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“Good morning!” she answered. She hoped her professional closemouthed smile would cover her filthy thoughts.
“I brought you coffee,” he said and sat down in her visitor’s chair setting his cup carefully on her desk. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“I’m used to being interrupted. I encourage an open-door policy.”
Erez’s large palm brushed his head. He opened his mouth as if preparing to speak, then closed it. Took a sip from his cup, leaned towards her, then back. Something was clearly bothering him, and not looking at him expectantly would make it easier for him to speak. She turned back to her computer and continued reading the ‘thank you’ email Nina wrote to the ‘talk to Dafna mailbox’. She smiled when she read the young woman’s words, that she writes it because once she’s in the office she keeps forgetting to say it.
Erez cleared his throat, crossed his legs, moved on the chair, and recrossed them. She nearly reached to touch him, to calm him, but stopped herself.
“You’re a psychologist, right?” he finally blurted.
“Yes, I never practiced it, but you can talk to me and it will stay between us.”
“Thank you.”
He drank his coffee, and she let him find and arrange his thoughts. The first rule of being a good listener was to give space.
“Yesterday my daughter performed in her first big event. And she choked in the middle of her solo.” His voice was low, tense. “It was horrible. She froze.”
His eyes lifted for a second, and she nodded in sympathy.
“Today she started her summer workshop. Rona, that’s my ex-wife, told me Gal cried and said she couldn’t show her face there. Rona made her go. Gal had been waiting for this workshop all year long, and she worked so hard to get in.”
His voice broke.
“But she went?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. It shows a strength of character.”
She leaned forward and squeezed the manta ray on his arm. He jerked a little, his Adam’s apple moving as he gulped. She pulled back, but the sensation of his arm’s short fine hair, his warm skin, lingered on her fingers.
“Has it ever happened before?” she asked.
“No, not that I know of. She has passed all her auditions, which were in front of a large audience. The other candidates and people from the opera and the theater. She had no problem then.”
Sifting through the dregs of her memory, she’d recalled a third-year course in child psychology.
“There is a phenomenon called selective mutism. Have you heard of it?”
He shook his head.
“It’s an anxiety disorder in which a person who is otherwise capable of speech, or in Gal’s case, singing, becomes unable to when exposed to specific situations. Sometimes it’s in class, in front of their peers, and sometimes it’s when there’s a crowd. Gal may have stage fright that manifests itself under specific circumstances.”
“Yes, it was her first real performance. My brother, who’s an actor, thinks it will go away after she gets used to performing.”
“I can ask around, perhaps find her someone who’s a psychologist for show biz people,” Dafna offered.
“And I’ll ask my brother. I should have thought of it myself. Thank you.” He shifted on his chair. “So what about the company activity?”
She went along willingly with the change of subject. “I liked your idea of the whisky distillery. But it’s a little out of my budget.”
“I could arrange a special price for you. Hang on.” He fiddled with his phone. “They re-open for visitors on August 17. I sent a text to the owner. I’ll come with you to see it.”
She imagined him pouring her drinks, his deep voice explaining about different kinds of whisky. But it would be a date, and they said they weren’t doing that.
“Perhaps Zoey would like to go with you.” The words were out of her mouth before she could check herself.
