The Reluctant Healer

By Andrew D. Himmel

Named to Kirkus Reviews' Best Books of 2018
Winner of 2019 International Book Awards (General Fiction and Inspirational Fiction Categories) 
Winner, 2019 New York City Big Book Award (General Fiction) 

Between Doubt and Belief
The Reluctant Healer tells the story of a young attorney who is torn between mounting evidence that he has the spiritual ability to heal others and his life-long skepticism of alternative views. Will Alexander is cautious and conventional. But when he meets Erica, a beautiful, intense energy healer, he becomes troubled not only by her unorthodox endeavors but also by the limitations of his own existence. Amidst this turmoil, Will is startled to discover that he may possess metaphysical gifts of healing that confront the narrow doctrines of his regulated life.

​The Reluctant Healer paints a portrait of a reasonable man who traces a path between skepticism and belief. Flawed, funny, and agnostic, Will distrusts much of the alternative world, even as he struggles internally with phenomena that challenge both his sense of self and his orderly perspective. Will’s love for Erica, the exposure to her world, and his newfound powers place his life in a state of uncertainty, teetering between disruption and liberation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
• Release date: Oct 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781626345317

Book preview

complicated.

1

Flight

Night approached, and I wanted a drink. Actually, I wanted a few drinks, but first, I had to escape. This task, on a bleak Manhattan afternoon in July, was tricky, because Norman, the litigation partner, was once again prowling the hallways. Veteran associates of Canaan & Cassidy had committed to memory the twists and irregularities of the corridors leading to the elevator bank . . . to freedom. The more challenging skill was predicting the chaotic path Norman might choose on his grim Friday patrol, for this was Norman’s passion: to capture a junior attorney near the beckoning elevator, so close to freedom, and to ambush the associate with the assignment of reviewing a document production or financial prospectus, an undertaking that would consume the weekend and snuff out any hopes of release that the associate had foolishly entertained.

Thick strokes of sun filtered through the law firm’s windows. My hopes were high, and I was patient. I waited until Norman walked by my office, his heavy frame displacing the dank air of the hallway. Then, I stepped outside my office and followed him at a strategic distance. He listed to the right with each step, his wrinkled shirt refusing to remain tucked. I heard footsteps and spun around to see Stefan Ortvald quietly falling into step behind me. He knew I was following Norman, and we both knew that hiding in plain sight was our only path to deliverance.

But Stefan’s presence was unwelcome. He was tall and clad in a crisp Armani suit, and I was rumpled. Plus, he was Danish and spoke English with an accent suggesting flair and confidence. And while we were both associates, Stefan was a rising star and possessed a subtle authority that I lacked. If Norman turned around and saw us both, he would choose me.

I quickened my pace, then abruptly pivoted to the elevator bank. Stefan, close behind, almost tripped over me and suppressed a laugh. I pushed the button and noticed that the Down arrow was faded, probably eroded by the oily fingers of associates over the years, frantically pressing the button to hasten the arrival of the elevator. We tumbled into the elevator, and the doors closed. Stefan and I held our breaths until we felt the downward pull toward ground level.

Once outside, Stefan faced me squarely. You do not fool me, Will, he said. There is brilliance within you, and my gift is recognizing your talents, your artistry in evasion. We will celebrate tonight.

Why not? I had nothing else to do. The long expanse of a solitary weekend lay before me, and Stefan was as close to being a friend as anyone I knew at the firm. As we headed downtown in the cab, I reflected on our escape, which was more exciting than the work I was escaping from. I was a graduate of Hamilton College and Cornell Law School, and a third-year associate at Canaan. As we drove past the flickering lights of the city, I told myself, not for the first time, that I did not pine for more, that I did not occasionally fend off despair contemplating the vague emptiness of my life.

Hey, I heard.

I turned toward Stefan, who had shifted closer to me in the back seat of the taxi. He smiled broadly.

You have no idea what we just escaped from, he said.

You were never in any danger, I replied. Me, that’s a different story. Stefan bent forward and looked around as if to guard against eavesdroppers.

