“Oh,” he says haltingly. “We can’t do this on the phone?”
“I’d rather not.” Tell you that either I’m cracking up or it’s a whole lot worse than that.
“You sound stressed. Is everything okay?”
“No,” I answer. “Can’t we meet somewhere?”
“That’s the problem. I’m about to take Dakota and Sean to the Central Park Zoo.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you there. Ten minutes.”
Silence.
“What is it, Michael?”
“The kids,” he says.
“What, don’t you think they’d like to see me?”
“Of course I do. That’s my point, Kristin. They’ll like it so much it will be the first thing they tell their mother when they get home.”
“Then what if I just happen to bump into you guys?”
He chuckles in a way I immediately don’t like. Almost condescending. He can be that way, but not with me.
“I think you’re reaching,” he says.
Now I’m a little pissed. And yes, I am stressed, okay?
“You’re right, Michael, I am reaching. I’m reaching out to you now, and you’re not there for me.”
“C’mon, don’t be so melodramatic, Kris. Take it all down a notch.”
I press him. “What about later? Are you free after the zoo?”
The silence again says it all. “I can’t,” he responds. “I would if I possibly could. Penley made plans tonight with another couple.”
I’m about to vent the mother lode of frustration and a whole lot worse on him when he abruptly clears his throat.
“I’ll check on those figures for you, Carter. I’m on it,” he says in his best business voice.
Shit.
“Penley just walked in, didn’t she?” I say.
“Yes, Carter, that’s correct. You have such a good feel for these things.”
I listen to Michael babble on about debt ratios and the nonfarm payroll report. Give him credit, the switch over was seamless.
“Okay, she’s gone,” he says seconds later.
“What did she want?”
“The kids are waiting on me, so she was pointing at her watch and making an incredibly bitchy face—then again, what else is new?”
I can’t help a slight smile. I am calmer now, and I love it when he dumps on Penley. All the better for my Dump Penley campaign.
“So where were we?” he asks.
“Your not being there for me,” I answer.
Michael sighs. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he says. “Tell you what. How’s this? We’re supposed to drive out to Connecticut tomorrow to see my in-laws. I’ll do like I did last time and tell Penley that something came up with work. Better yet, I’ll blame it on you, Carter.”
“Can you really do that? ”
“Sure. We can spend the whole day together, maybe drive upstate and have a picnic somewhere, and you can tell me whatever it is you want to talk about.”
The thing is, I want to tell him now—right now. At least I think I do. Which raises an interesting question. How much do I really trust him? This much?
“Michael, I—”
“Oh, shit,” he interrupts, sounding rushed. “Penley’s heading back this way. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”
There’s no time to respond.
He’s gone.
I hang up as if in slow-motion. It’s hard to put the feeling into words. Empty? Numb?
Still alone?
Usually, just the thought of being with Michael makes everything better. No longer. At least not today. Because tomorrow isn’t soon enough for me.
Right away, I pick up the phone again.
There’s somebody else I need to call.
Actually, this should have been my first call.
Chapter 34
“THANK YOU FOR SEEING me on such short notice, Dr. Corey.”
I watch as my ex-therapist slowly—and I mean slowly—fills his pipe with tobacco from a plastic bag. I swear, glaciers move faster.
But it’s okay. I’m going to get some help.
“To be honest, Kristin,” he says, his eyes fixed on his pipe, “I’m not particularly happy about this appointment. However, given the way you sounded on the phone, the sheer desperation in your voice, I felt a professional obligation to see you. So here we are. What can I do for you?”
Gee, Doc, that really makes me feel welcome.
Still, it’s okay. I’m lucky he was able to make time for me.
A few Manhattan psychiatrists keep weekend hours, and Dr. Michael Roy Corey is one of them—at least during the spring, summer, and fall. That’s when he works Saturdays so he can take Mondays off to play golf at some public course near his house in Briarcliff Manor.
“No crowds on the course and my pick of tee times,” he once explained to me. That was about a year and a half ago, when he first became my therapist. Six months later, I stopped seeing him. I thought I’d worked out my issues.
Not that I could see these new ones coming.
I lean back into his familiar gray leather couch and describe some of the events of the past few days, culminating with spotting my dead father this morning. Dr. Corey listens while puffing away, not saying a word.
When I finish, I stare at him with expectant, hopeful eyes. Let the healing begin!
“Are you absolutely sure that’s your father in the photographs?” he asks, tugging at a fold in a salt-and-pepper sweater vest that almost perfectly matches his hair.
“As sure as I can be,” I reply.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Kristin?”
There’s a slight edge in his voice. Impatience, perhaps? Skepticism?
“It means I’m almost positive it was him.”
“Almost positive, as in, it could’ve been someone who looked a lot like him.”
“I considered that. But he spoke to me. And then why did he run?”
“Any number of reasons,” he answers. “Maybe the man you saw didn’t want to be photographed. I don’t know; maybe he’s wanted by the police. Maybe he’s impaired.”
I shake my head. “No, he even had on the same coat Dad used to wear. I’m sure it was him. I told you—he talked to me. He knew my name.”
