Fatal Analysis (Psychiatrist Grant Garrick series Book 2)

by Tom Bierdz

  My words seemed to make him feel better. “Does that mean I can stay at the group home?”

  “Yes, both Bertha and Mr. Gutierrez believe you should have the opportunity to continue with the progress you made, and I agree.”

  We visited in the park for a while, got a sandwich at the diner, and made plans to go birding with the camera again.

  22

  Isley Hodges arrived precisely at ten the next day. Had there been anybody else in the waiting room, I would never have guessed the tall hombre with the ten gallon hat and the cowboy boots was a psychiatrist. Maybe, somebody wanting to sell me tickets to a rodeo.

  “Dr. Isley Hodges?” I asked.

  Smiling broadly, he shot up and shook my hand. It was firm. Calloused.

  I led him into my office, motioned for him to sit, as I sank down behind my desk. “Bobby says you’re a psychiatrist.”

  “Yes,” he said, removing his hat and hanging it on his knee, on the crossed-over leg. His straw colored hair sat high on his forehead, and was swept straight back, and flattened a little from his hat. He was handsome, with weathered chiseled features, and a mouthful of perfect teeth. Had he been an actor he’d be perfect for the leading man in a Western. “I go by Lee. Isley looks good on my letterhead, gives me sort of an intellectual aura, but Lee is more personal.” He spoke with a Texas twang.

  I’m not that good on accents, but I thought I pegged his. “Where in Texas are you from?”

  “Amarillo. Grew up on a ranch. My Daddy still has a thousand acres. Raises horses. A real horse whisperer.” Then half under his breath, he added, “Better with horses than people. Probably one of the reasons I went into psychiatry.” His grin seemed to say he wouldn’t normally share that information with anyone. “When my brothers got old enough to help on the farm, I went to U-Dub med school.”

  I was impressed by his openness, but hoped he didn’t expect the same from me. “Seattle is a long way from Amarillo. What brought you here?”

  “I fell in love with this little filly...two-legged type...followed her out here. Tragically, she died in an accident.” Sadness blanketed his face. “I grew to like it out here, made some connections, thought I’d stay and set up my practice here. Besides, it’s a long way from Amarillo.” He crossed his long legs, revolved his hat in his hands, running the brim between his fingers. “That brings me to my visit. I’m needing a place to start. Can you take on another psychiatrist? I can help you with your overhead.”

  I knew where he was coming from. Starting a practice in a city where you lived, and knew a lot of people, was hard enough. Hanging your shingle and putting a listing in the yellow pages, rarely brought you patients. Psychiatry was a referral business. You had to be known and liked by the professionals in the community, and then later, by the patients you helped. Although I felt for him, I couldn’t help him. “This has always been a one man operation, Lee, and I intend to keep it that way. Truthfully, I can’t even keep a full calendar for me right now. But I appreciate your reaching out to me.”

  He stood. “Well, it was worth a try. If nothing else I got a chance to meet you. If you get real busy you can send some referrals my way. Do you know of any other psychiatrists who could take on another?”

  “I don’t. We get busy with our practice and don’t interact very much. You might try the local APA.”

  “I have. Nothing going. I didn’t want to use Daddy’s money and go cold turkey. It would have been nice to develop a practice gradually. We’ll see.” He offered his hand. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  I wished him good luck. At least he had a good go to source with his father if worse came to worse. I figured his looks would be enough to get him a good female patient base. I didn’t know about the western gear.

  After he left I drifted back to when I began my private practice. It was an exciting time. I was the first in my family to go beyond a basic college education, and I was proud of my achievement. Hanna and Kevin shared my excitement. They had supported me and seldom complained about the time I spent away from them meeting my commitments; the long hours of study, the intensive residency, the patient calls at all hours of the night. They were there for me. I couldn’t have done it without their cooperation.

  We functioned as a team. And when I finally set up shop, Hanna and Kevin helped me decorate it.

  And Mike McBride rented me the upstairs on a ballooning scale where I paid the barest minimum for rent for the first three years until I got established. He also sent me many referrals as did friends I made in the community. I had a whole team behind me. Dr. Hodges scenario was substantially different.

  Megan invited me for dinner. She looked fantastic, her hair down, sprung with curls, packaged in soft pink, satin lounging pajamas, and greeted me with a Rob Roy. Soft music played in the background. Candles burned on the glass coffee table. Welcoming me with a kiss, she directed me to the sofa where she ran her hand through the back of my hair. “You look tired,” she said. “Hard day?”

  “I’ll recover quickly. I just saw this couple for the third time, and I’ve not been able to get them past blaming one another for their situation. They refuse to consider what part they play. I’ve used every technique in my bag of tricks and I’m totally frustrated. I’m beginning to think therapy was for show that they already made up their mind to divorce.”

  “You’re always the caretaker, Grant. You need someone to nourish and take care of you.”