Do you know about Norman’s latest client? An administrator of pension plans. Have you ever read a pension document, Will? Not just the summary, but the actual text of a defined benefit plan? Good Lord. We’re free, Will, we’re free.

For the weekend, I said. Stefan inched closer to me.

Just last Friday, he said, I made it to the elevator. Norman was nowhere in sight. The doors were closing quickly. And then a hand stabbed through the opening. And then another hand. Big, fat hands. Stefan laughed loudly as he held up his own hands, clenching his fingers. "For a few seconds, all I could see were these two paws, prying the elevator doors open. Norman was grunting loudly. The elevator was fighting back, but Norman was too strong. He was committed. He yanked the doors back open. And there he was, staring at me, breathing heavily, his hair flying."

I started to laugh as well. Don’t forget the sweat pouring down his face.

Good point. The sweat just flowing freely. And he yelled, ‘Ortvald!,’ even though I was right in front of him. He was triumphant, and I knew I was screwed. ‘Ortvald,’ he said again, this time very quiet, very sinister.

Your weekend plans dashed, right?

Exactly. So Norman stepped into the elevator and pressed the Stop button. The elevator shook, and he put his face right up against mine. His breath stank. And I had to say something, not to escape, but just to find some dignity in all of this terror. But before I could speak, he smiled warmly and said, ‘Ortvald, have a great weekend.’ And he spun around and walked out of the elevator.

I looked at Stefan skeptically. Funny story. But the truth is, Norman has to be careful with you.

With me?

Stefan, you’re part of the new order. Or you will be soon. And Norman knows it.

Stefan sat back. I’m just a lowly associate, Will.

"You’re a senior associate, with a strong client base. You’re a lock for partner. Norman will be escaping from you in the not-too-distant future."

Not sure about that, Stefan said. But if I’m the new guard, Will, you could be right there with me. You should keep that in mind.

Stefan offered this observation in a kindly manner, but I also wondered whether his comment had a sharper edge. Stefan navigated office politics with ease, but I had trouble summoning enthusiasm for such maneuvering.

We settled on Mikonos, a brightly lit midtown Greek restaurant with a wide, marble bar carved into a semicircle and separated from its dining area by a row of giant, porcelain urns. Almost as soon as we entered, I wanted to leave. The bar area was jammed, and suddenly, I desired the ease of a solitary evening, not the noisy surfeit of brash, confident professionals. Stefan loudly summoned the bartender for two glasses of scotch.

You are weak, Stefan said. The slightest disturbance to your tidy existence, and you are ready to flee. I will drink heavily tonight, and I will not drink alone.

I downed my glass quickly and began to relax. The soft jazz block chords of Oscar Peterson playing Have You Met Miss Jones? floated across the room. We were a solid twenty feet from the restaurant’s tables, but the smell of the charred T-bones and garlic-laced filet mignons swept over us.

Do you know why I like scotch? I asked. But Stefan was staring off into the distance. I poked him hard. He didn’t flinch.

I like scotch, I said, because the more I drink, the uglier you get. I held up two fingers and grabbed two more glasses from the bartender. I drank mine, and pushed the second glass toward Stefan. He continued to ignore me. I pushed him gently, but he was solid and didn’t budge.

Look, he said. They do not seem real.

I followed his stare and saw two women at the edge of the bar, near the front window, facing each other and holding hands. One of the women was in her midthirties, sharply dressed, slightly overweight, and had her eyes closed tight. The other was younger, and I thought slimmer, although she was dressed more shabbily, a tent-like poncho thrown over her shoulders. Her eyes were green, so intensely green that they seemed fake. I thought Stefan had been talking about the women, but I realized he was referring to the eyes.

You’re right, I said. They can’t be real.

Her eyes shone forward like tractor beams, Stefan said, piercing through the night, illuminating all that lay before her.

"Really? You should tell her that. She would probably appreciate poetry, something from the early Star Trek genre." I remained fixated on the ponchoed woman.

Stefan faced me. Poetry. A proven technique, he said. ‘Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, Lady, were no crime.’ Andrew Marvell, sixteenth or seventeenth century . . . I cannot remember. Will, you should know: that line rarely fails.

