Achilles' Heel (First-ish Draft)

I reach down and rub my heel but the itchy burning feeling doesn’t ease. The movement doesn’t escape Dr. Lucas’ notice, either, even though he never looks up from the letter he’s reading.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I answer, knowing he’ll see right through the lie.

“Okay, then.” He drops the letter on the armrest of his chair and sits back. “What are you feeling?”

Damn. Right into the trap. I cross my legs. I uncross and then recross them. I lean forward. I lean back. The leather sofa squeals as I move. I consider excusing myself to the john. I grab my wrist to stop myself reaching for my heel again.

Dr. Lucas remains still and silent.

“Uncomfortable,” I finally answer. “I feel uncomfortable.”

“Why? What’s making you uncomfortable?”

Like he doesn’t know. I nod in the direction of his armrest. “That letter. What else?”

“What about the letter?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.

“Everything.” I tick off the reasons on my fingers. “It’s from the doctor at the psychiatric hospital. She wants me to visit my mother.  I haven’t seen my mother since I was sixteen.”

Dr. Lucas raises his eyebrow. “And?”

“And what?” I shift deeper into the sofa. More squeals.

“It seems you’re leaving out the most important part.”

“Really? I thought that went without saying.” My voice comes out much angrier than I’d intended, but I don’t apologize. Dr. Lucas has been teaching me to own my feelings, including—or maybe especially—my anger over my mother.

My goddamn mother.

Who thought she was the Greek nymph Thetis and I, her son Achilles.

Who decided the fountain at Oak Hills Mall was the River Styx.

Who spent my childhood in and out of sanity and institutions.

Who almost drowned me when I was nine months old. 

Who was now dying and wanted me to come see her.

Like that would make anything better.

“Alan?”

I blink and make eye contact.

“You drifted away for a moment,” Dr. Lucas says. “Want to tell me what you were thinking?”

I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head, giving the doctor what I hope is a particularly sardonic expression.

He returns the look. “Out loud, please.”

“I don’t see the point. I don’t see why I should visit her. There is nothing she can say or do that will make up for the damage—“

“Maybe she wants to apologize.”

“Apologize?” I jam my fingers into my shoe and scratch. “What could an ‘I’m sorry’ do after all this time and drama?”

Dr. Lucas looks directly at my scratching fingers. I yank my hand back to my lap. “…calm your anger,” he’s saying. “Soothe your hurt.”

I freeze for a moment, not sure I heard correctly. “I thought you said there was no such thing as magic words.”

“Magic words, no. Healing words, yes, sometimes.” He holds up his pen. “If the listener is ready and willing to hear them.”

 I open my mouth to speak but change my mind. Dr. Lucas’ comment sounded like a statement, but maybe it was really a question. Am I ready? Willing? How would I know? Damn it, I didn’t start this therapy thing to become “ready” for anything. I just wanted to know I hadn’t inherited my mother’s crazy. Milestone birthdays can have that effect.

 “What was that?” Dr. Lucas asks.

God, I hate that question.

“I saw something on your face just now,” he continues. “A pretty strong reaction, from the looks of it. Tell me about it.”

I take a deep breath and then let it rip. “Don’t you have tests for this stuff, like a real doctor would? Take a little blood, spin it in a centrifuge, pop it into machine, push a button, and bing, bang, boom, a diagnosis. This therapy...stuff has far too many gray areas, requires far too much thinking. If I’d known that, I might not have started at all. Then I would have been able throw out that damn letter without ever opening the envelope or feeling a twinge of anything.”

Dr. Lucas raises an eyebrow. So very Spock, always so logical, so damn frustrating.

“Look.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, ignoring the creak in the sofa, and lower my tone. “I get that this is my decision. But it would help me make my decision if I knew where you stood. All I want is a straight answer. Is that too much to ask?”

The good doctor shifts in his seat and taps his upper lip with his pen. I lean back and settle into my corner of the squeaky sofa. I start to cross my arms, but force myself to rest them on the armrest and back of the sofa instead. I bite my lip, resisting the overwhelming pull of my bothersome heel. I want an answer, damn it, and I’m going to get one.

The silence lasts forever.

When Dr. Lucas clips his pen to the folder on the side table, I know I’ve won.

“No, it’s not,” he says in his let-me-talk-you-off-that-ledge voice. His tone makes me wonder if he’s being honest or humoring me.

I’ve got a good three inches and fifty pounds on him. I would never take advantage of that, but maybe he’s not so sure, given my uncharacteristic outburst. I want him to know he’s safe so I say, “Thank you, doc.”