  The impact of her statement was powerful. Although it was said casually, I sensed its depth, filling me with conflicting feelings. On the one hand, I yearned for the comfort of a partnership and all the pleasantries it entailed, but didn’t like the pressure closing in on my chest. I smiled, got lost in her sapphire blue eyes. “It does feel good to unwind.” I sipped my drink. “And you do make the best Rob Roys.”

  “Exactly like you taught me.”

  “And how was your day?”

  “Good,” she said, getting up and retrieving her martini from a side table. “I read, took a long walk.” She sat back down next to me.

  “I like the outfit. Very sexy.”

  “I got it for you.”

  I took a long pull on my drink, noticed that Megan seemed to drift away momentarily, her mind focused elsewhere. “It looks like we’re getting a new psychiatrist in town.”

  “Really?” Megan said, her ears perking up. She jumped into the present. “How do you know?”

  “He came in to see me. Would have liked me to take him on, give him a start.”

  “You’re not, are you?”

  “No, I’m scrounging for patients. And, even if I weren’t, I like my one man operation.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Smiling, I teased, “Why, you going to see him?”

  “Simply curious, Grant, but,” she added, sitting on my lap, “since you won’t see me anymore.”

  She kissed me, got up and moved away.

  “Come back here.” I reached out with my arms.

  “Later. I have to check the roast.”

  She re-entered the room wearing an apron that said, ‘Fuck the Cook’. “You didn’t tell me his name.”

  “Isley Hodges. Goes by Lee. He’s the tall, dark and handsome, cowboy type. Wears a cowboy hat and boots.”

  Winking, she said, “You never know when I might want to saddle up. And, I imagine he has a big gun!”

  “Megan, you’re wicked.”

  “Roast is resting on the counter. Want to help me in the kitchen?”

  I followed her in, my eyes on her tight derriere.

  Under candlelight Megan served a succulent prime rib, double-baked potatoes, sautéed asparagus, and homemade dinner rolls. Although the way to my heart wasn’t through my stomach, the dinner was definitely a plus. I didn’t judge Megan to be so domesticated. I figured
she’d have paid help to do the cooking. She could afford it. If she cooked to impress me she succeeded as everything was top-notch and delicious. Afterward, we retired to the living room with a glass of cognac.

  “You’re staying the night, right?” Megan asked. She drifted off to the stereo, played Antonio Carlos Jobin Brazilian music.

  “Right.” The muted sounds of the Girl from Ipanema wafted by. I pictured a tanned Megan in a bikini strutting on the ocean shore.

  “Why not stay the weekend? We can pick up your things tomorrow morning. Maybe take a ride up to Bainbridge Island.”

  “I’m not ready for that yet. Besides, I promised Greg to take him birding and I need to see Carrie.”

  “Who’s Carrie?”

  “The attorney on the first floor.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen her.”

  “Sure you have. Here,” I said, fishing for my wallet in my back pocket. “I have a photo of her.” I showed Megan the picture, a headshot of Carrie taken a few years ago.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you seeing her about?” Her smile suddenly seemed disingenuous.

  “Honestly, I really don’t know. She’s bothered by something. I’m assuming it’s her father’s health. He had a heart attack.”

  “She lives with her father?”

  “No, she works with her father. She lives alone.”

  “And not married?” A pucker of concern knotted her brow.

  “And not married. Don’t tell me you’re jealous? She’s simply a good friend.”

  “Simply a good friend, is she? And, you keep her picture in your wallet.” Megan paraded to the wet bar, made herself another martini. Her body sagged as if it were punctured. “I didn’t know men and women could be simply good friends.”

  My eyes darted to the large oil painting of a younger Megan that hung above the fireplace mantel. She was seated on the grass in a park, in a white short-sleeve sweater and matching skirt, spread out in a circle covering her feet. She looked pensive and serene in sharp contrast to her present mood.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damn well what that means. You want me to believe you never slept with her?”

  I wasn’t prepared for Megan’s reaction. We’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks, even though it was an intensive few weeks. Jealousy was a normal reaction, but I was feeling it bordered on being possessive. “As a matter of fact, I did fifteen years ago, long before I was married to Hanna. And we’ve been good friends ever since. Nothing more.”

  Apparently, realizing she was not winning any points, she switched her demeanor, moved closer to me. “I’m sorry, Grant. I just don’t want to lose you. And my experience has been that I’ve never had a male friend who didn’t want to get into my pants.”

  “Not all men are the same,” I said, embracing her. I felt her shaking diminish as I held her, surprised not so much by her jealousy, but by her body’s physical reaction.

  “You’ll still spend the evenings with me?”

  “Definitely.”

  She topped off the cognac, sidled next to me on the couch. “I didn’t mean to come off so strong. I’ve just had some bad experiences with men in the past. I overreacted. You seem different from the others. Sincere. I need you close. I don’t want to frighten you and send you away.”

  “Did you want to talk about it?”

  “No, not today anyway. I just want you to understand and forgive me.”

  “Done,” I said.

  23

  I slept soundly through the night awakening to muted sounds coming from the lower level. Assuming Megan was up and about, I opened my eyes to see her sleeping beside me. I gently yanked my arm from under her and sat up. My first thought was that a burglar was in the house. I shook Megan.

