Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (15 page)

“Why were
you
there?”

“This is important, Claire.”

“Why do you think? I was there to try to convince him to, I don’t know. . . take me back? Date me? Look, are you just asking this stuff to embarrass me, or. . . ?”

“You really have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

“Obviously.”

With that I slump back into that brown leather chair, elbow on the armrest, chin in hand. I’ve gotten somewhat used to having no clue what’s going on during the course of my treatment with the Doctor. Which, in retrospect, is probably a key component of having faith in someone. But right now it’s not enough.

“Care to enlighten me?” I ask, expecting no real answer. Still, I look up at Gerald, and see that he’s returned to his perch on his desk, only this time he’s smiling. And it’s not the lecherous leer that I remember so well; there’s actual kindness there. Sadness, too.

“Just because someone is completely blameless doesn’t mean he doesn’t still blame himself, Claire. He sees some of the same things in you that I did – you do have some things in common with her, you know. Creative, sensitive, beautiful. So he’s afraid that it will happen again. He’s afraid you’ll end up hurt, that you’ll hurt him, that you’ll blame him, that he’ll blame himself.”

Gerald rotates his hand in the air as if he’s recounting the boring parts of a long story and not this epic litany of all the things that stand between me and the guy I love. I grit my teeth. I don’t respond well to being told something can’t be done.

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not crazy, and I have complete faith in him,” I say.

“You think it matters how much faith you have in him if he doesn’t have it in himself?”

Gerald shrugs, and again I feel very young and very inexperienced. But for the first time, I’m ok with that. Sometimes you have to be young and deluded to get anything done. All of the pieces have just come together, and I now know exactly what I have to do.

“Yes,” I say. “And you’re going to help me prove it.”

It’s unseasonably cold today, of all days, the day of my Art Institute interview and the day I make my bid for Cedric, and I’m not wearing nearly enough clothing. I’ll be wearing even less in a few minutes.

The inspiration to show Cedric how much faith I have in him through a performance piece came in a flash, as I suppose inspiration is supposed to do, while I sat there in Gerald’s office. It was so clear. Cedric had become integral to my dreams, in a way he apparently never was with Julia’s; I might as well show him that, even if it doesn’t end up moving his heart as much as I’d like. I have to at least try to help him as he’s helped me.

Besides, they wanted more personal expression in my art, right? And wow, am I about to give it to them.

I am seriously nervous. I mean, how could I not be nervous? I’ve never done performance art. I’ve never done anything like this at all.

Except with the Doctor.

Thinking about him, and about what I’m about to do, sends a warm wave washing over me. It clashes with the cold chill in the air, and the effect is almost a burn, like when you run cold and warm water at the same time from different taps. My nipples pucker, and my pulse thuds a dull rhythm in pelvis. It’s almost time.

“Gerald, are you sure you gave him the card?”

That is, at this point, a recurring nightmare: Cedric doesn’t even get the card, he doesn’t show up, and everything is ruined. Never mind the apocalyptic scenario of him actually getting the card and
deciding
he doesn’t want to show up; I won’t even let myself think about that one. The whole point is that I have faith, right?

“Yes, Claire. For the millionth time, I gave him the card.”

“And you didn’t read it?”

Gerald briefly looks up to the sky, as though asking for patience.

“Ok, a million and one times, then: no, I did not read it, I only delivered it to its intended recipient. Just like you asked.”

Gerald is, I have to admit, being a really good sport about the whole thing. He has a pained look on his face, standing there, holding my box of supplies, in the middle of the front plaza of the Art Institute. He’s one of those guys with enough money and enough social standing that he probably sits on various boards and committees or whatever with the people who run this place, and I’ve got him setting up a makeshift lectern in a public place, and he’ll have to do far worse things before we’re through. He’s more good-natured about it than you’d expect any victim of mild blackmail to be – I told him, only half-jokingly, that I’d complain that my shrink hit on me if he didn’t help me.