He nods acknowledgement. Tenting his fingers, he says in his normal therapy voice, “You want to know if I think you should see your mother.”

I nod back. The man has a gift for stating the obvious.

“Short answer? Yes, I do.”

Crap.

“I take it that wasn’t the answer you were hoping for?”

“That obvious, huh? No, don’t answer that. I know—my face is an open book.”

Dr. Lucas gives me a small smile. “Something like that.” The smile disappears when he says, “Are you ready for the long answer?”

“I’m not sure.” I stare at the painting of a sailboat on the wall behind him. I take a couple of measured breaths. “Tell me anyway.”

“As I said, I think you should see your mother. I won’t lie to you. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s necessary. You’ve demonized her in your memory. You need to see that she’s human and most importantly, that she no longer has power over you. Or rather, she only has whatever power you give her. I think seeing her will help you let her go.”

I sigh. “But what do I say to her?”

“You don’t have to say anything, but I would suggest at least offering hello and goodbye to be polite.”

Did he just make a joke?

“Mostly you should listen and be mindful. Do what we’ve talked about before—observe and describe.”

Observe and describe. So much easier said than done. And dammit, why won’t my heel stop itching! “And if I can’t? If I get upset? Can I storm out?”

“Of course you can leave, but I would hope that would be a last resort.”

In my rational mind, I know he’s right, but every cell in my body feels tense. When it comes to my mother, my fight-or-flight reflex has always been flight. Then, like a switch has been flipped, I’m nine years old again. “Will you come with me?” I hear myself ask.

He shakes his head. “No, you need to do this on your own.” He leans forward. “You can do this on your own.” He straightens and grabs the phone off his side table. Handing it to me with the letter, he says, “Let’s start now. Call the hospital and make an appointment for your visit.”

I hold my breath while I press the numbers and listen. When an efficient-sounding voice answers, I feel my shoulders sag. That out-of-body feeling returns as I hear myself making an appointment for the day after next. The sensation evaporates once the phone is safely back in Dr. Lucas’ hands.

That’s when I notice the shake in my own hands. The doc notices it too. “Tell you what,” he says. “Instead of meeting in two weeks for our regular appointment, why don’t we set something up for Friday to debrief after your visit?”

I mumble something that must have sounded like assent because Dr. Lucas starts tapping on his phone’s screen. “Which would be better for you: before work on Friday or after? I can do 8 a.m. or 7 p.m.”

Like I’d be going to work the day after visiting my psycho—I mean, ailing—mother. I doubt I’d be sleeping, either, so I sign up for the morning appointment and just like that, time’s up.

We stand and shake hands. I thank him, more out of habit than anything else, and Dr. Lucas says he’ll see me on Friday. I’m halfway home when I realize the burn-y itchy feeling in my heel has gone away.

Click here to read the story behind "Achilles' Heel."

Something Fishy

            Dr. Troyan settled into his chair and stretched his fingers. “So,” he said, prodding my teeth one by one, “did you hear about the sushi place next door?”

            “Uh-uh.” It’s hard to speak coherently with a dentist’s digits in your mouth, but that doesn’t stop them from starting a conversation every single damn time. I wonder if they learn that in dental school.

            “Turns out,” he continued, “they’re under investigation by the health department.” He leaned down and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Seems they’ve been using extraterrestrial fish.”

            Funny, that was the exact phrase the anonymous tipster had used: “extraterrestrial fish”—not the colloquial “alien fish,” not the official “non-Terran fish.” Looked like the anonymous tipster wasn’t so anonymous anymore. A person can use any number of a dozen technologies to hide his voice, but his words always give him away.

            Did Dr. Troyan know I was a health department inspector? He’d been my dentist for years, but I didn’t remember ever talking shop. I wasn’t about to start now, even though the sushi joint was someone else’s investigation. I kept my answer a neutral “Is that so?,” which sounded great in my head but came out like a drunken version of that vintage cartoon dog, Scooby Doo.

            It was enough to spur Dr. T to keep talking. “Yup, only a matter of time before the health police shut them down. Good riddance, too, if you ask me. Never could stand the smell of fish, no matter what planet they come from.”

            From that, I assumed Dr. Troyan had never eaten next door. He must have learned about the non-Terran fish—if there were any—from someone else, maybe a patient. I’d have to pass that along to the case inspector.