"That’s your technique?" I asked.

It is, and I pass the poem off as my own. The words have power. They break down barriers. I credit Andrew Marvell with my relationship with Ava.

So, show me how to break down this barrier, how to approach the green-eyed lady. I threw down one more drink. You might want to wait until they’re finished doing whatever it is that they’re . . .

But Stefan had already grabbed my arm and was dragging me toward the two women. I stumbled after him as he elbowed his way through the crowd, stopping in front of them. By this time, I had managed to break free from Stefan’s grip and was still a few steps behind him.

Call it intuition, Stefan said to the women, but I am convinced that you would benefit from a recitation of lyrical poetry. So I have asked my friend here . . . Stefan spun around and gestured toward me. I have asked my friend here to recite a few lines for you.

The sharply dressed woman offered a dull smile. She turned to her friend. I’m late as it is, Erica. We’ll talk later. She left, and the younger, green-eyed woman stood her ground, alternating her gaze from Stefan to me. Norman might choose me. But this woman, Erica, would choose Stefan. They fit. They were both, frankly, gorgeous. I imagined them together and planned to retreat back into the crowd. Maybe my chances would improve after Stefan confessed to his current relationship.

‘Now therefore, while the youthful hue sits on thy skin like morning dew,’ Stefan began.

I thought your friend was going to recite poetry, Erica said. She looked at me then, not with warmth but with the attention paid to someone who might be auditioning for a role.

He tends to freeze in moments of stress, Stefan said, so at times I have to help him.

Erica moved toward the bar, elbowing past Stefan, and found an empty stool not far from where I was standing. She then summoned the bartender, presumably to settle her tab. Stefan smiled, raised his glass to me, and wandered away. The crowd shifted, following some primal edict of reorganization, and I found myself directly in front of her.

Her eyes darted about, and she seemed troubled. I calculated that I had no prayer with her, which was fine. Anyway, she dressed like a slob. It was as if she set into motion a battle between her beauty and appearance, daring one to outdo the other.

You hurt my friend’s feelings, I said. So I’m going to tend to him now. I’ll get back to you later if I have time.

I turned away from her, then felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

Don’t move, she told me. She looked past me, and her mouth opened. I craned my neck to follow her gaze.

I asked you not to move, she said. Then, more softly, Please.

She lowered her eyes to me. There are colors emanating from you. Bright, splashy colors. Hues of pure green, to the higher-spectrum colors of blues, to violet. Very unusual. I see their aura all about you. They are emanating, but they haven’t quite broken free. They are struggling.

"The colors? I began, but she continued.

The powers reflected in those colors. You have substance, perhaps powers, but you don’t even know it, and you keep them bottled up. Was she toying with me?

You’re coming on to me, I said. I don’t know how I feel about that.

Look at your tie, she said, with a sudden trace of annoyance. You’ve shoved it up so tight that you’re choking yourself.

Why is this of any interest to you?

I didn’t say it was interesting. Sad, maybe. But not interesting.

I was expecting a wry smile, something to soften what otherwise might be taken for an insult. But the smile never came.

Okay, why do you find this . . . me . . . sad?

You’re trapped. You’re here, in a bar, with no partner or client to impress. You are an attorney or banker, right? And despite your momentary freedom before you march back to the office on Monday morning, you still feel like you need to choke off your air supply with your uniform.

That’s deep, I said. Also, I’m a glorified proofreader for the filthy rich, and all I do is help one faceless corporation gain advantage over another while real people with real problems suffer.

Something like that, she said. Plus, you drink too much.

My name’s Will, I said.

Erica, she responded. Erica Wells. Then she walked away. As I watched her, I realized two things. First, I was drunk. Second, I was thrilled to be the object of her abuse. I wanted more. I found her scorn comforting, something I could possibly break through. I could reach her, I thought, on a deep level that would dispense with a relationship’s need for nurture and preparation. Or maybe I was just plastered.

