author: aj (another_juxtaposition@hotmail.com)
rating: r
codes: Sopranos/West Wing cross-over. Melfi/Donna
notes: The ever belated wingswing story. Months late, but it’s the intention that counts, right? I’ve never been one for deadlines. Major love to the stylus, who taught me how to write in the past tense correctly, and the bordello babes, who put up with my delinquencies.
summary: Only this time, Jennifer didn’t know how.
*
She was taking notes in the third row, in cramped handwriting on a yellow legal pad. She pushed her glasses up with her left wrist, a clean movement without thought. Her paper was being presented tomorrow; Jennifer Melfi was nothing if not prepared.
When the American Psychological Association had asked her to present a paper on the growing effect of stress and anxiety in American society, she had initially turned them down. She had patients. She had a practice. The paper she finally submitted was two years old, and she hadn’t thought about the subject without reference to her patients since then. But the timing was apparently perfect; stress and the workplace was being linked to cancer, to other psychiatric illnesses, and Jennifer certainly had her share of knowledge of anxiety. And Jennifer desperately needed to get out of New Jersey. She had lost two patients, admittedly in different ways. But gone all the same. Sometimes at night she couldn’t breathe.
The paper was written initially during her convalescence, a paper she had been planning to write anyway. So she read article after article, ice bags on her knee, black and blue across her face, a cane resting in the corner. Richard came over those days, but she ignored him, seeking solace in medical facts and statistics. She threw herself into research and writing those two weeks, moving gingerly from couch to computer and back, thinking, involuntarily, of Anthony’s black-outs. He was in her thoughts often those days. If she told him what happened, her attacker would be found. Punished. Killed. He held that power.
Jennifer wrote.
She effectively hid the fact that she was filled with anxiety herself. The paper almost to convinced her that this was normal, that there were ways to combat the fear and dread. Finally she found herself back in her office, empty and quiet, with a three o’clock appointment and the overwhelming feeling that she could offer nothing to this patient, that she was empty, that she was somehow gone.
She had sent the paper to the APA on a lark, to convince herself that she was writing it for something other than her own psyche. Surprisingly they published it, and Elliot congratulated her when it came out. Jennifer didn’t feel particularly proud. She had never told Elliot what really happened in the stairwell, though he had probably guessed. He didn’t press the issue. She didn’t ask him to.
And so the paper was wrapped in her own faults, and as if to punish herself further, she found herself in a Washington conference hall about to deliver an admittedly updated version of the paper to an APA conference on anxiety and depression. Once she had agreed to speak, she began to tear the paper apart, adding new evidence that had been discovered over the two years since it’s initiation. The current psychologist was speaking to the subject of the growing diagnoses of anxious-depression, implying a deeper connection between the two illnesses than previously understood. Gloria drifted into her mind and her hand froze over her notes, her breath stilled. Again, she touched her glasses with her wrist and gave her head a slight shake.
Jennifer wrote.
*
The day was wrapping up. It was a gloomy Thursday, and Jennifer allowed herself a look around the room. It was packed with people, briefcases, psychologists and psychiatrists from every corner of the country. She adjusted her name tag and moved toward the exit.
A tall blonde walked beside her. She seemed out of place, too young, too eager. No briefcase, just an oversized purse with a legal pad peeking out of it. Jennifer ignored her. She wanted to get back to the hotel to prepare for the next day. She had note cards to organize.
*
She lay on her king sized mattress and pressed her forehead into one of the pillows. She heard Gloria, saw Gloria, couldn’t get away from Gloria.
She shed her clothes, leaving them in strewn where they fell on her way to the bathroom. The water was hot and her skin prickled, red spreading across her belly, across her breasts. Back against the shower tile, she closed her eyes and visions of Gloria danced in front of her.
*
Jennifer stood in front of the mirror, note cards in hand, and talked herself through her paper. She spoke for exactly twenty minutes. The note cards were slightly bent from her firm grip.
She sighed deeply and flopped backwards on the bed, note cards spilling everywhere.