I don’t think that’s why he’s doing it, though. I mean, even I know that wouldn’t fly. I think he’s doing it because he wants me to succeed. He wants Cedric to be happy. I’m not sure what convinced him I was on the up and up, but he seems to have come around.

But I don’t really have time to think about all that now. I can see he’s almost done setting up, and there’s only ten minutes before my formal interview is supposed to start.

I’ve made some changes to the “formal” part.

And the “interview” part.

I just hope the interviewers have gotten their own cards, inviting them to my alternative interview space, and that they’re actually intrigued by that and not annoyed. Gerald said he would do his best to make sure they turned up. I’ve chosen to believe him.

“How’s it coming, Gerald?” I ask, trying not to wring my hands in public. There’s already a crowd gathering, probably due to my outfit. Or what they can see of my outfit. I’m wearing something very similar to the front-clasping bra and panties that the Doctor prescribed on a previous appointment, only with a mostly see-through, back-plunging dress over it, and some matching black heels and gloves, and over all of that is my trusty trench coat. Unfortunately this makes it look like I’m wearing nothing but a trench coat and heels. So I’m attracting a bit of a crowd.

Well, not entirely unfortunately. I do have a purpose in mind. I just hope I can go through with it.

“Good,” Gerald grunts. He is, at this moment, busy drilling a few pieces of wood together. From where I stand it looks like a passable lectern. Or auctioneer’s dais, as it were. Much more deliberate, if not quite as dignified, as the huge marble stone thing on which I intend to stand.

The Art Institute plaza is just littered with these huge, marble stone things. They’re probably part of some massive artist statement or whatever, but if they are. . . well, let’s just say that I’m not impressed. Or wasn’t impressed, until I realized I could use one in my interview/brand-new performance piece. Specifically, the one that impedes the steps from the street up to the Art Institute like a giant stone in the middle of a stream. You have to walk around it to go up the steps, but then halfway up you’re level with this pointless marble shelf. Students take smoke breaks and eat lunch on top of these marble blocks, letting their legs hang over the edge and turning their faces to the sun. I’ve always envied them. And right next to the base of that marble impediment is where Gerald is busy setting up his lectern.

So while Gerald puts the finishing touches on his lectern, I walk up a few steps, and step out onto the top of this marble block and look down, for the first time, at the crowd gathering below. I feel like a statue, like I am my own work of art, about to be put on display.

In a way, that’s exactly what’s about to happen. But I’m really only here for one person.

“You ready?” Gerald asks, squinting up at me.

“Maybe.”

He smiles gently. “Getting cold feet?”

“No!” That is not what this is. I’m just nervous. I still have faith. “Give me the placard, and the marker.”

Gerald rummages in his bag o’ supplies, and comes up with a hastily constructed placard on a string. He’s supposed to hang it on the lectern, right below the collection bowl, if he can’t find a way to fix it to my improvised marble stage.

“Have you decided what you’re going to write?” he asks.

“Of course.”

I write in big, capital letters,

ART

for sale

all proceeds go towards tuition

and hand it back to him. He studies it for a second.

“Is this a statement on commercialism versus art?” he ventures. “Something about the conflict between the personal nature of art and the commercialism needed to sustain it?”

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s go with that. That’s going in my artist’s statement.”

Gerald frowns, and for the first time I see that he was also genuinely excited to be part of an artistic endeavor.

“So it doesn’t mean anything?” he asks.

“Of course it does.”

I shake my head to let him know I won’t explain any further, not to him. The truth is some things are so important they’re only felt, and not spoken. I remember reading that somewhere: some things must be passed over in silence.

Those are the most important things.

Gerald seems to get it. He nods, and begins to set up the placard and collection bowl. In a second, on a signal from me, he’ll announce the start of the auction. I am almost light-headed with excitement. I squirm, just wanting to feel my skin brush against the very little clothing that adorns my body, to feel my thighs slide against each other. Despite the unseasonable chill, I’m very warm.