She moved slowly toward the exit, perhaps expecting me to follow. I plowed through the crowd after her and brushed shoulders with Bryce Corwin, the head of Canaan’s corporate department. He ignored me and proceeded to the maître d’ desk with a small entourage of younger associates. When I joined the firm years ago, Corwin assigned me the task of trolling through hundreds of documents to determine whether there was anything troublesome about a company the firm’s client was purchasing. On completion, I was called into Corwin’s office. And while he had a reputation for cruelty, he appeared happy, but only because the ineptitude of my work gave him an opportunity to use a line that he had undoubtedly perfected over the years. The difference between what I asked you to do and what you did, he said, is the difference between shitting and fucking.

I pushed through that memory, forced myself to look past Corwin, and positioned myself in front of Erica before she could exit.

There must be great pleasure in this, coming to a place where professionals congregate so you can verbally abuse them, I said.

She scanned me, as if she had found an imperfection worth exploring. I thought she might walk away again.

It’s perfect, really, I continued. You have contempt for us, but you can also save us. It’s one-stop shopping. And I admire your technique. No academic isolation for you. Go to where help is needed. Confront the virus in its natural habitat.

What do you think of me? she asked. As I contemplated the answer, I noticed that other men were staring at her.

You’re better looking than I am, I replied. And I want to see you again.

2

Fire

The following Friday, we met at Chez Michele, an upscale French bistro in Tribeca. I got there early and asked for a glass of merlot, which I drank quickly. Then, I requested another. I was clad in pressed khaki pants, a blue-striped shirt, and a navy blazer, and I assumed Erica would also show up well dressed. She arrived, moments later, in light washed-out blue jeans and a drab, gray sweatshirt with a hoodie. I felt a stab of insult. Then, I almost laughed out loud.

Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t come. As she walked toward our table, I struggled to find just the right words to recapture the momentum of what I imagined to be my insolent charm from Mikonos. But seeing her scrambled my thoughts.

She sat down and glanced at me briefly, then turned her attention to her handbag, which she slung over the back of her chair. I braced myself for a short evening.

You were mocking me the other night, weren’t you? she asked. I tried to establish eye contact, but her eyes darted away from mine, like repelling magnets.

Maybe she was unstable. That could actually improve my chances. I had a history of attracting peculiar women, a fate I attributed to being a blank slate on whom others could etch patterns of their choice. Just a few weeks earlier, I had dinner with a woman I met online, who informed me that her last date had touched her inappropriately. She told me she responded seductively, whispered into her date’s ear, then bit down hard on his earlobe. I tasted blood, she told me.

I stared at Erica. You’re not going to bite me, are you?

I try to keep my options open, she said. She didn’t smile, but neither was she thrown off guard. I wanted to make her laugh. I drank some of my wine.

You drink a lot, she said.

I’m being rude, I said. Would you like some?

I try not to drink. It interferes with . . . everything. I studied her for a moment.

Why are you here? I asked.

Have you had too much already? she asked, looking at my glass.

I relaxed. This would end soon.

You didn’t answer my question, I said.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

That’s easy. You’re gorgeous. I’m not. And you’re troubled in some way I can’t define. And you’re interested in me, which doesn’t speak well for your judgment. I like women with bad judgment.

Erica bit her lip. Was she trying not to smile?

Where are you from? I asked.

Cleveland.

I laughed. Cleveland, the birthplace of exotic creatures, of beautiful women.

Detroit without the charm, she said.

So, you’re on a mission, right? You go to places like Mikonos to save bland professionals from lives of despair, and you chose me the other night.

I reached for the merlot, but she reached out and grabbed my arm, gently guiding me away from the glass. Perhaps the gesture was borne more of condescension than intimacy, but I caught my breath all the same. She didn’t release her grip.

I’m patient, I said. At some point, you’re going to let go.

Why law? She asked.

Why not? I responded.

Erica closed her eyes and smiled. I remembered that it made sense to consume one glass of water for each alcoholic beverage. With my free hand, I drank the sparkling water in front of me, watching the erratic bubbles dance on the surface.

This date doesn’t count, I said.

Her eyes opened. What does that mean?

I didn’t . . . earn this date. I didn’t . . . score an evening with a dazzling woman. Having dinner with you is like being approached by an attractive religious fanatic at an airport. It doesn’t count.

