Dans un nouvelle jour [Sean]

While receiving frantic, weeping telephone calls was not unheard of in Sean’s life or practice, he certainly hadn’t expected to receive one from Clarisse. She had assured him that she wasn’t in dire need at the time of the telephone call, which was the only reason he hadn’t hopped in his car and driven over to her house that night. Instead, she requested he come the next day, and he had readily agreed.

It was the next day, and he had driven himself as promised, arriving at her home. He returned her smile, although he was inwardly concerned, and prepared for whatever she had to say.

“You know you needn’t be so formal,” he lightly chided her when she addressed him by title. Whatever services she might require of him, he remained her friend, and she had given name privileges.

He followed her into her quaint kitchen and smiled upon seeing the tea set and, as was always the case in pleasing him, the array of sweets. “I’m happy to come; that’s what friends are for.”

He didn’t ask what was bothering her; she provided that without prompt. John Thornton could certainly be abrasive enough to warrant discussion. “What did he do?”

Sean settled at the table, eyeing the sweets and determining which he wanted to start with. There was a small puff pastry which made the decision for him, and he reached for it. Then he waited for her to explain what John Thornton had done to upset her so greatly the previous day.

She pointed, and he followed her finger to the bread maker on the kitchen counter. That certainly wasn’t what he had expected, nor was the explanation she provided. However, he listened patiently as she provided the context, explaining why the other man would possibly think to buy her a bread maker. The other man’s comment was certainly what he expected from John Thornton; his ability to adapt to social situations was dreadfully lacking.

The psychiatrist listened as she explained that the trainer had helped her when she had been injured, and that to pay him back she invited him over for supper. He listened to her tone, to her word choice, watched her body language and her facial expressions. And then he provided, “It’s not the most customary gift.”

The psychiatrist preferred to bring alcohol or dessert. “And it could mean a number of things, or have no meaning at all.”

The telepath thanked her when she poured him the cup of tea. He then reached for a sugar cube and added one to the brew, before stirring it. That was habit, as he didn’t know what tea she had selected to make, but he took sugar in tea, just as he did with coffee.

What she described as the trainer’s explanation for buying her the bread maker was also what he expected of the other man. He was abrasive and didn’t know how to choose words to spare feelings, and he often gave off the distinct impression that he was uninterested in learning how to develop that skill.

The telepath ate the puff pastry and then washed it down with a sip of tea, which was cool enough to drink. His expression was sympathetic. “It doesn’t sound particularly nice. It certainly sounds socially inept, which is one of the phrases that, unfortunately, comes to mind when I think of John Thornton.”

They were having a kvetching session in Clarisse’s home; he felt at liberty to share that thought. “As I wasn’t there, I can’t say what he was thinking at the time, although I can speculate if you’d like.” Only if she desired that; he was fine to listen otherwise.

The psychiatrist attempted to be generous; he reserved his complete disregard for those who were deliberately, sadistically cruel or psychotically violent. His thoughts briefly turned to Gabriel before he forcibly redirected his attention; that was past them all. There was no reason to ruminate there. John Thornton, with all of his social faults, wasn’t close to that level.

Sean took another sip of the tea and listened while Clarisse aired her frustrations. He then gently reminded her, “He has trouble feeling. That’s been known to affect a person’s mood.”

Sean’s relationship, as a telepath, to the physical world notwithstanding, it was a heavy burden to bear, and he understood that.

Given the permission to speculate, the psychiatrist put down his cup. He leaned back and brought his fingers together in a point, a thoughtful expression on his face. “These are the three scenarios that come to mind. One: he was trying to be deliberately rude, and he chose the most roundabout way of doing so, since he could have turned down your invitation to supper. That would have saved him the evening. Two: He knows that he’s supposed to bring a gift by social convention and the only thing he knows about you is that you burned a loaf of bread. Three: He was trying to do something nice for you, since he knew that you had burned a loaf of bread, and thought you might want help in the area. Because he is socially inept and makes poor word choices, he phrased this in the most offensive way possible.”

The telepath certainly wasn’t here to make Clarisse feel worse. He had come to offer comfort and to offer whatever advice she might require. That advice took the form of trying to postulate motives for John Thornton. Unfortunately, the byproduct of that appeared to make her feel guilty. He was used to that; Josh had that same personality type, but it still had not been Sean’s intention.

He liked to believe that he would cope with the problem without allowing it to affect his general outlook, but he couldn’t honestly say it would. Until he lived the gradual loss of sensation, coupled with the lack of telepathic insight, he couldn’t speculate that he would be any more socially aware than the trainer was.

The psychiatrist lowered his fingers now that he’d finished his speculation, and he reached for another pastry; they were delicious, and he had difficulty ignoring the temptation when they were on a platter in front of him. “He might not have a compass for it,” Sean remarked, before he took a bite of another pastry.

Washing that down with a sip of tea, he offered, “He’s a blunt person, and he likely appreciates bluntness in return. So, what to the rest of us should have been phrased as ‘I know you had burnt your bread and I thought this might make baking easier’ or any number of other ways that don’t involve words like improve, he said it that way and assumed the meaning wouldn’t have been lost. Unfortunately, most of us don’t speak John Thornton.”

Sean smiled gently at her and offered a nod of agreement. “It would certainly make life easier. There would be fewer mixed signals. On the other hand, there would also be less comfort tea.” One joke deserved another, even if his wasn’t particularly good.

The telepath could understand that impulse and thus he nodded as he listened, waiting for her to further elaborate. “I don’t think that’s an unnatural impulse. Assuming that you get something from being around him beyond frustration, since that will put strain on your heart.” Then she mentioned openness and honesty, which didn’t surprise Sean to hear. The trainer was blunt, openness and honesty often went hand-in-hand with that trait. “I can see how he would be.”

He polished off his pastry while she talked, never letting his eyes stray from her face while he did. He listened attentively, because that was why she’d called him. “Please trust me when I say I understand.” Sean certainly understood what it was to be around someone who brought out qualities that one might otherwise prefer to keep buried.

“I also don’t think that there’s anything wrong in not wanting to share.” She had lived through great trauma, and the telepath would never recommend that she share those memories with anyone if she didn’t feel comfortable doing so. Reliving those memories was painful. “I’d typically suggest a talk about boundaries, but as we discussed, social ineptitude.”

One need never worry about the shelf-life of baked goods when Sean was nearby. He had a way of making a dent in any platter of pastries, cookies, or other treats, unless he had to curb himself out of politeness or the need to share. Thankfully, it was only him and Clarisse, which gave the telepath permission to eat as much as he wanted, since he wouldn’t eat so many that she couldn’t have her fill as well.

The psychiatrist followed her lead in attempting to bring levity to their conversation. As such, he smiled at the giggle and replied, “The last thing I want is strain on your heart as well. You have a few years before you turn into me, after all.”

However, the levity quickly evaporated at her next remark. The psychiatrist was aware of everything that had happened to her back in France, of everything her husband had done to her, of everything he had been and what he hadn’t been. It was disconcerting, indeed, for someone to remind Clarisse of her late husband. And while he had never been in such a situation himself, he understood what it was nonetheless. “I see why that would be troubling,” he replied, setting down the half-eaten pastry on his saucer. “At least it is only in some ways, since he isn’t Guillame. For all of his aloofness, he is a different man.”