“So what you’re saying is that your father, who’s been dead for twelve years, simply shows up one day on a Manhattan sidewalk and starts up a conversation?”
“Yes, I know, it sounds nuts. God, do I know. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh, I see, that’s why you’re here,” he says, that slight edge in his voice getting sharper, louder. “You want me to help you.”
What’s going on here? This isn’t what I need now.
“Yes, of course I want you to help me. I’m feeling pretty desperate, actually.” My voice starts to crack on that last part, and I command myself to hold it together, if only for the sake of my dignity.
Dr. Corey removes his pipe and glares at me. “Listen to me, Kristin. For the last time, you need to get this through your head. Your father committed suicide and nothing you do or say is going to bring him back.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” he asks, folding his arms. “Perhaps if you had continued with your therapy, this wouldn’t be happening.”
“But it’s not just my father. What about the recurring dream?”
“We all have recurring dreams.”
“This one came true.”
“That’s what you tell me. Of course, that doesn’t make it so, does it? Listen to yourself. Are you listening to yourself, Kristin?”
I stare at Dr. Corey in, well, disbelief. This isn’t the same guy who cheerily used to offer up those self-help mantras. He’s Dr. Downer now. Or maybe it’s only me he’s down on. Is he pissed that I stopped seeing him?
“Don’t you understand what I’m saying, Dr. Corey? All these strange and bizarre things are happening to me. They’re really happening. I’m starting to think that I’m going insane.”
“Maybe
you are. Who am I to say?” he replies matter-of-factly. “All I know is that I’m not about to invest my valuable time again in someone who treats therapy like a fad.”
I knew it!
“I told you, I thought I was better,” I explain.
He sniffs. “Yeah, you’re obviously a lot better.”
I’m in shock. He’s so mocking, so disdainful. How can he act this way toward me? I was his patient.
“I don’t have to sit here for this,” I say.
“You’re right. You don’t. Feel free to leave at any time. Just like you did before.”
My eyes start to well up. I can’t help it. The shakes are back, and I’m trying to control them. I don’t want his pity.
“Oh, spare me the waterworks, will you?” he groans. “And don’t try that insipid wink of yours either.”
“What’s happened to you, Dr. Corey?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“It’s clearly something, because you’re being an incredible jerk.”
“Better than an ungrateful bitch, I imagine.”
That does it!
I spring from the couch and race out of there, but not without a parting shot from the door.
“Fuck you!” I scream.
“Go to hell!” he screams back.
And then, just as I’m shutting the door to his office, “I still want to know what happened to you at the Fálcon Hotel. Kristin? Kristin?”
Chapter 35
IT KEEPS GETTING WORSE.
The dream is even more vivid this morning. Actually, it’s excruciating.
I wake up and smell that same burning smell. It’s awful; I can’t stand it.
The hives are back too. They’re worse than ever, all over my hands, my arms, my face. I strip off my T-shirt, and there are red blotches on my chest and stomach, my legs, everywhere. I want to scratch my skin off.
And the music—that damn music—it’s back inside my head.
The only saving grace? It’s Sunday—I’m supposed to spend the day with Michael.
The phone rings at a few minutes after eight. The caller ID tells me it’s him. I bet he uses the line about the phone sex wake-up call.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” says Michael.
It’s only one little word, one meager syllable, and yet I realize right away from how he says it. Something’s wrong. Something else.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“It’s fucking Penley,” he says. “When I told her about not going to her parents’, she went ballistic. She’s still in orbit. Sean is calling her Penley Neutron. You know, like—”
“Yeah, I know, the cartoon.” And his favorite socks, remember?
I feel like a fool standing in little else besides my socks, scratching red patches all over my body.
“You explained it was a work emergency, right, Michael?”
“Yes. But she didn’t want to hear it, especially since that was the reason I didn’t make the trip to Connecticut last time.”
“She really cares that much if you go?”
“Christ, I don’t know. She kept saying how much I’d be disappointing her parents.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? This is about her father.”
“You don’t have to say it like that.”
“Why do you kowtow to him so much?”
“It’s not so simple, Kristin.”
No, it isn’t. There’s a certain undercurrent to Michael and Penley’s marriage, all but unspoken. Michael makes a lot of money. In the millions. But it’s chicken feed compared with the fortune that Penley’s father, Conrad Bishop, sits on. The man was CEO of Trans-American Steel for twenty-five years. He’s worth north of $200 million. More to the point, thanks to his country club buddies, he’s thrown a lot of business Michael’s way. I mean, a lot of business.
“If anyone, Penley’s father would understand your having to work,” I say.
“Maybe the last time I canceled,” Michael replies. “Twice in a row, though, and it looks like I’m shunning him. It’s disrespectful.”
“So what are you telling me?”
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “That I’m going to Connecticut today.”
The words sting like a million bees.
“But I really need to see you,” I plead.
“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
The anger, the disappointment, the hurt—are too much for me, and I slam down the phone. It’s the first time I’ve ever hung up on Michael, and I feel absolutely terrible.
Like I could die.
And then I notice something—the hives, the burning odor, and the music are gone.
What’s up with that?