*
Anthony was carrying Gloria across an empty parking lot. He was dressed in a black suit with a cream colored tie, while Gloria was draped in red. Jennifer sat in her car, waiting for them to arrive, for their session to begin. Hemet her eyes, and kept walking. Jennifer screamed. She pulled frantically at her seatbelt, trying to break free. She yelled at Anthony, not knowing what she was saying. She couldn’t get the door open, it was stuck, everything was stuck. Anthony walked toward the river in front of them. She pounded against the window, sobbing, pleading. Gloria’s hair fell heavily over his arm.
Anthony walked into the river while Jennifer screamed. Slowly they disappeared. She was trapped; she couldn’t breathe; they were gone. She stopped pounding at the door and slumped against the steering wheel, sobs falling deep down to her belly, gasping.
*
She ripped a hole in her nude stockings, blatantly obvious across the calf, on the morning of her presentation. It was Saturday, the second day in the convention, early enough not to be important, late enough to carry some weight. She was the second to last speaker of the day, and she dreaded sitting on stage while the first four presentations commenced.
She had to wear black stockings instead, and so she changed her outfit completely, switching from a cream colored suit to a dark navy pin stripe, sleek black shoes with dangerously thin heels.
The tablecloths reached the floor; she was glad, as she crossed and uncrossed her long legs. Her heel caught on the fabric and she gingerly moved around to set herself free without drawing attention to her predicament. She was losing circulation in her left foot. Jennifer pushed her glasses up with her wrist. She tried to look attentive, focused. She was a professional after all.
*
She didn’t remember delivering her paper, but as she stepped down from the stage the tall blonde she remembered from the day before approached her. Again she carried an oversized handbag, this time a deep red, with a yellow legal pad and blue file folders peeking out.
Jennifer summoned her strength and smiled the smile she gave to new patients. Welcoming, unobtrusive. Come to me and I will help you. We will find a way to solve things. You are safe. But Jennifer’s smile was deceiving, for she had lost patients, they have not been safe. Some had made it to the safety of the hospital, but it was not Jennifer who saved them. She reminded herself, but I am there to pick up the pieces.
Until there are no pieces left.
The blonde smiled eagerly. “I’m Donna, Donna Moss.”
“Jennifer Melfi.” She stuck her hand out politely. Donna shook it enthusiastically; Jennifer wondered why she was so excited.
“Your paper was phenomenal. I really enjoyed it. I was wondering if I could get a copy to bring back to my boss. They only circulated the abstracts, and I took notes, but I know I missed some of your points –”
“I didn’t read the paper today.” She pulled her note-cards out from her purse, placing her briefcase on the floor. Jennifer half-smiled. “Cliff-notes version. I promise the real thing is much more in line with psychiatric writing – dry as hell.”
Donna laughed. Jennifer didn’t know what to do, what was expected of her here. She replaced her note-cards and adjusted her glasses. She slipped back into professional mode. “I’d be happy to give you a copy of the entire work if you think it would be beneficial, however. I’ll have to get a copy of it. I left them in my room at the hotel.”
“Well, I’ll be here tomorrow. Can I just get it from you then?”
Jennifer wondered why Donna was here. Why she kept coming back. She was clearly not part of the psychological world. She could tell by the way Donna used her hand to gesture through the air. She was not compact. She gave herself away.
“Of course.”
“It’s a date then.” Donna smiled again, wide and beaming. “It was very nice to meet you. Here’s my card in case we can’t find each other tomorrow. It has my cell phone number on it. My boss always likes to be able to reach me, and he figures since he can, everyone else should be able to as well. In fact, right now he thinks I’m taking my roommate’s cat to the vet, so it’s good to always be on call.” She stuck out her hand and gave a lop-sided grin. Then she spun on her heels and headed for the nearest exit.
Jennifer watched her leave, noticed the long legs and the suit with clean, crisp lines. She was a wisp of a person, this Donna. She shook her head, put the business card in her pocket, picked up her briefcase, and headed back to the hotel.