            Frankly, I didn’t see what the big deal was. Ever since the United Nations signed the Intergalactic Free Trade Agreement, all kinds of non-Terran foods had found their way to Earth. There were restaurants devoted to Sayaran cuisine, grocery stores that sold nothing but Kiertan groceries. The trade went the other way, too. The Uwa, for example, had developed a taste for molé. Its dozens of ingredients fit right in with the complexity of their native chow.

            Still, Earthlings have a long history of resisting cultural change. That’s why the U.N. passed legislation protecting trademark indigenous cuisine, such as sushi, from alien influence. Most people—me included—broke that law daily within the private confines of their own homes. The planetary authorities turned a blind eye to that but not to the infiltration of non-Terran foodstuffs into more public meal sources. In the United States, enforcement fell to health department employees such as myself, and any one of us would say the same thing: we’d have better success emptying the ocean with a teaspoon.

* * *

            The next morning, my mouth still sore from Dr. Troyan’s cleaning, I tracked down the inspector assigned to the Satsuma Sushi case, an efficient young man named Lewis. I told him about my dentist.

            “Sounds like the neighborhood busybody,” he said. “But I’ll check him out.”

            Out of curiosity I asked, “What have you found so far?”

            He waved a hand over the stacks of file folders on his desk. “Lots of nothing. Everyone I talked to’s heard the rumor, but no one has anything specific to back it up.” He raised his eyebrows. “Frankly, Jonah, I could use some help on this. If you’re not working on anything urgent. If you don’t mind.”

            I ran through my caseload in my head. No, nothing urgent. And Dr. Troyan had piqued my curiosity. I held out my hand. “I don’t mind at all.”

            Lewis shook my hand and smiled as if his dream girl had just accepted his prom invitation. “All right. Thank you.” He turned and grabbed a handful of folders. “Let me show you what I’ve got so far.”

            We spent the next two and a half hours going over the case. Lewis was right. He had lots of nothing.

            He looked at me like an expectant puppy. “So what do we do now?”

            “We go to lunch.” I put my hands on the desk and pushed myself to a standing position. “I feel like sushi. How ‘bout you?”

            Lewis smiled. “Sushi sounds great.”

* * *

            Satsuma Sushi was largely empty when we arrived. No surprise given that the lunch rush wouldn’t start for another hour. I led Lewis to two stools along the back counter. I’d already instructed him that we were going “undercover”—no credentials, no formal investigating, just lunch and some careful observation.

            “Know anything about sushi?” I asked.

            Lewis shrugged. “Some.”

            “Good. You can teach me. I usually eat my fish fried and in a taco.”

            Lewis walked me through the basics: how nigirizushi differs from makizushi, how futomaki differs from uramaki, and how under no circumstances whatsoever are California rolls authentic sushi. Then he caught the counterman’s attention and ordered a sample bento for each of us. “Some” knowledge, indeed.

            Minutes later we each had a box in front of us. Each box held six pieces of sushi, some soy sauce, and a few slices of ginger. I pointed to the piece in the upper left corner of my bento.

Nigirizushi and makizushi. Photo by Japan Sushi via Wikimedia Commons. Used under CC 3.0

“Nigirizushi, right?”

 “Right.”

“And what kind of fish is that on top?”

Lewis leaned over for a closer look. “Salmon. You really don’t know your fish, do you?”

“Fish tacos,” I reminded him. “You still want me on this case?”

He popped a piece of uramaki into his mouth and nodded as he chewed. “Hm-hmmm.”

            I waited for him to swallow before asking, “Anything in these boxes look non-Terran to you?”

            He used a chopstick to poke around and through our sushi. By the time he finished, my bento held a mess of rice, nori, fish, and vegetables. His didn’t look much neater.

            “May I help you?” a male voice asked from behind us.

            We turned to find a middle-aged Asian man in business casual dress wringing his hands.

            “I am the manager,” he continued. He pointed at our boxes. “Was the food not to your satisfaction?”

            Lewis and I exchanged a look. Our undercover operation was over. We pulled our credentials out of our pants pockets.

            “Sir,” I said, showing him my identification. “Is there somewhere we could talk privately?”

            He nodded and led us to a door labeled “Restrooms” along the back wall. We followed him through the door, down a hallway, past the bathrooms, to a small but orderly office next to an emergency exit. He took the seat behind the desk and gestured for us to take the folding chairs along the wall.

            For a few moments, the only sound in the office was the scraping of the chairs as Lewis and I pulled them closer to the desk. We introduced ourselves and the manager gave us his name, Akihiro Otasaki.

            “And what have I done,” Mr. Otasaki asked, “to attract the attention of two health department inspectors?”