Chapter 36
THE ELEVATOR RIDE DOWN to the lobby feels as though it takes an eternity. I’m doing everything I can to keep my emotions in check.
I plead with myself, Think calm thoughts! Think good thoughts if that’s possible.
Dispensing with visions of babbling brooks and sleeping babies, I go straight to what always works. One after the other, I conjure up my favorite photographs.
The nudes of Edward Weston.
Avedon’s portrait of Truman Capote flashing his belly button.
And, of course, Annie Leibovitz’s incredible shot of Yoko Ono and a naked John Lennon cuddling.
It’s always about people with me, flesh and bone. I can appreciate Galen Rowell and Ansel Adams, but mountains and other landscapes never pack the same punch for me as a living, breathing person.
The mental slide show works, and I begin to settle down. That is, until I step off the elevator and spot my neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz. Standing by her mailbox in an orange-and-blue circa 1973 muumuu, she looks up from a catalogue and shoots this incredibly evil sneer my way. What is her problem?
Clearly it’s me.
I try to ignore her as I head for the door, but I can feel her eyes boring into me from behind those cheap large-rimmed glasses she wears. Her stare is relentless, she won’t give it a rest; and as much as I want to keep walking out to the street, I can’t help making a little detour. Right up into her face.
Whipping out my camera, I aim the lens an inch away from her pointy nose.
“Take a picture, you old bag, it lasts longer!” I yell.
Click.
I spin around, not waiting for her angry reaction. Everyone else in the lobby is now staring at me, but I say nothing more. I aim for the exit and look straight ahead.
What’s come over you, Kristin?
This is so unlike me. I simply don’t do things like this, yelling at people, getting in their faces.
It’s scary.
And yet, scarier still is that I enjoyed it.
With everything happening lately, I’m acting more and more on impulse—thinking, saying, and doing things I normally don’t. Those little red flags, the ones that are supposed to pop up in my brain, have mysteriously disappeared.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!”
It takes me a second to realize that the grunge-looking guy playing guitar for tips on the corner is talking to me. I nearly plowed right into him.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I’m already a block from my building, head down and oblivious to everything and everyone. The guy’s right; I need to watch where I’m going. Of course, that raises a good question. Where am I going? I stand still for a moment, thinking of what might have been. My day with Michael, the picnic he mentioned. We’d talk, hold each other, drink some wine... and I’d feel so much better.
Instead, I feel as if my day is ruined before it even started. The dream, the burning smell, the rash...
Then, out of nowhere, I have an idea.
Something a little, well, crazy.
Very unlike me. At least the way I was until a few days ago.
“Hey, lady, you mind moving along? You’re hurting business.”
I turn to the stringy-haired guy plucking away on his guitar, eve
ry other chord off-key. His ragged guitar case lies open at his feet, and I glance at the torn black velvet lining sprinkled with spare change. And I do mean spare. A quarter or two is the mother lode for this troubadour.
“I’m serious, lady,” he barks. “Beat it! Get out of here!”
Before I know it, I’m right in his face too. “Listen, you sorry-assed Kurt Cobain wannabe, did you ever think that maybe it’s your playing that’s hurting business and not me?”
He’s speechless, songless too, and I’m already halfway down the block.
I’ve got somewhere to go after all.
Chapter 37
WHEN I LEFT BOSTON and traded the Red Sox for the Yankees, I brought three things with me to Manhattan. A suitcase. A boyfriend.
And Bob.
There are undoubtedly far more inspired nicknames for a pickup truck than Bob, but I’ve always liked the simplicity of it. Besides, we’re talking about a 1980 Ford F-100 with more than 180,000 miles on it. Even the rust has rust. A fancy name just wouldn’t feel right.
I hurry over to First Avenue, where I park Bob at an outdoor lot. The indoor garages can cost more than some apartments here—like mine, for instance. Still, I don’t get off cheap. Three hundred and fifty bucks a month, to be exact. That makes broken-down Bob, with his missing hubcaps and leaky engine, my greatest luxury in this city. Crazy, huh?
But today he’s worth every single penny. Today Bob screams freedom, maybe even salvation.
The crosstown traffic is its usual bear, and I’m worrying that I might be late. When a Macy’s delivery truck ahead of me doesn’t move the nanosecond a light turns green, I obnoxiously bang on my horn. It doesn’t take much to bring out my inner cabdriver.
Approaching the building, I know I can’t park too close. Bob doesn’t exactly blend in.
After circling the block a couple of times, I luck out with a spot that’s a safe distance from the entrance. I reach for my cell and dial the apartment, hitting *67 first to block the caller ID.
Michael answers.
Good, they haven’t left yet.
For the second time this morning, I hang up on him. Then I adjust my sunglasses, sink down in Bob’s front seat, and get busy.
Waiting.
Soon I see Michael emerge from the building. I immediately want to rush out and go to him, kick his shins, and call him a nasty name. Then I’ll kiss him so hard he can barely breathe. We’ll escape to the nearest alley and have amazing, passionate makeup sex—no, wait, better yet, we’ll fuck, like rabbits, like minks, or like whatever other furry creatures top the most-horny list.
You've Been Warned Page 7
