by Tom Bierdz
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did. Bobby didn’t tell you?”
Damn Bobby! This was basic. He had to know the urgency. “No.”
“I called the first time. You were with a patient. A few minutes later I called back and told Bobby not to bother you. I didn’t think there was anything you could do. And, it wasn’t much different from my other conversations with Sasha.”
Not much different, but still different. “What time did you go over there?”
“I can’t talk about this anymore, Grant. I need to go home to bed.”
I heard the exhaustion in her voice. I had to let her go. Still, I wanted to be there for her. She was there for me the previous night. I should be there to comfort her. “Should I come to your house?”
“No, please, no. I appreciate the offer but I want to be alone. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Wide awake now, I set the phone down, sat up in bed. I failed. If only indirectly, Sasha was a patient of mine. Eventually, every psychiatrist who treats seriously disturbed patients has a patient who commits suicide, because no matter how devoted and effective he or she is, the therapist is not omnipotent and can’t control the behavior of his patients. My first suicide was in my second year of practice. Previously, I had prided myself in my ability to prevent people from ending it. When a threat became a reality, I was crushed, blamed myself even though I did everything I could. With the help of colleagues and time I got over it; understood that patients killing themselves, while deeply painful for me, was inevitable and part of the therapist’s reality. I needed to focus on the ones I saved, not on those I lost.
But Sasha’s suicide, like Kevin’s suicide, had become personal. I was impotent. I guzzled a glass of scotch and cried myself to sleep.
14
Sleep was fitful in brief snatches. Although I still felt bad about myself for not preventing Sasha’s suicide, my thoughts focused on Megan and what she must be going through. I wanted to be there for her. Sasha was her blood. No one understood the tumultuous pain of losing a blood relative to suicide more than me. I turned off the alarm long before it had a chance to ring and sprang out of bed. I wanted to call her but it was only five o’clock. There was a good chance she had trouble sleeping and was up like me, but she also may have just fallen asleep after struggling with her thoughts all night. If so, she needed her sleep and it would be both selfish and unfair to wake her. I strolled to the bathroom and debated what to do as I brushed my teeth. Watching the bathroom wall clock grudgingly tick off the seconds and finally the minutes, I decided to wait for at least another hour. Jittery like a drug mule in an airport customs line, I tried to busy myself with coffee and toast, watching tv, and jotting down a list of things I hadn’t got around to doing like purchasing replacement light bulbs and restocking my pantry.
My anxiety level was off the charts. I scrambled to the bathroom to my medicine cabinet for a tranquilizer to take the edge off, unscrewed the cap on the Xanax to find it empty. I’d forgotten to toss it away when I took the last pill months ago. My intent always was to keep a supply on hand for that rare occasion when one would benefit me. But being reluctant to take drugs unless absolutely necessary, replacing the Xanax slipped my mind. Unable to ease my anxiety I obsessed on Sasha’s suicide, Kevin’s suicide, Megan’s reaction, and my guilt.
At precisely six o’clock on the dot I called Megan. She didn’t answer and her voicemail was not available. I considered calling a cab and going to her place, but what if she wasn’t home? She could be with Nick making her sister’s final arrangements. A half hour later I called Bobby, told him what happened and instructed him to cancel my morning appointments. I showered, then called Megan again. Same result. Anxiety, unanswered phone calls, and my obsessing behavior continued till around nine am when I decided to go to my office. I could call Megan from there and would have other things to occupy my mind.
I grabbed my raincoat and my umbrella and trudged my way to work in the misty rain, wondering why Megan had her phone off and hadn’t called me. With no patients to see and feeling too anxious to do paperwork or record my notes, I chatted with Bobby, our conversations primarily about Sasha’s suicide.
Alone in my office later that day, leaning back in my swivel chair, my hands locked behind my head in deep thought and my feet on my desk, Bobby buzzed me.
“There’s a Detective Rollins to see you.”
What was that about? My first thought was that someone had stolen my Porsche. It wasn’t in its usual place the last time Bobby drove me by and I had meant to contact the company but hadn’t got around to it since it was insured. “Send him in.”
Big and burly, Rollins had an oversized head, large floppy ears, and a misshapen face with the right side dented as if a facial bone had been bent or removed. His broad nose had been broken and was creased at the bridge. Either he was a former prizefighter or had been badly beaten up. He wore a mud brown, ill-fitting suit jacket that he could no longer button in the front, and a retro orange-patterned tie. He lumbered over to me, said, “May I?” before plopping down in a chair in front of my desk. He flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Reginald Rollins. I need to ask you some questions about Megan Wilshire.”
“Is she okay?” My first thought was that something happened to her: she was in an accident, hurt or worse. That would explain why she hadn’t answered her phone.
“Physically? Yes, she’s more than okay. This has to do with Sasha Kovich’s death.” His dark eyes squinted, sizing me up, as if he suspected my concern went beyond the professional.