*
She emptied the mini-bar of Jack Daniels, and when she finished that, she grabbed the little bottles of Stoli and a can of Sprite. She walked down the hallway to the ice machine, trailing her hand along the side of the building. The bucket overflowed, but Jennifer didn’t care. She got a bag of Doritos from the vending machine and made her way back to her room, only to realize that she left her key inside.
Groaning, she set down her collection of goods and made her way down the elevator. Her head was heavy and she was sure her breath reeked of alcohol. There was a long line at the front desk. Jennifer realized she wasn’t wearing any shoes. She wondered what her hair looked like, and tried to smooth it down with her hands.
She took deep breaths from her diaphragm, a skill she gave to her patients. This was a busy hotel. No one would even notice her. She was unobtrusive these days, stepping back into the shadows, whispering cues from backstage.
She was afraid to get too close.
“Can I help you?” The front desk attendant asked without looking up.
“I locked myself out of my room.” Jennifer smiled sheepishly, realizing she had left her glasses in the room as well.
His eyes gave away his quick assessment of her character – lonely, drunk, probably insecure. She wanted to tell him she knew what he was thinking, but she thought better of it. Maybe he was right. She was alone. She was admittedly on her way to being drunk, and her psychiatric skills had been called into question as of late. And psychiatry was what she was good at. Her own relationships fizzled and fell apart; as she pushed people away and talked to her son from the safety of the telephone.
She realized she was staring. Jennifer gave a quick smile. “I was on my way to get ice.”
“Happens all the time. I’ll send someone up to open the door for you. You have a key inside?” He smiled sympathetically. She nodded. “Someone will be up in a minute.”
“Thank you.” Jennifer’s bare feet stuck to the marble floor. She made her way to the elevator, and, once inside, slumped to the floor. She wouldn’t cry, because she wasn’t that sort of drunk, but she arrived on the seventh floor all too soon. She waited awkwardly in the hall with the bucket of ice in her arms. It had already begun to melt, the bottom sloshing against the plastic bag. She gave the man who opened her door a tip, then settled herself on the bed. The ice clinked in as she dropped each individual piece into her glass. She poured the vodka and added a splash of Sprite.
Jennifer held a piece of ice in her hand, squeezing tightly. The cold was unbearable. Her hand screamed for relief. She let it melt in the palm of her fist.
*
She was late for the start of the conference, and tried to slip unobtrusively into the back row. She caught her shoe on the edge of a chair and almost fell flat over. She ended up with her chest smashed onto a strange man’s thigh and her glasses on the floor.
There was no way to remove herself gracefully from the situation, so she grabbed her glasses and used his thigh to push herself up.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, trying to smooth her hair.
“You can fall into my lap any day, lady,” he replied, a smirk dancing across his face.
She chose to ignore the comment and pulled out a legal pad. She had no idea what was being presented, but it was suddenly important that she listen closely to every single word.
*
After the second plenary, Jennifer made her way to the water. As she turned around, she found Donna Moss smiling in front of her.
“Dammit!” Jennifer exclaimed. “I forgot the paper. I was running late this morning and it slipped my mind. I’m so sorry.”
Donna looked crestfallen. Jennifer immediately wanted to make it up to her. There was something fragile about this Donna Moss, though Jennifer could sense an interior toughness that Gloria never had.
“You could come back to the hotel with me, and I’ll give you a copy then. I’m staying in the hotel right next door - it won’t be that far out of your way.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful.” Donna’s thin lips stretched into a smile. “I’ll read it tonight and be able to brief Josh on everything in the morning.” Her relief was palpable. Jennifer wondered who this boss was, and once again, why anyone would care so much about her paper. “I’ll meet you by the doors then, after this is done?” Donna gestured needlessly.
Jennifer nodded. “I’ll see you there.”
*
Jennifer pressed the button for the seventh floor. Donna was still talking about the last panel, where a spirited debate took center stage over whether or not anxious depression could actually be classified as a diagnosis and whether or not it should be in the DSM IV as a separate diagnosis rather than a concurrent diagnosis of an anxiety disorder and depression. Jennifer had never been one for semantics - or the DSM IV for that matter. Still, it seemed to intrigue Donna to an unhealthy degree, and Jennifer nodded and tried to follow her chatter.
