she had played the piano herself, she decided to buy a keyboard for me and found a teacher for me.” She paused to think, and slowly weighed her head to the left again to look at Doc. “It only took a few months for her to realize that I wasn’t much of a musical genius. And I wasn’t really trying either. So in the end, I jacked it in.” Scratching her head, she looked around the room once more, all whilst fumbling about with the bottle in her hands. It made them quite wettish, and for a second she wasn’t anymore able to tell whether it was just condensate or panic sweat, before realizing there was no reason to panic.
Relieved that this short, sudden notion was nonsense, she gave Doc another brief look. Why again had she just told him this? Was she really already so eased? Or was it just that she didn’t have nearly as much problems speaking about her life with her family than the last year? “What I wanted to say,” she continued, “is that playing the piano has never been a strength of mine. Funny how that memory just came up.” As she lowered her head, she weighed the bottle in her hands and gave it a try. This one’s flavor was the exact same as the last one’s, she realized. Not that she minded; flavor of beer could hardly get old, she imagined.
After she had taken a few gulps, she put the bottle aside and laid her head against the armrest, almost as though she was rolling herself up on the couch, with the blanket covering her. Only now a brief glance through the window told her the snowstorm, although still in a raging mood apparently, was glacially ceasing. The wind wasn’t as volatilely banging against the windows anymore, she observed. It made the whole place more quiet; Elena had no objection against that: storms were a nuisance to her, but especially with her thoughts in turmoil would they become actually harassing.
Facedown, she pulled a strand of hair out of her face and kept staring at her folded hands that she had above the blanket. “Anyways, back to the topic,” said Elena in a quieter voice than before. It sounded a tad sad, but at least not like she would let her emotions erupt from one moment to the other again. “In case you know any protectories of sorts, ones that have to get by with the bare minimum of budget, I’d like to help them out a little. It’s not like I’m a billionaire or anything, but I’m not exactly poor either. I could probably do without some of it.” Halting for a moment, she again lost herself in thoughts. There was probably more she could do. But which of those things were reasonable and, above all, responsible? “I could visit them on a regular basis, doing stuff with them… cheering them up, perhaps. But I wouldn’t want to go further. I think that’s the best way I could help.” Adopting was out of question for her. Whether it was because she was afraid of the responsibility that would come with it, and of possible repeated failure, or because of her notion that she didn’t know in how much trouble she still was due to past events, Elena couldn’t tell. But her stomach gave her a definite “No.” when she thought about adoption.
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Doc smiled as he listened. He had her interest and while adoption was well, quite premature, just being amongst them was often soothing. He sensed a golden opportunity. He sipped his beer and put his finger up, "I know...." He put his finger down. ".....when this storm finally subsides, I will be going to one of the camps. Just being among those kids, them running to you....it's really quite satisfying. If you can just be a friend or put on a band-aid, they'll love you."
He then turned his focus to the piano. It was a personal favorite item of his. He walked over and sat on the bench.
"My mother taught me some basic piano before she died," he said in sort of a memory, "she was a woman of faith and while I was as a child, I didn't follow that."
He rolled his fingers down the keyboard and back up again, gently bringing the piano to life. He did this as he thought of what song to lead into. A favorite of his late mother came to mind. He mentioned nothing of his father's insistence on classical piano study. When he played, he played from the heart. Frederic Chopin was the favorite that began to come from the half-opened piano.
Saying that Elena was into classical music such as Chopin or other pianists would have been a gross overstatement. It had been a part of the reason why she had stopped with practicing as quickly as she had started – both teacher and mother had had an odd infatuation with those classic pieces of music. Common for her age, she had been a lot more into contemporary music, which usually didn’t involve a piano anymore. Still, she let herself in for the music Doc decided to present to her, in quite a virtuoso fashion. This piece she couldn’t really recognize, like something she had already heard once in her life, but couldn’t specify anything else – after all, it had been a many years since her early teens when she was confronted with classical music. It wasn’t bad that she didn’t know the name of the piece, however, the notes could speak for themselves well enough.
Wishing to put the focus on what she heard, she wrapped the blanket fully above her, curled up on the sofa and closed her eyes as her head kept resting on the armchair. Quickly did she reach for a small pillow to put between her head and the sofa, and the ambience was nigh perfect. Next to the piano the fire was still alive, calmly crackled and rustled. Surprisingly, it was exactly the background noise that suited the piano music the most, she found. Although she didn’t open her eyes, outside she could hear the storm more and more disappearing, up to the point when it was barely recognizable by ears anymore.
The more the piece came close to its end, the closer it also came to Elena, no matter whether she wanted or not. She couldn’t name the piece – “Spring Waltz”, but she came to some similar conclusions. The music sounded to her as though something was reawakening, slowly, because it didn’t have to be rushed, and with what she thought to be tiny setbacks every now and then that are overcome every time. She couldn’t help but look at why she was here while having the music Doc played in mind. Effectively, it was almost paradoxical: on the one hand, it verily calmed her down, as she sunk further and further into the sofa and seemed to relax. On the other, however, there was some sort of bitter sadness dwelling up as well in her mind. It wasn’t of the explosive sort, like the feelings she had shown only less than an hour ago, but rather of the quiet one.
During the whole time the music was played, she barely moved an inch, only once she moved her arm above the blanket to clumsily fiddle around with her right eye. It was a small tear she dried up; it should be the only one. And when he was finally done with playing the piece, playing that last note, she carried it off well. Nothing in her voice would have hinted at what she had been thinking about while the music had literally carried her away for some time. Instead, she just applauded, though not very loudly, and smiled. “That was very nice,” she said and stopped applauding, to in lieu get her hands on the bottle. It had been especially appealing since she had heard stuff about his past as well, and that made his way of interpretation so much more meaningful from her point of view. After a few sips, she sighed somewhat contently. “I’m not joking, you’re probably way better at this than I would have ever been if I hadn’t given up on it.” Some part deep inside her began to wish she had actually kept on practicing back then. It would have been an elegant way to express feelings; maybe she would get to it, sometime in the future.
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