“Detective, I’m sure you know I’m bound by doctor-patient confidentiality and can’t talk about my patients.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business-sized envelope. Opening the envelope, he unfolded a sheet of paper and placed it on the desk in front of me. “A medical release signed by Megan Wilshire, witnessed and notarized.”
I studied it.
“Everything in order, Doc?”
I nodded. “What’s this about?”
He took a ballpoint and notepad from his jacket pocket. “Sasha Kovich died early this morning from an overdose. A toxicology report will follow, but it is not expected to change the cause of death...”
I didn’t hear what else he said as I suddenly felt dizzy and faint. Somehow, his verbalizing became a scolding whiplash. I started to fall, braced myself with my hands in the desk.
The detective leaned forward, “Are you all right, Doc?”
“Yeah,” I struggled to say, catching my breath. “I take these suicides too personally.” I wiped the perspiration off my forehead with my hand.
“I’m not sure it was a suicide. That’s why I’m here.”
“You said overdose.”
“But did she take them voluntarily?”
“You mean?” I buzzed Bobby. “Bobby, bring me a glass of water.” I turned to Rollins,
“Detective?”
He shook his head, smiled at me with a gap between his front teeth.
“That’s it. Thanks, Bobby.” I looked at Rollins, scrunched my face. “What makes you question if it’s self-inflicted?”
“Bruises on Sasha’s arm and face.”
“Have you questioned her husband?”
“He’s being investigated.”
“And?”
“Dr. Garrick,” he said, sneering, “if you don’t mind, we’re here to talk about Megan Wilshire, not Mr. Kovich.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Why you were seeing her.”
I gave him the professional version. “Megan thought Sasha was suicidal but Sasha refused to come in. So, we tried to treat her indirectly, or at least, prevent her from killing herself. Apparently, we failed.”
Bobby appeared with the water. I practically drank it all
in one gulp.
“When did you begin seeing Megan?” He leaned back, readied his pen and notepad.
I paged through my calendar, gave him the date of her original contact, asked Bobby to list all the appointments for the detective.
“How did the sisters get along?”
“Megan was very invested in Sasha. They were extremely close, talked daily. Megan is two years older than Sasha. They were parentless when Megan was only eighteen. Megan’s cared for her sister ever since. She must be devastated.”
He didn’t share my compassion. “Did you pick up any animosity or conflict between the women?”
I could hear Sasha telling me that Megan should mind her own business, but all families quarreled from time to time. If I mentioned that to the detective he would take it out of context. “No, like I said they were extremely close. Megan voiced concern about Sasha and Nick, that he abused her. But, that’s only hearsay. I don’t know it for a fact.”
“Did Sasha ever come in to see you?”
“No.” I thought of our encounter at the lake house. Something stopped me from sharing that. Rollins didn’t ask me if I ever saw her. I must have had a blank expression on my face because the detective asked, “Was there something else?”
“No, No. I’m still somewhat in a daze about her death.”
He chewed his lip, checked his notes. “Do you know of any reason why Megan would want Sasha out of the way?”
“No. None.”
He stood, put his pen and pad into his breast pocket Thanks, Doc. If our investigation of Megan goes any further, you’ll know as you’ll be subpoenaed to testify.”
I expected him to leave, but he meandered around my office like a potential renter taking everything in. On the far side of the room, he made an about-face. “My ex-wife was in the decorating business. She’d preach to me how you tell a lot about a person by the way they decorate. Take these posters, for example. All movies related to your field, highlighting psychological problems.” He stopped in front of the Final Analysis poster, inched his head closer, examining it. “Final Analysis with Richard Gere and Kim Basinger.” He turned toward me, his eyes curious and probing. “Wasn’t that the movie where the shrink falls for his patient’s sister and she tries to kill him?” He sneered, drew me in. “I wouldn’t kick Kim Basinger out of bed, but a guy like me would never have the chance. Now you on the other hand, Doc, women find attractive. You got money, position, power. A modern day Kim Basinger...let’s say someone like Megan Wilshire...she’d find you attractive. Maybe even latch on to you, but would it be love? Or would she want something from you? It can’t be money. I haven’t checked you out yet, Doc, but I suspect you’re a pauper compared to her. Power? Prestige? Not likely. See, Doc, that’s the part I can’t figure out.”
“Interesting theory, Detective, but I’ve already told you Ms. Wilshire was seeing me because of her sister’s suicide ideation.”
“Perhaps. You can be sure we will be investigating the nature of your relationship. But if it is more, I come back to my earlier question that I can’t figure out. What does she want from you?” He looked at the poster, scratched his head, before looking back at me. “Unless you’re her alibi.”
I shot up from my chair. “That’s enough Detective. You can stop with the insults and innuendos. This is a difficult time for Megan and for me. Mrs. Kovich’s death is a tragic loss. You could show some respect for the dead.”
“That is precisely what I’m doing, Dr. Garrick,” he said with determination as he traipsed toward me. “If Sasha Kovich did not kill herself, she’d want me to bring her killer to justice.” He stopped at the edge of my desk.