When she opened the door to her room she realized thankfully that the maid had been there, and all the mini bottles of Jack Daniels and vodka were missing from the floor. She dropped her satchel next to the television and turned around. Donna stood awkwardly in the tiny hallway.
“Oh, right, the paper.” The desk in the corner of the room was neatly organized with file folders and her laptop. She ruffled through the stacks, trying to locate the correct file. There, at the bottom, was the big forty page document, “Defining Anxious Depression: Going Beyond Comorbidity.”
“Here you go,” Jennifer said, handing Donna the papers. “I hope it’s helpful.”
“Thank you so much. It was so nice to meet you.” Donna stuck out her hand, and Jennifer shook it, intrigued by this combination of a woman. She sat down on the bed, slipped off her shoes, and sighed deeply. Donna turned back to face her.
“Can I buy you a drink?” She asked. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you really look like you could use a drink. And it’s the least I could do, with all the trouble you went through getting me this paper.”
Jennifer gave a short laugh., and considered the options. She could drink alone again, or she could allow herself to maybe have a nice conversation with someone her age who didn’t want any help deciphering her thoughts. It had been a long time. “I’d love to,” she said, slipping her feet back into her shoes.
*
Three drinks later Jennifer had learned that Donna worked at the White House, for the Deputy of the Chief of Staff, whom she clearly adored. Josh was, apparently the reason she was at the conference in the first place. Donna was worried about him and was hoping to find some insight into how to relieve his stress. Jennifer, listening to Donna go on about how this Josh had such a great mind and sense of humor, how he basically rescued her from a terrible life in Wisconsin, detected more than a little crush. Still, these things were not uncommon. Power dynamics were always interesting. Just look at Tony, she thought. Now there’s a power dynamic.
Jennifer purposefully didn’t talk much about her job, beyond stating that she had a private practice and had been a licensed psychiatrist for over a decade. She briefly mentioned her work at the hospital. Donna, on her fourth whiskey sour, didn’t seem to notice Jennifer’s avoidances.
Jennifer ordered another dirty martini.
*
When Gloria died, Jennifer went to her office and took out the files labeled with Gloria’s name. It was a Saturday, something Jennifer was grateful for. She didn’t think she could face her patients, and she wasn’t one to cancel on them without proper notice. The files went into her briefcase and Jennifer locked the door quickly.
Immediately upon arriving home, she headed for the coat closet. She rummaged around the bottom of the closet, and there, shoved deep in the back right corner, was the file box she was looking for. A deep sigh escaped from her small frame. She pushed everything on the floor away, and sat cross-legged with the box in front of her and her briefcase beside.
Slowly she opened the lid, and stared at the three sets of files. Jonathon Miller, Joanna Hinkes, and Caroline Wright. Gun, wrists, pills. These were the three she had lost, the three she still mourned, the three that haunted her at night and made her work her entire life. Jennifer added Gloria to the box. She pulled out the Miller file, and began to read it from beginning to end, trying to figure out where she went wrong. She would do the same with the other cases, and it would be long past midnight before she lay in bed, eyes wide open.
*
The small of Jennifer’s back was beginning to hurt from sitting on the bar stool.
“You want to raid the mini-bar?” she asked. “It’s probably cheaper than this stuff, anyway.” Donna giggled. Jennifer was surprised at how in control she still looked. But she was young, so young. Jennifer didn’t know whether to think of the giggle as endearing or annoying, but Jennifer decided she didn’t care.
They made their way to the seventh floor, where they had been hours before. Jennifer opened the door with her key-card and Donna’s hand was on the small of her back, where it had been aching only moments before. Jennifer told herself it was just for balance, but the touch surprised her. It had been so long, and Donna’s movement was small and intimate. She didn’t know this woman. She didn’t really care.
Jennifer went into the bathroom and pulled off her panty-hose, suddenly self-conscious. She threw water on her face and gently patted her skin dry. When she emerged, she saw Donna, her blouse fallen down affording a view of a white lace bra. Donna was, in fact, raiding the mini-bar. She had little bottles of alcohol, peanuts, chips, all on the floor. Donna looked over and smiled. “There’s enough in here to last a lifetime.”