She let go of my hand. She would leave now, like a Jehovah’s Witness accepting the apathy of a potential convert. But instead, she picked up the menu and studied the contents. Let’s order, she said.

I looked up and saw a large chandelier consisting of concentric metallic circles, laced with gold flecks and polished to a high gleam. The restaurant was full, with men dressed in blue suits and red ties, waiters in crisp white uniforms, women in stylish skirts and dark blouses. I glanced downward and allowed the sounds of the restaurant to filter through: the erratic clang of metal on porcelain, the drone of conversation.

What do you do? I asked.

I try to help people, she said. She then looked at me directly, without blinking.

Could you be more specific?

Staring at Erica made me dizzy, even though I was only halfway through my second glass of wine. I looked away to recover some equilibrium and noticed, on the far wall, three paintings of pastoral scenes encased in ornate frames. I couldn’t tell whether the style was impressionistic or whether my vision was faltering. Maybe this could be fun. I was a charity case, and now, I had the freedom to sabotage the evening.

More importantly, do you succeed? I asked her.

In what?

You try to help people. Do you succeed?

She put the menu down and glanced over at the next table. I looked over as well and saw a huge crock of French onion soup with thick, overflowing cheese solidified over the edges, full of beef stock and crammed with croutons. I realized I was hungry.

Tell me something about you, she said.

That’s the second time you didn’t answer my question.

Often, she said. I succeed. Often.

The waiter arrived, and we ordered. Erica chose the onion soup, followed by filet mignon with french fries. When the main courses were delivered, she drenched the steak in sauce and covered the fries with ketchup. I ordered plain chicken, which I cut into small pieces. We ate without talking, Erica chewing and staring at her plate. I ate slowly, mostly to provide a base for the wine. I stared at my glass of water again.

The food seemed to relax Erica, and without invitation, she began to speak rapidly, as if she only had a limited amount of time.

She was a social worker with a large caseload at Beth Israel and was developing a private practice as well. She did not have much of a social life. Instead, she devoted her time to her patients. She tossed off the names of treatises with impenetrable titles, and I imagined that little space on her bookshelves was allotted to frivolous material. No best sellers, no gossip magazines, not even the classics. Just volumes on psychology, medicine, and hospice care.

Her delivery became frantic, and I felt unsettled, like a passenger trapped in a vehicle careening through traffic.

Do you read trashy novels? I suddenly asked.

What?

Or binge-watch TV shows? Erica’s eyes narrowed.

You’re making fun of me again. You do that a lot, she said.

A lot? We just met. She looked away, as if searching for a more receptive audience. Then, she turned back to me, her body tensing. I had a vague sense that I was running out of time, that the evening and this woman would soon drift away.

I’m jealous, I said.

Jealous? Of me?

You’re involved. You’re concerned about the well-being of others. Her shoulders relaxed.

Aren’t you? she asked.

Not really. I ran my hand through my hair. What did I realistically expect from this date? There are only so many hours in the day. You spend those hours worrying about other people. I spend those hours completing my professional chores, then going home to collapse.

Maybe we can change that, she told me. I laughed abruptly.

Wow, I said. "That sounds creepy and sexy." She smiled without conviction. Had I just mocked her again? I was about to plead innocence, but she then returned to her narrative, at a calmer pace. I relaxed but was troubled by an emerging link between her moods and my state of being. I forced myself to refocus on her words.

Conversational therapy, she said. More suited to my nature. So after college, I got my master’s in social work from New York University. She stopped suddenly. Are you listening to me?

Of course I . . .

You have to take a long view of medicine, she said, quickly, throwing me off balance. Was this intentional? I know all of its virtues and inventions. But its successes will ultimately destroy us. I stared blankly.

Do you know we are heading into a postantibiotic era? she asked. Our greatest gift to humanity, all of the antibiotics which treat AIDS, bacterial infections, malaria, tuberculosis, has created bacteria so resistant, so sophisticated that soon all of our antibiotics will be useless. Imagine that. No antibiotics for routine operations. No treatments for superficial wounds. We will destroy ourselves with the very gifts of modern medicine.