We locked eyes like two gladiators preparing to fight.
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “My card. Call me any time.”
My hands remained at my side. I refused to take his card.
He dropped it on my desk, smirked, and then walked away.
I wanted to hit him, smash the left side of his face so it would look like the right. Disfigured. I suspected his deformity was a constant reminder of an event he didn’t want to remember, and I wanted him to have a keepsake from me, one that said don’t mess with me or twist things around.
Once he left, I laid my head down on my desk and thought about what he said. How could he think I was an alibi for Megan, and even more outlandish, how could he suspect Megan for murdering the sister she cared so much about?
15
Later when I finally reached Megan by phone she reluctantly agreed to see me claiming exhaustion, but responded to my need to see her. She agreed to pick me up at the office and meet briefly for a drink, after which she would return home to put her dragging body to sleep. I finished with my last patient at six but she didn’t arrive until almost seven.
Hyperactive and confused due to Sasha’s death and Detective Rollins visit, I took a Xanax and pocketed the container to take home. A rumbling volcano-like rage began to stir inside me. I was angry at Sasha and Kevin for killing themselves, angry at Megan for dismissing me at this most critical juncture where I could help her, angry at Detective Rollins for suspecting Megan and for his ridiculous insinuations, and angry at myself for my inability to control the people around me. I wanted to, needed to explode, release the rage within. I had to gather my wits about me, cool it, so I wouldn’t take it out on Megan. She needed my broad shoulders.
Roaring rain thundered the roof and pelted the windows, obscuring my view as I stood by the window watching for Megan. When she rolled into the drive flashing her lights, I locked the door, raised my collar, dipped my head and darted for the car. She apologized for being late, chalking it up to complications with the final arrangements. The wind shattered rain against the car windows as she drove to a bar in the vicinity. Parking as close as she could, I hoisted the umbrella over our heads and we dashed inside.
Due to the storm, the tavern was especially quiet, inhabited by the bartender and his two male customers. We took a table in the corner, under a big screen TV, and shed our wet raincoats. Rain dripped down Megan’s cheeks like tears. She dried her face with a paper napkin on the table.
“It will be a wet day for a burial if this doesn’t let up soon.”
I noted the dark hollows under her eyes, then went up to the bar to order a dirty martini for her and a scotch for me. A couple swallows of scotch and Megan’s presence softened my anger. “A Detective Rollins was in to see me.”
“I know I signed the release,” she answered, hand-combing her hair. “I assume your answers satisfied him.”
“Of course, the idea that Sasha’s death could be a homicide blew me away.”
She sipped her drink, exhaled loudly. “You can’t imagine how I felt. I’m mourning my sister, berating myself for not doing more to stop her, for not arriving sooner, and he questions me about her death. I wanted to murder him!” She smiled and followed that with a look to make sure I knew she was kidding about the murder.
“He said there were bruises on her face and arms.”
“Yes, I saw them.”
“Was it Nick?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how long it takes bruises to develop. He was out of town. He would have had to bruise her before he left. She didn’t say anything about that when I talked to her. I tend to think she did it to herself somehow. She could have fallen. She was drugged. Could have easily lost her balance and fell”
“Where exactly were the bruises?”
“I didn’t see the one on her face. The bruises on her arms were on her biceps.”
I was in my male, need-to-fix it mood. You know, ‘Men are from Mars, Women from Venus’. I thought about the bruises, then acted out what might have happened, tripping with my arms extended to catch my fall. “Let’s say she fell like this, and throwing her arms up to break h
er fall, she hit something with her biceps like a...metal bar or bed headboard. She could have got the bruise on her face that way too.” I was excited like I had found a solution to the puzzle. I expected a shout of approval or at very least a show of gratitude.
Megan chewed the inside of her cheek. “But the bruises were on the top of her biceps.”
I scrunched my face, sipped my scotch. “Let’s say her arms are down at her sides, her palms up.”
She scoffed.
“Or,” I continued, “if there was an opening between the bottom of the headboard and the mattress, she could have banged her head on the headboard, her arms into the slot...”
Megan’s response was subdued. “Possibly. Can we get off this? It’s too much for me to handle.”
Rain pelted the window like waves of birdshot. The guys at the bar remarked about the weather, commenting they hadn’t experienced a storm like that in a long time and weren’t going back out until it calmed down.
Megan buried her face in her hands.
I put my arm on her shoulder, gently rubbed it.
She took my hand off her shoulder, clasped it tightly with both of hers, raised her head and looked at me with moist eyes. “Sasha was my only family. I have no one now. Only you. I need you to be there for me, Grant.”
I nodded, my eyes also moist.
“It’s been a nightmare. I’m drained. Exhausted. I can barely function.”
“You can crash at my place tonight.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good company.”
“I said you could crash there so you wouldn’t have to drive home. I’m not concerned with company.”
“Thanks, but I need to be home in my own bed tonight. I hope you can understand that. And the funeral is tomorrow morning.” She sipped her drink, made a face as if it was some alien concoction.