            We explained about the anonymous tip and the investigation it required, saying nothing about our suspicions of Dr. Troyan.

            When he spoke, Mr. Otasaki’s voice was calm but tense. “I assure you, gentlemen, we serve only fish indigenous to Earth. We use Sayaran technology to cook our rice because it is so much more efficient, but every morsel of food here is pure Terran. I am happy to provide any paperwork or samples you need to prove it.”

            “Thank you, sir. We would like to take some samples and review your purchase orders, just for confirmation,” Lewis explained. “I’ll grab what we need from the car.”

            Soon after Lewis stepped out to fetch his collection kit, another possibility occurred to me. “Do you have any enemies, sir? Anyone who might want to cause trouble for you by calling in such a tip?”

            The restaurant manager leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. He sighed before saying, “I’m afraid I might. Do you know the dentist next door? Dr. Troyan, I believe is his name.”

            Dr. Troyan? Interesting. I made an effort to keep my expression neutral.

            “It is unfortunate, but we have had some run-ins with him. Nuisance complaints, mostly. He does not want us here, but I cannot say why.”

            Lewis returned, and Mr. Otasaki led him to the kitchen. When the restaurant manager rejoined me in the office, I asked him to list the complaints made by Dr. Troyan and their timing, to the best of his recollection. Then I went to help Lewis collect samples.

* * *

            Back at the office later that afternoon, after we’d delivered the samples to our laboratory, Lewis and I re-strategized. We did not know for sure that the complaint against Satsuma Sushi was false—we would need lab results for that—but we strongly suspected that was the case. We also suspected Dr. Troyan was at the center of the hullaballoo. It could not have been coincidence that I fingered him as the anonymous tipster and Mr. Otasaki identified him as the restaurant’s sole enemy.

            So while I dug deeper into my dentist’s life, Lewis talked with his so-called witnesses again. Forty-eight hours later, we each had reached the same conclusion: the accusation against Satsuma Sushi was completely false, and Dr. Troyan was behind it. The witnesses all turned out to be patients of Dr. Troyan or relatives of his patients. I had no difficulty imagining him whispering his suspicions to them just as he had with me. Under the law, anyone who filed a false accusation could be fined the cost of the investigation. We made it our mission to prove Dr. Troyan deserved the fine.

* * *            

            “You’re not going to believe this,” Lewis announced as I walked into the office the following morning. He waved an olive-drab folder. “The lab results are in.”

            I threw my jacket on the back of my chair. “And?”

            “The fish is all native to Earth.”

            “Not a surprise. That’s what we expected.”

            “But the rice is not.”

            I fell into my chair. “What?”

            Lewis opened the folder and put his index finger on the top page. “The rice is of a variety found only on the planet Sayara.”

            “So efficiency isn’t the only reason all their rice cookers are Sayaran.”

            “There’s more.” He put down the olive folder and picked up a red one. “I went through Satsuma’s purchase orders. They haven’t bought any vinegar in years.”

            “So?”

            Lewis let out a sigh of exasperation. “Sushi rice is made with vinegar. Except Sayaran rice naturally has a vinegary taste and sticky texture, perfect for sushi.”

            It was my turn to sigh. I leaned back in my chair. “Where does that leave us?”

            “With charges to file against Satsuma Sushi.” He raised an eyebrow. “Right? Unless I’m missing something?”

            “There’s still something fishy, pardon the expression, about Dr. Troyan’s anonymous tip. I’d like to know what’s behind it. He sure as hell didn’t know about the rice, or he would have said so in his call.” I rocked forward. “You handle the charges against the restaurant. I’m going to have a chat with my dentist.”

* * *

            I waited in Dr. Troyan’s office while he finished with a patient.

            He greeted me with a smile. “Jonah! Everything all right?”

            “Yes, everything’s fine.” I answered. “I’m actually here about that sushi restaurant. You said they served extraterrestrial fish.” I flashed my credentials and took a bit of pleasure in watching him blanch.  “I wanted to assure you that we’ve investigated thoroughly and found no evidence of non-Terran seafood anywhere in the place.”

            “Oh, well, um, thank you.”

            “I suspect you knew that, though.” I stepped closer. “So tell me, just between us, why’d you make the call? Why all the nuisance complaints against Mr. Otasaki?”

            I watch his wheels turn. Finally, he shrugged and said, “I wanted his storefront so I could expand my practice.”

            It figured. Plain old Earthling greed. I needed to find a new dentist.

Click here to read the story behind "Something Fishy."