I had heard this kind of rant before, although where and when I couldn’t quite place. I found myself abandoning my strategy of sabotage. Instead, stabbing the food in front of me, I was caught between not wanting to challenge her and needing to capture some traction in our conversation.

The best minds in the world, surely, must know all this, I said. What are you saying, exactly? That we’re doomed?

Not doomed, she informed me. We’re being challenged. And we’re not yet up to the task.

She continued in this vein, and I found myself blocking the incoming visual of Erica meeting my parents. My father, a retired life insurance salesman whose intelligence outstripped his life accomplishments, was nonetheless a content man, one who wore his reticence like a badge of honor. And my mother was assertive, more likely to pose aggressive challenges to commentary. I had trouble deciding whether Erica would fit comfortably within the space between my parents, or whether she would annoy them both. Certainly, my mother would not sit passively in a conversation with Erica but would press her for an explanation of her theories, her views, her . . .

The colors, I said, interrupting her.

The colors?

The colors, I said. When we met at Mikonos, you mentioned that you saw colors emanating from me. And that I had . . . powers, or words to that effect.

She hesitated. You’re probably not ready.

What does that mean?

And maybe I misjudged.

Misjudged what? She sat back and furrowed her brows.

Do I have to be careful with you? she asked.

I’m not following . . .

I have strong beliefs.

I’m sure that’s true. You’re confident. That comes through. It’s natural for you, in fact. Whereas for me . . .

She waved her hand to cut me off. My beliefs are strong, but, for you, they’re probably unusual, maybe even absurd.

I won’t judge you by your beliefs.

Yes, you will. In fact, maybe you should. But you can’t ridicule me. You can’t . . . mock me.

Erica, I said.

All you have to do is say, ‘Sorry, I just don’t accept these notions,’ but you can do this gently.

I have no desire to mock you, and if I did so inadvertently, you have to forgive me.

Her hands were folded on the table in front of her. I reached over and placed my hands on hers, not sure how she would respond. Hi, my name is Will.

She looked up at me expectantly. Hi, Will, she said quietly.

I’m a lawyer and failed wit, and I can be a complete jackass from time to time, but I’m a good guy, and you have to let me start over or else I’ll make really strange noises and attract a lot of attention. She smiled. Loud snorting noises, too. The kind that require medical attention. She laughed, and I did too. And one other thing, I said. I am not going to ridicule you. She looked downward.

Do you know who ridicules me? She paused. My parents. Doctors.

I couldn’t fathom the notion of my own parents ridiculing me, and I found myself strengthening my grip on her hands. Really? Why? They’re physicians, and you help others. You’re in the same . . . field. Erica looked up at me then and entwined her fingers with mine.

I was in a fire, she said.

When?

About five years ago. She breathed in sharply. I was living alone, in a small studio in an eighteen-story building on Fourth Avenue. Near Union Square. My apartment was on the sixteenth floor.

She stopped and looked around the restaurant. Most of the tables were empty.

Are you familiar with the Jewish tradition of slapping girls who reach puberty? she asked me. I shook my head, struggling to connect the threads of her narrative.

When I had my first period, my grandmother slapped my face. Not hard, but with enough force to register. It was not a love tap. It wasn’t hostile either. But it had meaning beyond affection. I asked her why she slapped me, and she said I was lucky not to have really been struck.

Ancient custom? I asked. I felt uneasy at the thought of Erica being slapped.

Depends on who you ask. Apparently, the slapping custom is not sanctioned by Jewish law. But it’s a ritual with some families, passed down through the generations. I could never figure out if the purpose was to instill shame or to snap girls out of their adolescent slumber. And my grandmother never shed much light on the subject.

She returned her gaze to mine. We were still holding hands, and Erica raised our grasp a few inches, our elbows still touching the table.

I was close to my grandmother, she said, her voice soft. "She passed away about ten years ago. She was simple but smart. She knew why she slapped me. I think she had a deep understanding of its purpose and just couldn’t quite put the reason into words. Maybe she wanted to alert me, or remind me, or somehow . . . assure