I can’t help but scan the crowd. I don’t see Cedric, yet. A few men stand out: an obvious student, working on a James Dean look; a guy in construction boots and wearing a tool belt, waiting in line at the hot dog cart; a young guy, not much older than me, in an expensive suit, pounding out emails on his Blackberry during his lunch break.

“Gerald,” I hiss down.

He runs over, weirdly attentive. I think he expects me to chicken out. I think he thinks he needs to protect me. It’s sweet of him, but my one concession to my anxiety, my doubt, is this:

“Gerald,” I whisper. “Will you give me a sign? When he arrives? If he arrives,” I correct myself. “Will you let me know?”

“How?”

Shit. Gerald will be at the lectern, addressing the crowd. It would kind of ruin the piece to have him interrupt and call Cedric out.

“A code word,” I say, and immediately I know what word I’ll choose. “Work a code word into your spiel when you see him.”

“What word?”

“Prison.”

It’s the safeword Cedric gave me the first day we met. It’s been ever-present, a reminder of our agreement, of the trust involved. I can see from Gerald’s face that he also considers it a difficult word to work into auctioneer-speak, but that’s his problem. I smile at him, truly grateful, and remind myself to be nice to him in the future.

“It’s time,” I say.

Gerald moves back to his lectern to watch as I carefully unravel the rich, black blindfold I’ve been carrying in my pocket. I tie it around my eyes as securely as I can, although I can’t quite achieve a blackout effect – tiny shards of daylight poke through from under my eyes, near my cheeks. If I tilt my head I might even be able to see the crowd, but I stay strong, and true to the process.

And then, standing high atop that marble dais, I shed my coat.

There’s a disarming silence. The only stimulus I feel is the sting of the cool breeze, the spread of gooseflesh down my arms. For a moment I’m afraid that no one will really care, that an attractive woman, scantily clad, in a nearly see-through red dress and black bra and panties, standing atop an auction block, might not be worthy of attention, that I am simply not as much of a spectacle as I thought. I hadn’t even considered the possibility, and for one mortifying moment it’s scarier than all the worst-case scenarios I did consider.

And then there are the first awkward smatterings of applause. A catcall. More uncertain applause. A cry of “take it off!” from the same general area as the catcall. I try to mentally map the crowd as I remember it, but it’s difficult – only a few people stand out. I have no idea who is having what reaction. I have no idea what people are thinking.

It’s profoundly disorienting. Heightening. Like the first day of school, or being the new kid, or embarrassing yourself in public. I am exposed.

But not nearly as exposed as I’m going to be.

“Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention, please?” Gerald’s voice rings out across the plaza, and even I’m impressed. The man’s had some kind of dramatic training. “And gentlemen, you may want to pay particular attention, because what I have here is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! This lovely thing will be auctioned off, piece by piece, before your very eyes.”

Silence from the crowd. I expected that in the beginning. They don’t know how to react, what to do. For me, it’s much more basic: I don’t know what to do with my arms. It feels wrong to just stand here, like I’m waiting for a bus or something. I have to strike some sort of seductive pose, something appropriate, but it’s so hard not to feel ridiculous.

So I imagine Cedric out there, watching me. I know he’s not there, but it still helps.

I put my leg out, weight on one hip in the classic
contrapposto
, one hand on that weight bearing hip. I push my chest out, my chin up, my neck long and proud. And I discover that I can just barely see the edges of the crowd through the bottom of my blindfold if I keep my head up in this snooty position.

Perfect.

“That’s right,” Gerald is calling to the crowd, “every delectable bit of Claire Donner will be auctioned off to the highest bidder, right here, right now. It’s for a good cause, gentlemen.”

I guess he points at the placard, because there’s a sudden wave of understanding, relieved laughter. The people who live and work around the Art Institute must be used to art student stunts. I wonder if any of them realize I’m completely serious.

“The first lot on our block today is. . . the lovely gloves worn by our Claire, and the right to remove them.”

I imagine Gerald doing a little eyebrow waggle there. He gets some nervous laughs, and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. The adrenaline is rising in my blood; my skin is coming alive at the thought of what’s coming. The only thing missing is Cedric.