Now, of course, an empty gut could be filled by a humongous breakfast. The following morning, how wonderful life was when you ran your own show.
Relatching the French doors, she got into bed, crawled under the covers, drew them over her head. Taking a moment, as she always did, to reach under the box spring and pat the reassuring hunk of dense black plastic resting on the carpet beneath the bed.
Her house gun, a 9mm Glock, just like the cops used. Unregistered and perfectly maintained, same as the .22. Most likely, she’d never need either weapon. Same for the twin S&W .38 revolvers she’d bought at a gun show in Nevada last year and secreted in the file cabinet at her office.
Nighty-night, beloved instruments of destruction.
Curling fetally, Grace slipped her thumb between her lips. Sucked greedily.
She rose at dawn, famished, watched through the French doors as a gray pelican dove for breakfast. Shorebirds skittered along the tide line. An intermittent dot caught Grace’s attention and she got up and wrapped herself in the yellow kimono and went outside.
Focusing her eye where the dot had last been, she waited. There it was again, a few yards north. California sea lion, drifting and submerging. Keeping a slow pace, lovely, entitled predator that it was.
Grace watched for a while, made coffee and drank the first of three cups while scrambling four eggs tossed with cheese, Genoa salami, rehydrated porcinis, and garlic chives. Buttering two rolls, she downed every greasy crumb. By seven thirty she was back on PCH, letting the Aston do its thing as she warmed herself with thoughts of the care she’d be giving all day.
Bev, soon to be married, was better dressed and coiffed and conspicuously more put together than the red-eyed young widow who’d first showed up at Grace’s office shaking uncontrollably and barely able to speak. This morning, those eyes were clear, alternating between the warmth of pleasant expectation and flashes of furtive heat that Grace knew meant guilt.
No big puzzle: At a moment when the poor thing felt husband-to-be should take precedence, all she could think about was husband-who-was.
A thirty-year-old Portland firefighter when Bev met him, Greg had the equilibrium and easy confidence of a man whose body worked perfectly. Till it didn’t.
The cancer that had ended his life was so rare there was no treatment protocol. Bev had watched him waste away.
Who could blame her for abandoning hope? It had taken Grace a long time to get the sweet, warmhearted young woman to see that the concept of future could still be relevant. Now Bev was about to embark on a second attempt at faith, good for her!
“I’m not terrified, Dr. Blades. I guess I’m just…anxious. Okay, honest? I’m scared as heck.”
Grace said, “Then you’re ahead of the game.”
“Pardon?”
“If you were totally terrified, it would be understandable, Bev. Anything less than terror is heroism.”
Bev stared. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
Bev looked doubtful.
Grace said, “When did you start feeling anxious?” Deliberately downgrading from “scared.” It was her job to recontextualize.
Bev said, “I guess…a few weeks ago.”
“As the wedding date grew near.”
Nod.
“Until then, for the most part, would you say you were pretty happy?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Of course…”
“I’m marrying Brian. He’s wonderful.”
“But…”
“No buts,” said Bev. She burst into tears. “I feel disloyal! Like I’m cheating on Greg!”
“You loved Greg. It’s only natural you’d feel obligated to him.”
Bev sniffed.
Grace said, “To everyone else, Greg is a memory. To you he’s the other man.”
That unleashed another torrent of sobs.
Grace let Bev cry for a while, then leaned in close and dried Bev’s eyes and squeezed her hand. When Bev took a deep breath, Grace settled her back in her chair in a posture of forced relaxation.
In matters of healing, the body initiates and the mind follows. Malcolm had told her that. Only once, but it stuck.
And it worked: Bev’s facial muscles slackened. The tears stopped.
Grace gave her the softest smile she could muster. Bev smiled back.
A casual glance could register them as two pretty young women hanging out in a pleasant, well-lit room.
When the time was right, Grace said, “Because Greg loved you so much, we know one thing for sure.”
Bev looked at her through tear-smudged eyes. “What?”
“He’d absolutely want you to be happy.”
Silence.
Finally, Bev said, “Yes, I know.” That sounded like a confession.
Grace said, “Still, that bothers you.”
No answer.
Grace tried another tack. “Maybe instead of looking at Greg as laying siege to your emotions you could start thinking of him as a partner.”
“A partner in what?”
“The life that awaits you,” said Grace.
“Life,” said Bev. As if the idea was distasteful.
Grace said, “Let’s be clear: What you and Greg had together was profound. And profound things just don’t vanish because social niceties say they should. That doesn’t make you unfaithful to Greg. Or to Brian.”
“But still,” said Bev. “I do feel unfaithful. Yes, you’re right, to both of them.”
“To Greg for letting joy into your life. To Brian because you think about Greg.”
“Yes.”
“That makes total sense, honey. But think of it this way: The three of you—Brian and you and Greg—could tackle the agenda as a team.”
“I…what agenda?”
“The agenda of what lies in store for Bev. The agenda of Bev deserves to be happy,” said Grace. “Approved by unanimous voice vote.” She smiled. “For what it’s worth, I second the motion.”
Bev shifted in her chair. Her lips set grimly. “I guess.”