She didn’t reply and went back into the bathroom to grab two glasses. Donna was dumping her findings on the bed. Jennifer sat gingerly on the corner, incredibly aware of her bare legs and crossed them to look more professional. More in control. “So, where should we begin?” she asked, trying to smile. Donna flashed a bottle of Stoli and one of Jack.
“Pick your poison.”
Jennifer pointed to the whiskey and Donna poured it with a flourish. “Ta-da!” She then poured vodka for herself, added some toxic looking fruit punch, and lifted her glass. “What should we toast to?”
Jennifer shrugged. She held her glass in her lap. Donna sidled up to her on the bed. “Come on. We have to toast to something.” She said it softly, gently. It had been so long.
“To improving society, then,” Jennifer said, grasping at straws, picking something she knew would please Donna. She chose wisely. Donna’s face broke into a wide grin, and she repeated the toast and their glasses clinked. Donna took a big swig of her concoction, and Jennifer stared at her pale long neck. She held her glass with both hands, gazing down at the warm, brown liquid.
“Are you okay?” Donna asked. She placed her hand on Jennifer’s arm. The touch was heavy with intention and Jennifer froze.
She turned and looked at Donna, surprised at how sober she felt. Quickly she lifted her glass and downed her drink, swallowing, swallowing. She felt the warmth trickle down to her belly and breathed easier. Donna laughed. “Impressive,” she said, and Jennifer smiled in spite of herself. She put her glass on the floor, and Donna followed suit.
Jennifer stared at the floor. She wasn’t good at this, this girl thing, even drunk, and she felt embarrassed by her lack of competency. Usually she was nothing but in control of a situation. Usually she was already three steps ahead of the person beside her, but when Donna turned and grasped both her hands and said, “Why are you so sad?” Jennifer was thrown off guard.
She couldn’t answer the question, couldn’t admit to her failure, her defeat. Her head was all of a sudden swimming, and Donna was looking so concerned, with her thin pink lips, and Jennifer couldn’t think of how to get rid of her so she leaned forward and she kissed Donna, hard.
Immediately she recoiled, her face flushed with confusion and shame. “I’ve never done that before,” she stuttered, “especially not with a woman. I’m so sorry, that was presumptuous of me and I completely violated your -“ But she was cut off because Donna was kissing her back. Her hand moved to Jennifer’s shoulders, and Jennifer knew they were drunk, that this was happening just because they were drunk, but it had been so long, so long.
*
Their clothes were in a pool at the foot of the bed, Jennifer’s black knit skirt mixed with Donna’s silk blouse. Jennifer had peeled Donna’s stockings off, amazed by their length, their paleness in contrast to her dark Mediterranean legs. Donna had done the rest of the work herself, sliding out of her clothes with ease, and moving quickly to unbutton Jennifer’s blouse, unhook her skirt. Donna stared and Jennifer blushed.
“You have beautiful skin,” she said. “You would never guess.”
Jennifer tried to come up with a compliment but she was distracted by Donna’s quick slip to nakedness, her bra and panties off before Jennifer could comprehend what was going on. Jennifer felt out of control and Donna laughed saying, “I’ve never done this before,” but something in her movements convinced Jennifer otherwise. She realized she was out of her league here, that she had misjudged this young Donna Moss, and now she was clad only in underwear while a naked Donna moved across the king-sized bed toward her.
She didn’t have time to contemplate regrets.
*
Jennifer was covered in dark scars, scars from Tony, from Gloria, from those she had lost before. She carried each of her patients with her, and as Donna kissed her elbow she kissed Susie Atkins, a major depressive with attachment issues. When Donna’s hand traveled up her thigh she traced the history of Daniel Patrick Adams, who had started seeing her after a thwarted suicide attempt. There was John Guzman on her kneecap, Nicole Kopinski on her pinky, Sharon Suzanne Summers in her left ear.