  “I hear someone in the house.”

  “That’s only Margot,” she mumbled. “She’s making breakfast.” She tucked her pillow under her head.

  Since Megan cooked for me the few times I ate here, and I never saw any servants, I was surprised to know she had help. She later explained she has Margot on call for when she needed her, keeping her on a retainer. If Margot cooked for her regularly she’d eat too much and put on weight.

  The clock on the bedside table showed after nine. I crawled out of bed and showered, appreciating once again how good the sex was with Megan. It seemed that whenever I had any doubts about her such as her petty jealousy about Carrie, I’d cast them away after a night of adoring sex.

  Megan knew how to make me feel special, that I mattered so much she could never hurt me.

  We ate breakfast on the terrace that overlooked the city below. I was dressed casually for my meeting with Carrie. Megan wore a silk, white morning gown. A plump, fifty-something Margot served fresh squeezed, orange juice in stemmed glasses, scrambled eggs and bacon, bagels and coffee. While I ate heartily, Megan picked at her eggs and took a couple bites of her bagel.

  In the corner was a telescope facing the homes below and I wondered if Megan spied on her neighbors. I knew she wasn’t a birder and that there was a little voyeur in all of us. I considered asking her about it, then changed my mind. I didn’t want the conversation to go in that direction. I wanted to enjoy the peaceful feeling I had. The telescope indicated there was a lot I didn’t know about this woman who I was spending a lot of time with. I was getting lost in the romance and sexual pleasures, enjoying the ride, and not probing very deeply beyond.

  I knew I was flawed, living out the axiom of being led by the organ between my legs. Many would fault me for my frequenting the bars, searching for action after losing Kevin and Hanna. I was a psychiatrist. I should know better. But only others who had been there could comprehend the pain, the grief, the need to feel connected, to feel something other than misery. Sex was an analgesic, a balm. It soothed the pain. But now that Megan was exerting pressure on me to spend the weekend with her, I would need to open my eyes a little wider.

  “More coffee, mister?” Margot inquired, holding the carafe at the ready.

  “No thanks, Margot,” I said, moving into the present and covering my cup with my hand. I glanced at my watch. “I should be going.”

  “I can shower and drive you,” Megan volunteered.

  “No, I’ll call a cab. What do you plan to do?”

  “I’ll work out at the gym. I think there’s a yoga class I can make. What time should I expect you?”

  “Sometime around six.”

  “Want to see a movie?”

  “A chick flick?”

  “No, one of those dragon tattoo, girl pictures. I’m not sure which one.”

  “Sure.” I called for the cab while Margot cleared the table.

  When the taxi arrived, I hugged Megan. “See you later.”

  She didn’t release me, but said, “Make sure you keep your distance from Carrie.”

  I winced. “Megan, why do you even have to mention it? It’s all about trust.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, you’re absolutely right.” She locked her eyes with mine, then smiling widely, she added, “I trust you and you trust me. We have to trust one another.”

  Carrie lived in a small luxury, one-bedroom, condominium, apartment downtown, close to work and in the center of all the nightlife. She answered the door in a T-shirt and jeans, her hair bound in a ponytail, her face wrinkled with worry. She gave me a warm embrace. “Thanks for coming.” Ushering me inside and closing the door, she asked, “Coffee or beer?”

  “Beer.” I sunk into the soft, yellow leather couch, moved the Robert Dugoni legal thriller, face down and opened to her place, to the end table. “I like your apartment,” I said, recognizing many of the contemporary furnishings from her house. The art deco building had recent
ly been converted into condos. I admired the black lacquered, coffee table upon the inlaid parquet, wooden floor. An enormous sunburst was etched into the main living room wall. A Great Gatsby poster of geometric shapes adorned another wall.

  “I’ve been here over a year now,” she said, handing me my beer, “and you’re here for the first time. That’s how much we’ve been out of touch.” She sat down beside me.

  Just because I hadn’t been to her new place, I didn’t consider us being out of touch. We had our little tete-a-tete and interacted professionally, but I wasn’t about to disagree. She was referring to an unmet need of hers. “You’re concerned about Mike?”

  “Of course. He’s much too young to make such a drastic life change, but he will. What choice does he have? But that’s not why I needed to see you.”

  I entered total awareness mode, prepared to appropriately respond to whatever concern she had.

  Her whole body crumbled, shrinking her already diminishing size. She locked her eyes on the mug of beer she twisted in her hands, then raised her eyes, “I’m pregnant.”

  “What? Who?” I stuttered, stunned.

  “Some stud I met at O’Reilly’s with all the physical attributes and few of the mental. I’m not keeping it.”

  “Does he know?”

  She shook her head. “No, and I’m not going to tell him.” She swigged her beer. “I know better, but I was horny and didn’t have a condom in my purse. He didn’t have one either and we were too far gone to let that stop us.”

  I clucked my tongue. “How far along?”

  “I don’t know. Something like a couple of months. Still early enough.”