Grace knew she’d come on too strong. She let Bev sit there and ponder for a while and when Bev hadn’t shifted out of the relaxed position and her facial muscles had loosened again, she took another tack.
“Officially, your wedding’s a celebration. But there’s no need for you to snap into joy instantaneously just because you’ve printed invitations and people will be sitting in church. An emotionally shallow person could pull that off. But you remember what I told you last year: You’re emotionally substantial.”
Silence.
“You feel deeply, Bev. You always have. Those stories you told me about taking care of wounded animals.”
Makes two of us, girlfriend.
Nothing from Bev. Then, finally, a slow nod.
“Feeling deeply is a virtue, Bev. It allows life to take on meaning and at some point your joy will be even greater than if you’d simply drifted with the currents.”
Long silence. “I sure hope so.”
Grace placed a hand on Bev’s shoulder. “Of course you can’t see that, right now. How could you? But it’ll happen, there’ll be joy in your future but flavored with even greater depth than if you didn’t go through this, right now. That will be sweet.”
Bev stared at her. Muttered, “Thank you.”
Grace kept her hand on Bev’s shoulder. Exerting just enough pressure to let Bev know she was cared for. Cared about.
“Take your time. Feel whatever you need to feel. Eventually, you’ll sense that Greg’s on board. That he approves and wants you to be happy because that’s what people who love unconditionally do.”
The outer edges of Beverly’s lips tugged wider, as if manipulated by a puppeteer. “You’re scary, Dr. Blades.”
Grace had heard that so many times. “Me?” she said, innocently.
“Scary-smart is what I mean. It’s like you have a direct view into here.” Patting her breast.
“Thanks for the compliment, Bev,
but smart has nothing to do with it. Whatever I know comes from working at understanding people.” Grace leaned forward. “Because once we get past the nonsense, we’re all the same. Yet unique at the same time. No one has lived your life or thought your thoughts or felt your feelings. Even so, if I was in your situation, I’m pretty sure I’d feel exactly the same way.”
“You would?” Amazed.
The honest answer: Who knows?
Grace said, “Of course.”
“So what would you do about it?”
Grace smiled. “I’d go talk to someone scary-smart. Because we all need help from time to time.”
Flashing to Malcolm. Sophie. The new experience of sleeping in a clean, sweet-smelling bed. Breakfast. Dinner. Tentative attempts to hug, however briefly.
Human touch Grace had to train herself to tolerate. Thinking about all that brought a smile to her lips, which was perfect, the moment called for a smile, let Bev think it was all about her.
Sighing, Bev hugged herself. “I appreciate what you’re saying, Dr. Blades, but once I get back home…it might be difficult.”
“It might be. But you’ll handle it. You always do.”
Bev pinged her lower lip with a finger. The finger that bore her diamond-chip ring. Brian, a plumber’s assistant, splurging at Zales. “You’re saying sometimes life needs to be difficult to be meaningful.”
“I’m saying when we’re well put together emotionally, Bev—as you are—we learn to trust ourselves.”
Oh, do we…
Bev took a long time before she spoke next. “I guess I need to just roll with it.”
Grace said nothing.
Bev said, “Okay, I need to roll with it even if that means thinking about Greg.”
“Don’t fight thinking about Greg. Greg was precious to you,” said Grace. “Why would you exile him from your consciousness?”
Bev thought some more, face tightening as if struggling with a weighty puzzle. “On the flight from Portland, Dr. Blades, I spent most of the time remembering. One memory really stuck with me. Like it was glued to my brain. There was a lake. We used to take a canoe and Greg would row me. He was so strong. Muscles on muscles. Each time he moved the oar, they rippled. The sun made them glisten. Sometimes we’d start out on a sunny day and it would rain and he’d be dripping with sweat and rain and just shine.”
She inhaled. “I’d sit in the canoe and watch him and…I’d want him. Right then and there. In the boat.” She blushed. “We never did anything like that. I never told him.”
Grace smiled. “You didn’t want to rock the boat. Literally and figuratively. Balance is important to you and right now you’re feeling off balance because life has taken a new turn.”
Bev gawked. Smiled. “You’re more than scary, Dr. Blades. I bless the God that brought me to you.”
—
The rest of the day rolled on with reassuring predictability. Grace knew that objectively she was young but sometimes felt as if she’d seen everything. That didn’t sour her on her job, nor did it bore her. On the contrary, she found it reassuring and invigorating.
This is what I’ve been created for.
Nevertheless, she needed to make sure confidence never slid into smugness. Nor would she ever allow the Haunted to enter a millimeter of her private world.
Friendly, yes. Friend, never.
Because friendship was a limited concept: Pals and chums and confidantes—what the textbooks sanitized as a social support system—were fine when you stubbed your emotional toe. With deep wounds, you needed a surgeon, not a barber.
To Grace, the concept of therapy as paid friendship was a horrid cliché. The last thing patients needed was some sloppy, mawkish do-gooder brimming with sickly-sweet smiles, contrived pauses, the phony gravity of by-the-book sympathy, the smarmy rote of catchphrases.
What I hear you saying…
Cram a patient’s throat with sugar and they’ll choke.