Donna found each one, caressed each one, and Jennifer felt dirty and ashamed. But Donna’s hands were on Jennifer’s breasts (Martha Wallace and Caitlin Anderson) and Jennifer tried to push them all away and just feel, just be in the moment, like she taught so many of her patients. And then Donna’s hands traveled downward, and Jennifer shuddered, and she thought of nothing, nothing at all.
*
The bed was a mess of sheets, Jennifer tentatively traced her finger up Donna’s thin thigh. Donna made a sound akin to a whimper, which Jennifer took to mean she was doing something right. Donna smelled, slightly different from the way Jennifer knew she smelt. She knew she was supposed to do something with her fingers, and maybe her tongue (or so she had heard in graphic detail from Kimberly Martin, her bi-polar lesbian) and so Jennifer crawled forward. She eased two fingers inside Donna, and used her thumb to massage her clit. With her free hand, she balanced herself over Donna, and nipped at her nipples with her teeth.
Donna moaned something that sounded like Josh, but they were drunk, they were both so drunk, and it had been so long.
*
Donna’s tongue was doing things tongues shouldn’t do, and Jennifer grasped at the sheets, breathing heavily. Her glasses had long been knocked off and so the room was slightly blurry and she felt slightly off balance, but she knew she couldn’t attribute that to the glasses alone. Donna’s hands were hard on her thighs, pushing Jennifer’s legs apart as she did things Jennifer couldn’t imagine. Richard never went down on her, and she found men didn’t like to reciprocate, so she’d stopped giving head as a matter of conscience.
But this, this was new, and Jennifer’s hands traveled to her own breasts, and she gasped. Her brain was trying to process the images, the feelings, the associations, but she was trying to get it to shut up, to shut up and leave her alone, because Gloria was gone, and Tony was gone, and Donna was here, Donna with her tongue.
*
Donna crawled up next to Jennifer and blushed. “Did that really happen?”
Jennifer pulled a sheet over her protectively. She pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“Have you seen my glasses?”
“Ummm,” Donna turned to check the floor, and Jennifer saw the expanse of her pale back, her spine, and looked away.
“Here they are.” Donna handed them over.
“Thanks.” Jennifer didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how these things went.
Donna stood up. “I think I’m going to take a shower, okay?” She didn’t look at Jennifer while she talked, and her question was quiet. Jennifer read regret everywhere. She pulled the sheet higher.
“Sure. There’s a clean towel in there, and shampoo and everything.”
“Thanks.” Donna bent down and gathered her strewn clothing and held them close to her body, as if she could cover herself up.
As soon as Jennifer heard the start of the shower, she wrapped herself in the sheet and picked up her clothes. She carefully folded them and put them in her suitcase. Then she pulled out her one pair of jeans, clean underwear, and a gray button-down shirt. She dressed quickly, and sat on the edge of her bed.
She heard the water stop, the hair dryer start, the door open. Donna looked entirely professional,, except for the slight flush in her face. Jennifer tried to looked her in the eye. She had to make Donna understand this wasn’t her fault. She had taken advantage of this young woman, and it was her fault, and she needed to repair the situation.
The only problem was, she didn’t know how.
Donna did it for her. She grabbed her bag, the one with the legal pads and blue file folders. “Thanks for the paper,” she said, smiling. “Well, thanks for everything.”
Jennifer stood up. “It was my pleasure. I hope it’s helpful to you.”
Donna blushed. She turned and walked out the door.
Jennifer sat down, her hands in her lap. She took three deep breaths, and then stood up and began to methodically pack her room. Her dirty clothes stayed on the left side of the suitcase, her suits laid out carefully on top. Nylons stuffed in high heels that fit in between the clean and the dirty.
She went to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and dried her bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Jennifer swept her make-up into a tan case, picked up her toothbrush and toothpaste, and deposited it all in the front pocket of the suitcase.
There was her book in the drawer in the bedside table, resting next to the standard edition bible. Her earrings in front of the mirror. Jennifer stopped and looked herself in the eye. She stared until she could recognize the face. She pushed her glasses up with her wrist, bending over to pick up a towel.
She had a flight back to New Jersey in a couple of hours. She couldn’t miss it. She still had patients, after all.
*