Phonies who practiced that way either were money-hungry quacks or just wanted to feel good about themselves. Which was why you saw so many fucked-up people seeking second careers as ahem counselors.
Some of the Haunted came to Grace seeking the eye-locking, intensely theatrical concern they’d seen on talk shows and movies of the week.
I’m not a shrink but I play one on TV.
When the expectation was for Dr. Soft Voice, Grace dispelled it gently by supplying constructive reality. For four hundred fifty bucks an hour you deserved more than an emotional adult diaper.
You deserved an actual adult.
Checking her desk clock, she brewed herself a strong shot of espresso, downed it just in time for the red light on the wall above her desk to illuminate.
Time for Roosevelt. Thoughtful, gracious, polite. Old enough to be her father.
If she’d had a real father…
Grace felt her breath catch. Her heart skipped a beat, obviously too much caffeine, she’d cut back.
Rising, she smoothed her hair, straightened her posture.
Onward.
—
As the end of the day approached, Grace felt uncharacteristically tired. Things had gone a little tougher than anticipated with Stan and Barb, the couple entering the therapy room outwardly hostile to each other in a way Grace had never seen.
No need to probe, they told her straight out: Both had a history of affairs and they were finally divorcing. The dual infidelity had been kept from Grace. They figured it didn’t matter, had begun years before Ian’s suicide.
A pair of fools truly believing Ian had never known, after all he was crazy, everyone told them so.
Now the marriage was coming apart and despite the mutual decision, Stan and Barb were angry.
At themselves for failing.
At embarking on an unsuitable marriage in the first place.
Then the inevitable segue: anger at Ian for walking into their bedroom and waking them up as he collapsed onto their duvet, spurting and leaking and seeping and dying.
Grace hadn’t spent much time wondering what had led a nineteen-year-old to nuclear self-destruction. Ian was gone, life was for the living, if she’d felt otherwise she’d have gone to mortician school.
But now, she wondered what else she’d missed.
Stan was saying, “So that’s it, we’re dividing everything in half and it’s done, we’re being mature and logical.” Grinding his jaws.
Barb snapped, “Over and done, put a fork in it.” Stan shot her a hard look.
Grace knew the answer to her next question but she asked it anyway.
“So you’re both in the same place with it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Lousy liars. So why the hell are you here?
Grace asked them.
Barb said, “We decided we needed it for closure. Your being such a big part of our family over the last few years and now there’ll be no family.”
Divorcing Grace first. She smiled internally.
Stan said, “We didn’t want you to think you failed us, this had nothing to do with Ian.”
“Definitely nothing,” said Barb.
“The two of us are still friends,” lied Stan. “Which I think is an accomplishment in itself.”
To prove it, he reached for Barb’s hand. She frowned but squeezed his fingers, let go quickly and positioned herself out of reach.
Grace said, “You’re moving on and were kind enough to think of me.”
“Yes, we are!” said Barb. “Perfect way to put it. Moving on.”
“You bet,” said Stan, with perhaps a bit less confidence.
Grace said, “Well, I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this and I wish you the best. I also want you to know that I’m always here for you.”
Trust me, guys, I’ll see both of you eventually. Separate sessions.
Papers would be filed, property divided, but these two would never lead totally separate lives.
Ian had seen to that.
—
By the time Grace had completed her sketchy case notes and the light went on announcing the last patient of the day, she was already planning her evening.
Quick stop at the casual fish place near Dog Beach for halibut and chips and a Sidecar, enjoyed in a vinyl booth well away from the bar. Concentrating on her food and flashing stay-away signals at any man who had designs.
Oh, yeah, a salad to start. And maybe not halibut, possibly Dover sole if they had it fresh. Or that scallops/soft-shell crab combo. Then zip home, change into shorts and a tee, take a run on the dark beach. After that, a long shower, masturbating under the spray. Followed by a quick review of the pile of psych journals that had climbed way too high and when her eyelids lost the battle with gravity, a nightcap of junk TV.
Maybe she’d think of the red room, maybe not.
Yawning, she checked the mirror in the closet, touched up her makeup, tugged her white blouse tight into black slacks, and reminded herself she was an authority figure and ready for Mr. Andrew Toner from San Antonio, who’d found her through an esoteric article in an obscure journal.
Written without Malcolm but aping Malcolm’s style because Grace, though adroit at psych-prose, hated it and refused to develop a style of her own. In the beginning, she’d looked forward to seeing her name in print, read every pub word for word, only to find them arid.
Malcolm, for all his virtues, was the typical professorial scribe, unable to scare excitement out of an asteroid strike.
For a layman to find Grace’s solo venture, he had to be motivated.
Of course Andrew Toner was, he’d come to see her all the way from the Great State of Texas.
When patients from out of town sought her help—not as rare as you might think—they were often perfectionistic, compulsive types. The kind of folk who’d google psychological treatment aftermath violence or something similar and scroll for hours.
Let’s see if she was right about Mr. Andrew Toner.
She walked down the bare hall that served as a decompression tunnel for her patients, smiled, and opened the door to the waiting room.
The Murderer's Daughter Page 5
